Outside Dodge City, Kansas.
Next to the corrals of Elias Vance's ranch.
Thompson, the Cooperative's agent, along with two of his men, finally arrived on the morning of the deadline. But what he brought was not a money box filled with silver coins, but a face full of apologies.
"Mr. Vance, I swear to God the funds will arrive this afternoon."
A hint of imperceptible pleading was in Thompson's voice, "There was some trouble in Philadelphia, but Mr. Armour has gone to handle it personally. Please, just give us a little more time."
Elias Vance said nothing. He just slowly turned around and pointed to the cowboys not far away, who were gathered around a campfire, drinking coffee. Their eyes, like wolves on the prairie, stared coldly at Thompson.
"Thompson," Vance's voice was calm, "My men have been waiting here for their pay since last night. I told them they could have their money and go have a good time at the city's saloon this morning. Now, what do you want me to tell them?"
He paused, then pointed to the dirt road in the distance leading to Dodge City.
"See that road?" he continued, "Mr. Caleb of Metropolitan Company stayed in the city last night. His carriage carries enough cash to buy twice this herd of cattle. He's also waiting for my answer."
Thompson's face turned pale. "Mr. Vance, you... you can't do this! We have a contract!"
"A contract?" Vance sneered, "A contract is built on trust, Thompson. And your trust went bankrupt when the sun set yesterday."
He ignored Thompson, mounted his horse, and waved to his cowboys.
"Men! Drive the cattle out! We're switching buyers!"
Accompanied by the excited shouts of the cowboys and the crisp crack of long whips, the hundred sturdy beef cattle were driven out of the corrals, moving in a mighty procession towards another direction.
Thompson stood rooted to the spot, watching the departing herd. He knew that he and Mr. Armour had lost the first, and most crucial, battle in Kansas.
The same scene played out repeatedly over the next few days on the prairies of Kansas and Nebraska.
The ranchers, bound by exclusive contracts with the Western Livestock Cooperative, after witnessing the Metropolitan Company's glittering cash and the Cooperative's repeatedly unfulfilled promises, all made the most pragmatic choice.
The first crack appeared in the dam of trust, and collapse was only a matter of time...
Chicago, Philip Armour's office.
Armour angrily crumpled a telegram from the West and slammed it to the ground.
"Useless! A bunch of useless people!" He roared at his assistant, Martin, "One week! All the advantages our Cooperative just established on the prairie have disintegrated within a week! Now more than half of the ranchers have torn up their contracts and sold their cattle to that damned butcher, Bill!"
"Sir," Martin's tone was helpless, "Our people report that Metropolitan Company's buyers are like locusts; they have... an unimaginable amount of cash. As soon as a rancher is willing to break a contract, they immediately pay a price ten percent higher than the market rate, settling on the spot."
"Money... money..." Armour paced restlessly in his office, "How much money does that Argyle have to burn? And that scoundrel Davenport? Has he still not resolved his damned audit issues?"
"Mr. Davenport sent a telegram yesterday," Martin replied, "He said investors have placed extremely high demands on the credit company's risk control. He is doing his best to negotiate, but large fund disbursements remain very difficult in the short term."
"I don't believe in coincidences."
Armour stopped, his always-narrowed eyes gleaming with a dangerous light, "Argyle's buyers just happened to be waiting with cash. The funding chain in Philadelphia just happened to have problems at this exact time. There must be a connection."
He pondered for a moment, then made a decision.
"I will personally go to Philadelphia next week," he said, "I want to ask Davenport face-to-face who those investors behind him really are. Also," he looked at Martin, "Notify Mr. Sloan in New York. Tell him our plans in the West have been frustrated. That Argyle is more troublesome than we imagined. I need the Railway Alliance to put more pressure on him."
...New York, Argyle Empire Bank.
Felix did not relax in the slightest because of the good news from the West. He knew very well that defeating Armour's agents was just the beginning of this war. His real goal was to completely dismantle the opponent's ability to wage this war.
In his office, a meeting about "land" was underway.
"Boss," Bank President Templeton placed a thick report on the table, "The joint report from the legal department and the agricultural credit department is out. Regarding the acquisition of land in Nebraska and Kansas, it is entirely legally feasible. The best way is to acquire it in batches through an independent land trust company registered locally. This can maximize the avoidance of potential Federal Government restrictions on a single investor holding large-scale land."
Tom Hayes handed over another report.
"Boss, the former land surveyor I hired provided us with a very valuable list. Among them, there is one target I think is perfect."
"Tell me about it."
"Platte River Ranch," Hayes replied, "Located in Nebraska, with a total area of over sixty thousand acres, and exclusive water rights to the Platte River granted by the State Government. The rancher is an elderly British nobleman who is eager to return to Europe due to health reasons, so he has a strong desire to sell. His ranch has approximately twelve thousand head of high-quality Hereford cattle."
"What is his asking price?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, including the land, cattle, and all auxiliary facilities."
Catherine, listening nearby, spoke up: "Felix, this is a huge investment. This amount of money is enough to build another Militech armory in Connecticut."
"Catherine, for now, we have enough armories providing weapons," Felix looked at her, his eyes calm and deep, "Land and livestock are the source; they provide for our survival. The price of weapons will fall when the war ends, but the value of land is eternal."
He stood up and walked to the large map of the United States.
"Armour and Sloan, they are still using money to 'rent' the loyalty of ranchers. This is a short-sighted behavior. What we need to do," his finger traced a circle on the vast land of Nebraska, "is to use capital to buy the foundation of that loyalty—the land itself."
He made his final decision.
"George," he turned to Templeton, "Have your new department immediately begin to register that land trust company in Omaha, the capital of Nebraska. All legal documents must be airtight."
"Tom," he then looked at Hayes, "Send your people to Nebraska. Without alarming anyone, make initial contact with that British gentleman. I need the most detailed on-site survey report about that Platte River Ranch. I want to know the true value of every inch of land and every head of cattle there."
A week later, Omaha, Nebraska.
This city, built on the banks of the Mississippi River, was the true gateway to the vast western prairies.
The streets were muddy, lined with crude wooden buildings; taverns and land offices outnumbered churches. Everything here was filled with a raw and rugged vitality.
Arthur Pym, a former surveyor who had mapped thousands of miles for the Federal Government, and a trusted advisor to Tom Hayes, was currently sitting in a bumpy stagecoach.
It took him two days to arrive here from Chicago. His mission was to conduct an on-site inspection of the Platte River Ranch's true value.
After another day of arduous travel, the ranch finally appeared on the horizon.
Unlike the ruggedness Pym had imagined, the ranch's main compound was an English manor with Gothic spires and a huge garden.
This building stood isolated on the vast, boundless prairie, appearing both magnificent and strangely out of place.
The ranch's owner, Sir Covington, personally greeted him at the door. He was a British nobleman nearing seventy, dressed in a well-tailored but slightly worn hunting suit, exuding the elegance of the Old World in every gesture.
"Mr. Pym, welcome." Sir Covington's voice carried a strong Oxford accent.
"Sir, you are too kind." Pym's reply was concise and professional. "My employer is very interested in your ranch. Before formal business negotiations, he hopes I can conduct a comprehensive asset appraisal."
For the next two days, Pym, like the most rigorous auditor, measured this vast land. He rode a horse, guided by the ranch foreman, to personally inspect the water source of the Platte River, examine the quality of the pastures, and even randomly select dozens of cattle to check their health.
"Your Hereford cattle are of a very pure breed."
In the evening, in the manor's dining room, adorned with deer head trophies, Pym said to Sir Covington, "But, if I may be frank, Sir, your management style is a bit... too traditional."
"Oh?"
"Your ranch lacks sufficient winter hay reserves," Pym explained. "Should a rare blizzard occur, your cattle will face enormous losses. Furthermore, your agreement with the local Sioux tribe for land use seems to be only verbal, which presents legal risks."
Sir Covington merely smiled bitterly upon hearing this.
"Mr. Pym is an expert; everything you say is correct. I once thought I could transplant the pastoral life of England to this New Continent. But I was wrong."
He looked out the window at the desolate prairie under the moonlight. "This place does not belong to me. Now I just want to sell it as quickly as possible and return with the money to my rainy but peaceful homeland."
Pym nodded; his assessment was largely complete. This was an asset with enormous potential, but it also required a tougher and more astute new owner.
Just as Pym was surveying the future foundations for Felix on the western prairies, a new cloud was quietly looming over Felix's transportation lifeline from the East... New York, Fifth Avenue mansion.
Charles Reeves, the president of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, had rushed from Chicago.
"Felix." In the study, he slammed a document onto the table. "Sloan and them have made their move again. It's a more brutal and shameless price cut than before."
Felix frowned, picked up the document, and began to read. It was an operational announcement jointly issued by the Eastern Railroad Alliance.
"They are using wartime safety as an excuse," Reeves's voice was filled with suppressed rage, "to announce a three-month 'safety structural overhaul' of our central transfer hub in Pittsburgh, where our two lines converge. All passing traffic will need to undergo inspection."
"This means all our eastbound cargo that needs to be transferred from here to their lines must now stay at that damned transfer station for at least three extra days for so-called 'safety inspections' and 're-shuffling.' Their own cargo, however, can pass through unimpeded."
Catherine, listening nearby, immediately understood the sinister implications. "Three days... For customers transporting fresh food and urgent industrial goods, this is unacceptable. Their goods will rot at the station."
"Exactly," Reeves's voice became hoarse. "The day after the announcement, the three biggest clients our company had managed to retain quickly informed us they were canceling all transportation contracts. They dared not take the risk. Felix, Sloan isn't fighting a price war with us this time. He's using the hub he controls to fundamentally turn our railroad into an isolated island cut off from the East Coast market."
Felix listened quietly. He walked to the huge Federal map, his gaze lingering on the small red dot of Pittsburgh for a long time.
"It seems they realized they couldn't eliminate us with a short-term price war, so they decided to attack the route," he said slowly after a long silence.
"Sloan has revealed his trump card..."
He looked at Reeves and Catherine, his eyes glinting with a cold light.
"In that case, Charles, immediately prepare to establish our own exclusive transportation route."
His finger moved north from Pittsburgh, finally resting on the vast blue waters of the Great Lakes Region.
"Here." He pointed to a small city in Ohio on Lake Erie. "Cleveland. The company's railroad is less than a hundred miles from here."
Reeves looked at the map, somewhat unclear about Felix's meaning.
"Felix... you... you mean..."
Felix's face broke into a bold and wild smile. "Since the land route is temporarily impassable, we will directly establish our route to the small railroad company in Cleveland. We can choose to acquire it or form an exclusive partnership. The company's goods will no longer enter New York via the Pennsylvania land route."
"We'll transport them north by train all the way to the port on Lake Erie." He looked at Catherine. "Then load them onto our own steam cargo ships and transport them directly to our factory docks along the East River via the Erie Canal and the Hudson River."
This was a "land-water intermodal" plan to completely bypass the Eastern Railroad Alliance's blockade.
"This... but Felix..." Reeves's voice trembled with excitement. "This... this is building an entirely new transportation system! The money required..."
"The money, Argyle Bank will handle."
"Charles, your task is to immediately send trusted people to negotiate with the small railroad owners there."
He turned to Catherine.
"My dear, I need you to immediately contact MacGregor in Brooklyn."
"Ask him if, besides flamethrowing gunboats, he can build us a few of the fastest steam cargo ships for inland rivers of this era."
"Felix," Catherine was the first to recover from the grand blueprint, pointing out the most critical flaw. "Even if Mr. MacGregor is the best shipwright in America, it would take at least three months or even longer to design and build the first qualified cargo ship.
And the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company is already being strangled. We can't wait that long."
Reeves also nodded with a worried expression. "Miss O'Brien is right. Sloan's blockade is effective immediately, and we are losing customers and money every day."
Felix looked at the worries on the faces of his two most capable subordinates, but a confident smile appeared on his own face.
"You are both right," he responded. "Therefore, my plan has always been two-pronged from the start."
He walked to the desk and spread out a waterway map of the Great Lakes Region.
"Mr. MacGregor's task," Felix's tone was clear and steady, "is to build the fastest and most efficient inland cargo ships in the entire Great Lakes Region for the future.
When our competitors are still using their slow barges, our fleet will cut through the entire water transportation line like fast ships. This is a long-term strategy."
"And to solve the immediate crisis," his gaze turned to two cities on the map—Buffalo and Cleveland, "we need a fleet that can be launched immediately."
He looked at Tom Hayes, who had been quietly waiting by his side and had been urgently summoned after he learned of the railroad blockade.
"Tom," Felix issued new instructions, "I need you to immediately send people to these two cities.
In the name of Patriot Investment Company, acquire an existing steamboat shipping company for me as quickly as possible.
I don't care how old its ships are or how old its captains are, as long as they can operate and carry cargo.
I need a fleet that can start transporting goods for Mr. Reeves within a week."
"Understood. Exchanging money for time is the most cost-effective deal. I will handle it personally."
"Excellent." Felix then turned to Reeves. "Charles, the negotiation to acquire the railroad leading to Lake Erie is up to you.
You are a railroad expert, and no one understands better than you how to evaluate the true value of a railroad.
Remember, you can pay a premium, but don't be a fool. Argyle Bank will provide you with all the funds and legal support."
"Leave it to me." Reeves nodded heavily. Felix's combination of short-term and long-term solutions calmed his anxious heart… The next day, three battlefronts opened simultaneously.
In Cleveland, Ohio, Charles Reeves personally visited the headquarters of the "Lake Erie and Ohio River" railroad company.
It was a small building even older than his own office.
The company's owner, a cautious old man named Caldwell, received him.
"Mr. Reeves, I admire your courage," Caldwell's tone was complex. "But with all due respect, your enemies are Sloan and the Eastern Railroad Alliance.
My small railroad, only a few dozen miles long, is like an ant in front of them, and I don't want to be crushed by them."
"Mr. Caldwell, what Sloan can threaten is your 'business'," Reeves repeated Felix's words verbatim. "And my Boss, Mr. Argyle, can guarantee your 'wealth'."
He placed an all-cash acquisition letter of intent, drafted by Argyle Bank's lawyers, on the table.
"I am willing to buy your entire company for cash at a price 30% higher than its current market value.
Mr. Caldwell, you can take this money, enough to allow you to live comfortably in your old age, completely escape Sloan's threat, and enjoy the sun in Florida.
Or," Reeves looked at him, "continue to guard this branch that could break at any time, until winter comes."
Caldwell looked at the offer and fell into a long silence… Meanwhile, at the Atlantic Steam Power Plant in Brooklyn.
Catherine also found MacGregor, who was directing workers on the slipway.
"Cargo ships?" After listening to Catherine relay Felix's new task, the proud Scottish shipwright snorted disdainfully.
"Miss O'Brien, I build gunboats for the navy, not coal barges for merchants."
"The Boss isn't talking about barges, Mr. MacGregor," Catherine smiled, having also learned Felix's trick for winning people over.
"He's talking about the fastest ships on the river.
When our cargo can easily overtake the Eastern Railroad Alliance's express mail ships on the Erie Canal, Mr. Sloan's expression in his New York office will certainly be very entertaining."
Catherine looked at MacGregor. "The Boss believes that only you, on the entire East Coast, have the ability and audacity to design and build such ships."
These words precisely hit MacGregor's soft spot. Challenging a powerful opponent and humiliating him with his own work ignited his passion more than any money could.
"Of course. You tell Mr. Argyle to get ready to pay. I will build him a ship as fast as a ghost."
…Meanwhile, at the New York headquarters, Felix was reviewing the latest intelligence from the west.
The telegram was sent by Arthur Pym from Nebraska.
"Boss, the on-site survey of Platte River Ranch is largely complete. The land, water sources, and cattle are all of excellent quality.
Sir Covington has a strong desire to return to his country, making it an excellent time for acquisition."
Felix nodded with satisfaction when he saw this. But the next paragraph of the telegram made him frown slightly.
"...Additionally, according to local informants, Philip Armour's chief buyer from Chicago also arrived in Omaha yesterday.
They also seem to have developed a strong interest in Sir Covington's land."
Catherine also saw the content of the telegram. "Armour is also eyeing that land? It seems their failure on the prairie made them realize the importance of owning their own ranch.
We must speed up."
"No, my dear, we can't speed up," Felix shook his head, a meaningful smile appearing on his face instead.
"Acquiring a sixty-thousand-acre ranch is a meticulous hunt, not a hasty charge."
"If Armour wants to bid against me, then so be it," he put the telegram aside.
"I was just looking for an opportunity to have a good chat with him at the negotiating table."
Spring in Nebraska always brought with it a wind that could chill one to the bone. For Arthur Pym, this wind carried not just dust, but also a hint of gunpowder.
He had been here for three days now.
Sir Covington's Platte River Ranch was superior to any land he had ever evaluated. Vast pastures, abundant water sources, and tens of thousands of purebred Hereford cattle—it was a gold mine floating on the prairie.
But another group of equally keen-scented sharks had already arrived, drawn by the scent of blood.
Inside the ranch's manor, the atmosphere was strangely tense.
Sir Covington, the British aristocrat who only wanted to extricate himself as quickly as possible, reluctantly played the role of auctioneer in his study. In the study, two groups of people sat distinctly apart.
On one side was Arthur Pym, representing Felix Argyle of New York.
On the other side were representatives from Philip Armour's company in Chicago. The leader was a burly man named Bardo, with fierce eyes and a perpetual sneer. The two men standing behind him kept their hands in their coat pockets, which were bulging, clearly concealing something.
"Alright, gentlemen," Sir Covington cleared his throat, attempting to maintain old-world decorum, "you are all aware of my asking price: two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. The decision now rests with you."
"Sir Covington," Bardo, Armour's representative, spoke first, "Mr. Armour asked me to convey to you that in the West, choosing the right buyer is more important than the price."
He cast a disdainful glance at Pym, "As for some of our new friends from New York, whether their railroad will even be running next year is still a question."
He pushed a bid sheet forward. "We offer two hundred and sixty thousand dollars."
Pym ignored his provocation. He simply and calmly placed a cashier's check issued by Argyle Bank on the table.
"Two hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
Bardo's face darkened. He hadn't expected the other party's follow-up to be so swift and so firm.
"Two hundred and eighty thousand," he squeezed the number through his teeth.
"Two hundred and ninety thousand," Pym said without hesitation.
"Three hundred thousand!" Bardo suddenly stood up, staring intently at Pym. "Kid, your Boss is rich, we know that. But this is Nebraska, not New York. We make the rules here!"
Sir Covington's face showed a look of disgust; he disliked such crude threats.
"Mr. Bardo," he said, "this is a business auction. Please maintain your composure."
"Alright," Bardo sat back down, a grim smile on his face, "Sir, I suggest we take a break, let everyone cool down. Let our New York friend 'consider' his next bid carefully."
During the break, Pym was crossing the ranch courtyard, heading back to his temporary guest room.
Bardo and his two associates emerged from the shadows of the barn like three wolves, blocking his path.
"Kid," Bardo's tone was full of menace, "I'll say this one last time. Your Boss might be powerful in New York, but this is the West. The rules are different here."
He took a step closer. "I advise you to pack your bags now and take the next train back East. Otherwise, you might encounter some unfortunate accidents here. Like falling off a horse, or getting lost on the prairie."
Pym could feel the danger emanating from them, but he knew he couldn't back down.
"My job is to complete this acquisition for my Boss, Mr. Bardo," he tried to keep his voice steady. "I won't leave until the transaction is done."
"So, there's nothing to discuss then." A fierce glint flashed in Bardo's eyes. He gestured to one of his men behind him.
One of the men immediately stepped forward, pulling out a pistol and preparing to point it at Pym.
Just at this tense moment...
"Bang!"
A crisp, dry rifle shot, without warning, came from a distance, shattering the tranquility of the prairie.
The man who had just drawn his gun let out a piercing scream. A spray of blood instantly burst from his right shoulder. His revolver clattered to the ground, and he collapsed.
Bardo and his other subordinate were stunned by the sudden gunshot.
Immediately after, four men slowly emerged from the shadows of a nearby stable and another barn.
They were dressed in local cowboy attire, but their movements carried the coordinated precision characteristic of soldiers. Leading them was Donovan, Flynn's operations leader, who had been resting for several days. The Winchester rifle in his hand, which had just fired, still had a wisp of smoke curling from its barrel.
They had been secretly dispatched to lie in wait around the ranch.
Donovan looked at Bardo and said in a cold voice, "Send a message to your Boss."
Then, slowly, he aimed his rifle at Bardo's forehead. "Our Boss likes to solve problems with money at the negotiating table, but if someone wants to take the game under the table..."
He glanced at the wailing injured man on the ground.
"Our marksmanship isn't bad either."
Bardo was drenched in cold sweat. He felt the fear of death from Donovan's eyes, which looked at him as if he were already dead... After Bardo, like a defeated rooster, dragged his injured subordinate away in disgrace, Sir Covington's face was filled with lingering fear and anger.
"Savages! A bunch of savages from Chicago!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I've had enough of this godforsaken place! I don't want to stay here another day!"
He turned to Pym, his tone becoming urgent.
"Mr. Pym, is your offer still valid?"
"Of course, Sir."
"Excellent!" Sir Covington picked up a pen and quickly signed his name on a pre-drafted transfer agreement. "The ranch is yours! I'm taking a ship back to England tomorrow!"
That same day, encrypted telegrams were sent simultaneously from Nebraska to New York.
"Acquisition complete."
In Felix's study, he set this telegram aside and picked up a new telegram paper, personally writing a reply to Philip Armour, who was far away in Chicago.
"Mr. Armour, your dog tried to bite my man on my lawn. I have disciplined him for you.
Also, I heard you've encountered some financial troubles in Philadelphia. If you're interested, perhaps we can talk.
— Felix Argyle"
He handed the telegram to his butler, instructing him to send it immediately.
Catherine looked at him, a hint of confusion in her eyes, "Felix, you are… completely enraging him."
"No, my dear," Felix shook his head and walked to the window, looking at the myriad lights of New York.
"This isn't enraging him."
"I am sending him a lifeline."