South bank of the Platte River, about two miles from the abandoned sawmill where a steel harvest was underway, behind a sand dune obscured by a grove of withered cottonwood trees.
Jack Slade's most capable scout, a man named "Rattlesnake" McGee, was wrapping his telescope lens with a dirty oilcloth, leaving only a small field of vision, staring intently at the chaotic battlefield in the distance.
Beside him, four other companions were lurking. They were all key members of Dr. Durant's "Special Prospectors Team" and Slade's confidantes.
Their mission this time was not to participate in the battle, but to act as observers, to confirm that old man Cartwright could cleanly deal with those troublesome easterners, and, if necessary, to ensure no accidents occurred.
However, what was happening before their eyes sent a chill to the bones of these gunmen, who had long experienced border killings and prided themselves as top predators of the prairie.
When those five chains of fire, like the scythes of death, swept out from the direction of the sawmill, McGee even thought he was seeing things.
He had never seen such dense, such continuous firepower. Cartwright's Cowboys, who usually swaggered around, were as fragile as paper dolls in the face of the hail of bullets.
The screams were still clearly audible from two miles away, raising goosebumps.
"What… what the hell is that?" a young gunman beside him asked, his voice trembling with fear. "Cannons? No… cannons aren't that fast…"
"Shut up."
McGee snapped in a low voice, but the hand holding the telescope was unconsciously sweating cold. He recognized the weapon. A few days ago, a warning notice from North Platte headquarters, visible only to a few core members, mentioned a new type of weapon manufactured by that damned Argyle Company in the East, a monster that could rotate and fire bullets like a windmill.
He had initially thought it was just something the easterners boasted about to raise prices.
But now, he had seen it with his own eyes.
And, it seemed there was more than one.
There were five.
Five killing machines that could tear hundreds of riders, men and horses, to shreds in an instant.
The charge turned into a rout. Cartwright's men scattered like sheep chased by wolves, abandoning their helmets and armor, fleeing south in disarray.
Meanwhile, at the sawmill, sporadic, precise rifle shots continued to pick off those who ran slowly or tried to resist, one by one.
The entire process was incredibly fast. From the moment Cartwright's men charged to their complete collapse, it probably didn't even take ten minutes.
"Boss… are we… are we still going in?"
The young gunman stammered again. Mr. Slade's previous order was that if either side failed, they were responsible for patching things up.
McGee didn't answer immediately. He just looked at the battlefield in the distance, like a Shura field, and then looked at his mere five men and their old Spencer carbines.
Go in and patch things up? With what? Use their flesh and blood to fill the teeth of those five steel monsters?
"Retreat."
McGee finally made an instinctive decision. "Return to Omaha immediately. Tell Dr. Durant everything that happened here, exactly as it occurred."
This was no longer something their level could handle.
The five gunmen did not hesitate, quickly put away their weapons, and silently retreated into the woods behind them, as if they had never appeared.
Only the river valley, stained with blood, silently recounted the brief and brutal harvest that had just taken place… Omaha town, the land office of the Union Pacific Railroad Company.
Dr. Thomas Durant had just finished drafting a telegram regarding the next phase of the railroad's construction plan. He was in a good mood, even pouring himself a glass of fine French brandy.
Old man Cartwright should be fighting fiercely with the other side, and perhaps Argyle's Prospectors would soon become dry bones on the prairie. And he, on the other hand, could acquire that crucial land for the railroad company without shedding blood.
Just then, the office door was suddenly pushed open, without even the courtesy of a knock.
"Rattlesnake" McGee burst in, still carrying a lingering chill. The usual arrogance was gone from his face, replaced by a pallor of lingering shock.
"Doctor, something's happened. Cartwright… he's defeated! Completely defeated."
Durant's hand, holding the wine glass, froze in mid-air. The smile on his face vanished instantly. "What did you say? Three hundred people couldn't beat a hundred?"
"No, Doctor." McGee swallowed with difficulty.
"They have… they have five of those… rotating killing machines. Cartwright's men couldn't even get within a hundred yards before they were… they were riddled with bullets. Of the more than three hundred men, probably no more than a hundred ran back."
"Five…"
The wine glass in Durant's hand dropped with a clang onto the expensive carpet, and the amber liquid soaked a small patch. "Are you saying, the Argyle Company's… Gatling guns?"
"Exactly, exactly." McGee nodded frantically. "It's exactly as described in the report, and even… more terrifying."
Durant felt a chill run from his feet to the top of his head.
He had always thought that those were just expensive toys Argyle Company used to peddle to the War Department, meant to make money on battlefields, and would never easily appear in such remote border conflicts.
But now it seemed he was wrong, terribly wrong.
New York said that Argyle was too refined, but now it all seemed like nonsense; he was truly ruthless. He directly sent an armed force equipped to contend with regular armies, and without hesitation, declared their presence with a bloody massacre.
This didn't seem like they were looking for someone at all.
It was like they were declaring war.
Durant rushed to his desk and grabbed the operating handle of the internal telegraph line. He didn't even bother to think about what old man Cartwright would face next.
His only task now was to immediately report this catastrophic news to the big figures who could truly make decisions.
"Immediately prepare a carriage to the telegraph office," he shouted to his secretary, his voice trembling with tension. "Send it to New York via the highest priority line, find… find Mr. Crane's private codebook."
John Crane, a core member of the Union Pacific Railroad Company's board of directors, and one of Durant's true bosses, was a powerful figure with immense influence on Wall Street and Capitol Hill.
He bent down and quickly wrote on the telegraph paper with trembling hands.
"Mr. Crane: Situation in Nebraska has drastically changed. Argyle's men have intervened with new machine guns; Cartwright has nearly two hundred casualties. The opponent's strength far exceeds estimates; their intention is suspected to be retaliation. Please advise immediately, Durant."
He crumpled the telegraph paper into a ball, then smoothed it out again, confirming nothing was missed, before handing it to the secretary who was already waiting.
"Go quickly. Send it out as fast as possible."
The secretary left in a hurry with the telegram. Durant slumped back into the leather chair, feeling utterly cold.
The game was completely out of control.
And he himself, from a behind-the-scenes manipulator, had become a… pawn, who could be swept into the flames at any moment.
New York, Wall Street.
Unlike the raw dust and scent of blood in Omaha, this was the nerve center of money and power, where every telegraph line connected to the empire's financial arteries, and every tick of the stock ticker could determine the fate of millions of dollars.
In a private office adorned with heavy mahogany furniture and Italian oil paintings, John Crane was enjoying a rare moment of peace in his day.
He leaned back in a comfortable leather armchair, holding a cup of premium Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica, facing a young man whose presence, though somewhat contrasting with the office's luxury, possessed a unique aura of its own.
The young man was John Pierpont Morgan, twenty-six years old, who had returned from studying in Europe several years prior and was now a partner in his father's London bank's New York branch, having also established his own Morgan & Co.
He wore a well-tailored dark suit, his eyes sharp, his jawline firm, exuding a composure beyond his years.
Young Morgan gently pushed a proposal for the next phase of Union Pacific Railroad Company bond issuance to the center of the table.
"So, Mr. Crane, according to my calculations, if we can raise the annual interest on the bonds from six percent to six and a half percent, and add a certain land warrant as an incentive—
Then, on the markets in London and Paris, we could raise at least an additional two million dollars, which would be enough to cover all expenses for extending the railroad a hundred miles west of the Platte River Valley."
Crane listened with interest.
He greatly admired this young man. He was not like the old foxes of Wall Street, greedy and short-sighted; his vision always focused on more long-term and stable profits.
The construction of the Union Pacific Railroad was enormously expensive; relying solely on congressional appropriations and domestic financing was no longer sufficient, making the exploration of European capital markets an inevitable choice.
And the Morgan family's connections and reputation in London and Paris were precisely what Crane urgently needed.
"Six and a half percent annual interest…"
Crane mused, tapping his fingers lightly on the smooth mahogany tabletop.
"Those tightwads on the board will likely have some objections. However, land warrants… that's a good idea. Those seemingly barren lands in Nebraska will turn into gold in the future."
He picked up his coffee cup, just about to say something else, when there was an urgent knock on the office door.
"Come in." Crane frowned, a hint of displeasure on his face.
His chief secretary, a middle-aged man named Benson, walked in, pale-faced, holding a newly translated encrypted telegram.
"Sir," Benson's voice held an almost imperceptible tremor, "Omaha… an urgent telegram from Dr. Durant. Top priority."
Crane's heart sank. Durant rarely used top priority. He put down his coffee cup and took the telegram.
After reading the telegram, he felt as if his blood had instantly frozen.
Argyle, machine guns, retaliation.
These words were like cold daggers, piercing deeply into his heart.
He was not a core member of the railroad company's board, but merely one of the directors, and among the many contractors for the Union Pacific Railroad, he was a major contractor responsible for a section of line construction and land development.
The reason he had tacitly approved, or even hinted to Durant, to use that old man Cartwright to create some "accidents" for the Argyle Company, which also wanted to get involved in the Platte River Valley land, was partly to protect his own territory, and partly… he subconsciously glanced at the young man sitting opposite him, who was observing him impassively.
"What's wrong, Mr. Crane?"
Young Morgan asked, his voice betraying no emotion.
Crane didn't answer immediately, feeling his palms sweating. He forced himself to calm down, re-read the thin telegram paper twice, trying to find some self-deceptive loopholes.
But there were none.
Although Durant's wording was filled with panic, the core message was terrifyingly clear.
That damned Argyle not only knew about the disappearance of his men, but his reaction was so swift, and his methods so ruthless.
He even deployed that kind of killing machine, which should only appear on the battlefield, directly into this border conflict.
This was no longer the rules of commercial competition, but war.
He recalled the unsettling rumors about Felix Argyle, how he had cleaned out local gangs in New York overnight, how he had taken control of the Pennsylvania Railroad in Philadelphia without bloodshed, and his ambiguous relationship with Stanton, the iron-fisted Secretary of War.
Had he… provoked a madman he shouldn't have?
"Nothing."
Crane tried to make his voice sound calm. He crumpled the telegram paper into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket beside the desk.
"Just some… common minor troubles on the western frontier. Indians attacked one of our survey camps. Durant is making a mountain out of a molehill."
Young Morgan looked at him, saying nothing, but a flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.
He knew Crane was lying, but he didn't expose him.
"Indians?" Morgan picked up his coffee cup and took a light sip.
"I heard that the most dangerous thing on the prairie now isn't those redskins with bows and arrows. It's those… white-skins, who also carry new rifles, but are more greedy and less bound by rules than the Indians."
These words shattered Crane's feigned composure.
He abruptly stood up and paced restlessly around the office.
No, he had to distance himself from this matter immediately. That idiot Durant, and that old lunatic Cartwright, their lives and deaths had nothing to do with him.
But he absolutely couldn't let the fire spread to him, much less implicate the Union Pacific Railroad, the goose that was laying golden eggs.
He stopped and looked at young Morgan.
"John, we'll discuss the bond issuance later. I… need to deal with some urgent internal company matters right now."
"Of course, Mr. Crane."
Morgan stood up, his face still bearing that polite yet distant smile.
"If you need any assistance, whether financial or… otherwise, the Morgan family would be happy to help."
"Thank you, thank you."
Crane responded distractedly, hurrying the young banker out of the office.
When the office door closed again, the calmness on Crane's face instantly vanished.
He rushed to his desk, grabbed another blank telegram paper and a pencil, and began to reply to Durant with trembling hands.
He didn't give any clear instructions. He merely repeatedly emphasized that the Union Pacific Railroad Company always adhered to federal law and would never participate in any illegal local conflicts.
He also demanded that Durant immediately rein in his personnel, fully cooperate with the local Sheriff's investigation, and restore normal order along the railroad line as soon as possible.
He tried to use this bureaucratic language to completely extricate himself and the company from this out-of-control conflict.
After writing the telegram, he collapsed into his chair, feeling drenched in cold sweat.
He glanced at the crumpled telegram paper in the wastebasket, then thought of the young man's calm yet seemingly all-knowing eyes when he left.
It was all that damned Morgan.
If it weren't for him, at that dinner last month, seemingly casually, analyzing the potential threat of Argyle encroaching on the Platte River Valley and suggesting that he could use local forces to create some "small obstacles" for the other party—
How could he have been so foolish as to tacitly allow Durant to do such a stupid thing?
Crane buried his head in his hands, letting out a pained groan.
He felt like a foolish chess player, who thought he had made a brilliant move, but unexpectedly, had dragged himself into a more dangerous and deadly abyss.
And that young man who gave him advice… Crane suddenly looked up, a flicker of terror in his eyes.
Could he have… calculated everything from the very beginning?
New York, Wall Street.
Just two blocks from John Crane's office, which was filled with panic and stale cigar smoke, the atmosphere inside the sturdy granite building of Morgan & Co. was strikingly different.
This was a bastion of old financial power, where the air was thick with the gravitas of old money and an almost religious adherence to rules.
Young John Pierpont Morgan sat in his office, which offered an excellent view.
He meticulously used a small silver letter opener to carefully unseal a family letter from London.
His father, Junius Spencer Morgan, sent him a long letter every week, full of business admonitions and market analysis.
"Sir," his secretary knocked and entered, "Mr. Crane's secretary just sent a message, saying Mr. Crane is unwell and the meeting regarding the European issuance of Union Pacific Railroad bonds needs to be postponed."
Morgan paused in his letter-opening, looked up, his gray eyes showing no emotion.
"Postponed? Is the only reason 'unwell'?"
"Yes, sir," the secretary replied, "they didn't provide a more detailed explanation."
Morgan didn't press further. He simply returned his gaze to the family letter in his hand, as if completely unconcerned by Crane's unusual behavior.
"Understood. Please reply to Mr. Crane's secretary, wishing him a speedy recovery. There's no rush with the bond issuance; we can discuss it when he's available."
The secretary acknowledged and withdrew.
Morgan was left alone in the office, slowly walking to the window, overlooking Wall Street below, which resembled a boiling anthill.
Carriages, pedestrians, hurried messengers, and the crowds outside the exchange, either excited or dismayed by some unconfirmed news.
He knew why Crane was unwell; he could tell from his expression in his office earlier, and just half an hour ago, he had also received a brief through the family bank's internal encrypted lines.
The content was more detailed than what Crane had received, even including a preliminary assessment of the power of those Militech weapons and a startling estimate of the Cartwright Ranch Cowboys' casualties.
"Five machine guns… one hundred armed men…"
Morgan murmured to himself, "It seems Mr. Argyle is even more… decisive than I imagined."
He recalled how, a month ago, at a seemingly casual dinner, he had inadvertently mentioned to Crane the potential risks of Felix Argyle encroaching on Platte River Valley land, and how he had hinted that he could use local forces to create some "small obstacles" for him.
Crane, that greedy and foolish contractor, had indeed swallowed the bait without hesitation.
He had initially thought this was just a small test.
An attempt to use a border conflict to gauge Felix Argyle's strength and bottom line.
Incidentally, it could also create some trouble for the Union Pacific Railroad's competitors, mainly the Chicago capitalists who also coveted Western land and transportation interests.
But he hadn't expected Felix Argyle's reaction to be so swift, and his methods so… violent.
Directly deploying armed forces capable of confronting a regular army, and ruthlessly killing without hesitation. This completely exceeded the rules of engagement Wall Street was accustomed to, which involved playing with money and law.
And this was precisely what interested the young Morgan most.
He was not like his father, who believed in prudence and order. In his bones, a more aggressive, more controlling blood flowed.
He keenly perceived that Felix Argyle and the new emerging force he represented, which unreservedly combined industry, finance, and violence, was rising with an unstoppable momentum.
This power excited him, and also made him feel a hint of… threat.
Therefore, he needed to understand this opponent. Understand his strength, weaknesses, and his logic of action. And this conflict in Nebraska was the probing stone he had cast.
Now, the stone had stirred up a giant wave far beyond expectations.
Crane, that fool, was scared witless and tried to extricate himself. But that wasn't important. What was important was that he had obtained the information he wanted.
Felix Argyle was an opponent who could absolutely not be measured by conventional business methods.
He possessed powerful industrial production capabilities, weapon technology beyond his time, and most importantly, he had the determination and ruthlessness to unhesitatingly deploy these forces in actual combat.
Such a person must either become the strongest ally, or… be completely stifled before he fully matures.
Morgan turned around and walked back to his desk. He no longer paid attention to the family letter from London but took out a blank sheet of paper.
He began to write a reply to his father in Europe.
The first half of the letter was still about the details of the Union Pacific Railroad bond issuance and market analysis. But at the end of the letter, he added a paragraph in a seemingly casual tone:
"…Regarding Mr. Felix Argyle, who has recently risen to prominence in America, I have made some preliminary observations. This man's style of action is different from ordinary people; his industrial strength and technological reserves are unfathomable, and he has close ties with the Federal Government and the military.
I believe it is necessary to conduct a more in-depth assessment of him.
Perhaps, through some of our friends in London, we could indirectly ascertain the true views of the British government and the Kingdom of Prussia on this gentleman and his Militech…"
After writing the letter, he carefully blotted the ink dry and then sealed it with wax.
In fact, the young Morgan also had a strong impulse, which was to directly destroy Felix Argyle.
Because he vaguely felt that this man might well be his lifelong enemy in the future, and if he could destroy him now with the help of European capital, he would certainly be more at ease later.
Although he himself didn't understand why he had such thoughts, emotions are indeed strange.
And to do all this, he would need support from his father and European capital.
However, before that, he could certainly stir up some trouble and see how Argyle, this newly rich tycoon, would respond.
The main house of Cartwright Ranch, once a fortress symbolizing Ben Cartwright's twenty-year reign over the prairie, was now shrouded in a shadow of chaos and fear.
The fire in the fireplace had long since died out, leaving only ashes shivering in the draft.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap whiskey, sweat, blood, and a sense of despair.
Buck Stone, the usually imposing foreman, was now slumped on the ground like an old dog with a broken spine, his right arm haphazardly wrapped in a torn piece of shirt, blood still seeping from between his fingers.
He was lucky; at least he was still alive.
Of the three hundred men he had taken to the valley, less than a third returned. Most had scattered, and only about a dozen made it back to the ranch.
Ben Cartwright stood by the window, his back to the terrified family members in the room. He gazed at the familiar prairie, shrouded in night, his eyes now hollow and ashen.
He had failed.
He had failed so completely, so swiftly, so... humiliatingly.
He had dispatched his most elite force, three hundred Cowboys familiar with the terrain, to encircle and annihilate a group of Prospectors whom he thought were merely numerous.
The result was like moths drawn to a flame, instantly incinerated by the opponent's unheard-of, hellish roaring weapons.
"Monsters... they are monsters..." Buck Stone was still muttering, his eyes unfocused. "We didn't even... didn't even see what they looked like... only... only the endless gunfire..."
Cartwright ignored him. He knew Buck was not lying. Such weapons, capable of tearing a cavalry charge to shreds in an instant, were beyond his comprehension of warfare.
That bastard Durant must have known their true strength all along. He had used him, and the lives of his three hundred men, as cannon fodder to test the enemy's firepower.
Anger? It was meaningless now.
All that remained was fear, a bone-deep fear.
Since the enemy possessed such terrifying power and had used it without hesitation, they would certainly not stop now. If they could find that valley, if they could find his buried secret, they would surely find this place.
He had to leave, immediately.
"Buck."
Cartwright turned, his voice hoarse, "Can you still move?"
"Sir..."
"If you can still move," Cartwright interrupted him, a final flicker of a ruthless schemer in his eyes, "then immediately take ten brothers who can still ride. Go to the stables, take all the cash and gold bars from the safe. Prepare the fastest horses. We're going to Omaha tonight. That bastard Durant owes me, and he must pay it back with interest."
He was referring to the signed land transfer agreement. That was his last straw. As long as he could get the railroad company's money, he could immediately leave this troublesome place and go to Europe, to anywhere that damned Argyle couldn't find him.
Buck Stone struggled to his feet, the intense pain almost making him fall again, but he gritted his teeth and nodded. "Yes, Sir."
Just as Buck stumbled to leave, the heavy oak main door suddenly let out a dull thud, as if struck by a prehistoric beast. This was followed by a second, then a third... The bolt groaned in agony under the immense force, and wood splinters flew.
Everyone in the house looked towards the door in terror. A few Cowboys who could still hold a gun instinctively raised their weapons, but their hands trembled violently.
"Boom."
The door was finally completely forced open. Two tall figures, dressed in dark clothes, appeared like specters in the doorway.
Following them were a dozen more silent figures, moving with the swiftness of leopards. They fanned out, their dark gun muzzles instantly locking onto every potential threat in the room.
The entire process was as fast as lightning and terrifyingly quiet. There was only the rhythmic thud of heavy military boots on the wooden floor.
Rambo was the last to enter.
He was still wearing his ordinary pioneer leather outfit, his face devoid of expression, only his cold eyes scanning the people in the room, who were like lambs to the slaughter. His gaze finally settled on the old ranch owner, whose hair was white but who still feigned composure.
"Mr. Ben Cartwright?"
"My employer, Mr. Felix Argyle, sent me... to retrieve some things that belong to him."
Cartwright looked at the man who had suddenly appeared before him, and at the silent gunmen behind him. He knew that all his plans, all his hopes, had vanished at this moment.
"Who... who exactly are you?" he asked hoarsely, his voice filled with despair.
Rambo did not answer his question. He slowly pulled something from his in my arms and held it out for him to see.
It was the charred, blackened remains of a pocket watch, warped by fire.
"Has the owner of this item perished, and was it your order to kill him?"
Cartwright looked at the pocket watch. He remembered Buck's report from yesterday, and the disturbed earth in the valley. His face instantly turned ashen white.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about..." he tried to deny.
Rambo said nothing more. He simply gestured to Cole Jackson beside him.
Jackson stepped forward, the muzzle of his gun aimed at Buck Stone's injured arm.
"I'll talk." Buck Stone looked at the dark muzzle and completely broke down. "It was... it was the Boss's order... he told me to take men to... to clear out those... those things in the valley..."
"Is that so." Rambo nodded. He walked over to Cartwright, his cold eyes fixed on the old ranch owner.
"Now, tell me, who told you to do this?"
Ben Cartwright slumped in his massive leather armchair, as if all the bones had been removed from his body.
His eyes, once as sharp as a hawk's, were now bloodshot, cloudy, and filled with utter despair.
Rambo stood before him like a silent judge, toying with the charred remains of Tommy O'Donnell's deformed pocket watch.
The cold metal reflected the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace, like an eye peering into a soul.
Buck Stone, the loyal but foolish foreman, cowered on the floor not far away, blood still oozing from the wound on his right arm, staining the carpet beneath him.
Under Cole Jackson's cold gun and Rambo's emotionless gaze, he had already confessed everything: he was the one who led men to clean up the scene in the river valley, and he was the one who led men to besiege the sawmill, and all of this stemmed from the orders of the old rancher before him.
Now, it was Cartwright's turn.
"Tell me," Rambo's voice was calm, without a ripple, yet it was like a cold chisel, striking Cartwright's fragile nerves again and again, "Who told you to do this?"
Cartwright's lips moved a few times, but no sound came out.
He glanced at Rambo, then quickly lowered his head, not daring to meet those cold eyes.
He knew very well that denial was meaningless now.
Buck's confession, coupled with the pocket watch in front of him, was enough to condemn him.
"It… it was an accident."
He tried to make a final struggle, his voice hoarse.
"Last month, Slade's men… the Union Pacific Railroad Company's prospecting team, and those few land dealers from the East had a conflict in the river valley… My men just… just went to help clean up the scene afterwards…"
Rambo said nothing.
He just slowly raised his hand and made a slight gesture to Cole Jackson, who was standing at the door.
Jackson immediately understood.
He raised his gun, pointing the muzzle at Buck Stone's uninjured leg on the ground.
"No. Don't." Buck Stone let out a terrified wail, struggling to crawl away, but the intense pain rendered him immobile.
The muzzles of the other guns were aimed at Cartwright's family.
"I'll talk, I'll talk."
Seeing his family being held at gunpoint, potentially to be shot at any moment, Cartwright finally broke down.
He abruptly raised his head, his eyes filled with fear and a sense of utter betrayal.
"It was Durant. It was that bastard doctor Thomas Durant."
Rambo's expression remained unchanged, as if this name had long been within his expectations.
"Continue."
"Last month," Cartwright's voice trembled as he began to recall, "Durant found me.
He said that a group of land dealers from the East, operating under the guise of 'Saineng Mining,' were secretly acquiring land on the south bank of the Platte River.
He said these people were of unknown origin and would likely disrupt our local order, even affecting the railroad construction plan."
"He hinted to me," Cartwright's face showed a humiliated expression, "that the Union Pacific Railroad Company found it inconvenient to deal with such minor troubles.
But if I could help make these people disappear, then in return, the railroad company would give me a very favorable price in future land acquisitions.
Moreover, they would tacitly allow me to annex those few disobedient small ranches downstream."
"So, you sent Buck, in cooperation with Slade's men, to 'deal with' them?" Rambo pressed.
"No… it wasn't my men who did it." Cartwright quickly defended himself, "It was Slade.
His men set an ambush in the river valley.
My men… my men only helped them clean up the traces afterwards, and threw the bodies… into the river…"
He didn't dare to look at the pocket watch in Rambo's hand.
"What about today's attack?" Rambo continued to ask, "Over three hundred men besieging the sawmill, was that also Durant's doing?"
"No… not this time." Cartwright's face showed even deeper fear and anger.
"Yesterday, Buck discovered your camp.
I went to Durant, questioning him if he was hiding something from me.
That bastard was still feigning ignorance.
But I saw through him; he already knew you weren't ordinary Prospectors.
He treated me like a fool, like a scapegoat."
"I… I was… out of my mind at the time." Cartwright's voice was filled with despair, "I knew I was exposed, and there was no turning back.
So… so I just thought… I might as well go all the way… and get rid of all of you…"
His words were cut short because Rambo's cold gaze choked the rest of his words in his throat.
"Very good." Rambo nodded.
He had the confession he wanted.
He walked to the desk, picked up the paper and pen on it, and threw them in front of Cartwright.
"Write down everything you just said." Rambo commanded, "Every detail, every conversation with Durant, every order you gave.
Write it clearly."
"You… what do you want to do?" Cartwright looked at him in horror.
"Leave evidence." Rambo's answer was simple, "Evidence that can make the Union Pacific Railroad Company, and that Doctor Durant, pay the price."
Cartwright looked at the blank paper, then at the dark muzzles of the guns around him.
He knew he had no choice.
Trembling, he picked up the pen and began to write on the paper the words he least wanted to face in his life.
Every word was like digging his own grave… Half an hour later, when Cartwright, trembling, pressed his fingerprint on the confession filled with his crimes, he felt completely drained.
Rambo picked up the confession, read it carefully, and after confirming its accuracy, folded it carefully and put it into his inside pocket.
"Boss," Daniels stepped forward and asked in a low voice, "What should we do with this man?"
Rambo glanced at Cartwright, who was slumped on the sofa like a walking corpse, then at Buck Stone, who was still groaning on the ground, and at the terrified family members and servants huddled in the corner of the living room.
He remembered his Boss's order was to get solid evidence.
Now, the evidence was in hand.
As for Cartwright himself… keeping him alive might be more useful than killing him.
An old wolf who had lost his fangs and territory, and who held leverage over the Union Pacific Railroad Company, might still have value in future negotiations.
"Tie them all up." Rambo gave the order, "Buck Stone, give him some basic first aid for his wound; just make sure he doesn't die."
"Let's go."
Rambo and his men, just as silently as they had arrived, withdrew from the rancher's house, which had just weathered a storm.
They left behind only a mess on the floor and a group of people utterly crushed by fear… On the way back to the sawmill camp, moonlight spilled over the silent prairie, like a layer of cold silver frost.
"Boss," Daniels rode beside Rambo, asking in a low voice, "Are we just letting Cartwright go?"
"Killing him would be too easy." Rambo looked at the faint lights of Omaha in the distance, his voice cold, "Moreover, it would completely reassure Durant and the railroad company.
Keeping him is like implanting a thorn in Durant's heart that could explode at any moment."
"Then what do we do next?"
"Wait." Rambo's answer was just one word, "Wait for the Boss's orders.
Wait for Durant and the Union Pacific Railroad to make their move."
Perhaps, this hunting game on the prairie had just begun.
And the confession from the rancher in his hand would be the first trump card played in this game.
New York, Felix's mansion study.
The late autumn afternoon sun slanted through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long columns of light into the air, with dust motes dancing silently within them.
The fire in the fireplace burned quietly, emitting a warm crackle, which, combined with the sound of carriages from the street outside the window, created a strange tranquility.
Felix sat behind his desk, with a top-secret encrypted telegram from Rambo in Nebraska spread out before him.
"Tommy O'Donnell's murder confirmed. The main culprit is Thomas Durant, the Omaha regional head of the Union Pacific Railroad Company, assisted by local rancher Ben Cartwright.
Cartwright's signed confession and relevant evidence have been obtained.
Requesting next steps."
The study was very quiet. Frost stood by, even his breathing softened. He could feel that beneath his Boss's calm exterior, a terrible storm was brewing.
Felix did not speak immediately. He just tapped his finger lightly on the thin telegram paper. He was thinking, weighing his options.
Cartwright's confession was a sharp dagger, enough to pierce the Union Pacific Railroad Company and Durant's false legal facade. But how to use this dagger required extreme caution.
Wait for the opportune moment? Hand the evidence over to the Federal Government's judicial department? Or… expose it through the media, stirring up a storm of public opinion?
These were all options.
But Felix knew that these conventional methods, for a behemoth like the Union Pacific Railroad Company, with vast political and financial forces entrenched behind it, would likely only be a superficial annoyance.
Investigations might be delayed, evidence might be "lost," and the final outcome would likely be unresolved. And Durant, that crucial venomous snake, would likely disappear immediately after sniffing out danger, taking all deeper secrets with him into the shadows.
He could not give his opponent this opportunity.
Tommy O'Donnell's death was not just the sacrifice of a loyal subordinate. It was also a provocation, an open challenge to Felix Argyle and the business empire he was building.
If he could not retaliate in the most direct and powerful way, then in the future, on this land full of jungle law, countless jackals would dare to extend their claws and tear at his flesh and blood.
He must make everyone understand that the price of touching the interests of the Argyle family was something they could not bear.
"Edward." Felix finally spoke, his voice as calm as a frozen lake.
"Yes, Boss."
"Immediately telegram Rambo back." Felix's gaze was like a cold blade about to be unsheathed, "Use the highest level of encryption."
Frost immediately picked up a pen, ready to record.
"The order is as follows." Felix began to dictate, every word carrying an unquestionable decisiveness, "Abandon all waiting and further investigation. Target: Thomas Durant. Requirement: capture him alive."
Frost's pen tip paused slightly, but he did not ask any questions, just continued to record quickly.
"The operation must be swift and covert," Felix continued, "Durant must be secured before he realizes Cartwright is missing, or before he receives any warnings from New York. Prioritize securing all documents, telegram records, and ledgers in his office and residence. These are more valuable than he himself."
"After capturing the target," Felix pondered the subsequent handling, "secretly escort him back to Sawmill Camp for now, keep him under strict guard, and await my next instructions. No one in Omaha, including the Sheriff, must know his whereabouts."
"During the operation," he added the last sentence, his voice cold, "try to avoid unnecessary casualties. But if there is any form of armed resistance, or if someone tries to destroy evidence…"
Frost finished recording and looked up at his Boss. He knew that once this order was issued, it would no longer be commercial competition, or even border conflict. It would be an… almost illegal act of kidnapping. Once exposed, it would trigger a huge political storm and might even lead to severe sanctions from the Federal Government for the Boss himself.
"Boss," he couldn't help but speak, his voice tinged with worry, "Isn't this… too risky? Once the news leaks…"
"Risk always exists, Edward." Felix interrupted him, "But a greater risk is letting the enemy think we are weak and easily bullied."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the street below, which represented order and prosperity.
"What we are building is not just factories and banks," he said slowly, "but a new kind of rule. A rule that belongs to us. And the establishment of rules never relies on compromise and concession, but on… absolute power."
He turned around and looked at Frost.
"Go," he said, "send out my order."
"Let the jackals on the prairie know," a cold glint flashed in his eyes, "the hunter's patience is limited."
...Nebraska, abandoned Sawmill Camp.
Rambo looked at the encrypted telegram just translated by a specialist, and a hint of understanding flashed in his deep eyes.
His Boss's decision was even more… direct than he had expected.
"Boss?" Daniels stood by, awaiting orders.
Rambo folded the telegram paper and carefully placed it in his inner pocket.
"Gather all team leaders," he said, his voice like a drawn blade, "come to the war room immediately for a meeting."
He walked to the huge, hand-drawn detailed map of Omaha Town and its surrounding areas on the wall. On the map, the Union Pacific Railroad Company's land office, Thomas Durant's residence, the telegraph office, the Sheriff's office, and all possible escape routes had been clearly marked with a red pencil.
"Daniels," he pointed to the railroad office on the map, "you personally take twenty men to be responsible for the outer perimeter blockade and rendezvous. The key is to cut off all communication between the telegraph office and the railroad headquarters in North Platte. Once the operation begins, not even a fly can get out."
"Yes, Boss."
"Hawkeye," he then pointed to Durant's residence, "you take ten brothers to monitor and control his residence. If the target is not in the office, act at his home. Remember, he must be alive."
"Understood."
"Stone Wall," he finally looked at Cole Jackson, "you take your men, and the remaining fifty brothers. Come with me for a frontal assault on the railroad office."
Jackson nodded, a cold fighting spirit flashing in his eyes.
"There is only one objective," Rambo looked at everyone, his voice low and powerful, "capture Thomas Durant. Get all his documents."
"The operation time," he glanced at the clock on the wall, "is set for three AM tomorrow. That's when Omaha's defenses are most relaxed, and the target's vigilance is lowest."
"Did everyone hear clearly?"
"Clearly."
"Very good." Rambo nodded, "Now, go back and prepare."
It was three in the morning in Omaha Town, and all was silent.
The moonlight was obscured by thick clouds, and only a few kerosene streetlights, swaying in the cold wind, cast a dim and faint glow on the muddy streets.
Most residents were already deep in slumber, with only a few all-night taverns showing faint lights, accompanied by the indistinct murmuring of drunkards.
In this sleeping darkness, dozens of ghost-like figures were silently converging from different directions towards the two-story brick and stone building in the town center, which symbolized the authority of the Union Pacific Railroad Company.
Daniels personally led twenty Action Department veterans, like experienced hunters setting a trap, swiftly and precisely controlling all key intersections around the railroad office.
Two team members silently crept into the telegraph office, pressing their gun barrels against the head of the dozing operator, cutting off all telegraph lines to the outside world.
Several other groups lay in ambush at the road exits leading towards North Platte, and in the shadows of the alley near the Sheriff's office.
An invisible net was quietly tightening in the night.
Eagle Eye and his ten team members, like geckos, lurked around Thomas Durant's luxurious residence at the other end of town.
The house was pitch black, without any lights.
"The target should not be home, chief," a team member reported to Eagle Eye through gestures and lip-reading.
Eagle Eye nodded, relaying this information to Rambo, who was commanding the main assault.
In front of the railroad office, Rambo glanced at his pocket watch; the hands pointed exactly to three o'clock in the morning. Without hesitation, he made a simple gesture to Cole Jackson beside him.
Like two arrows released from a bow, two of the Action Department's most skilled lock-pickers and infiltrators silently approached the office's heavy oak door. Cold crowbars and specialized tools quickly disabled the lock.
In less than thirty seconds, accompanied by an extremely faint "click," the door was silently pushed open, creating a gap.
Rambo waved his hand.
Jackson and his ten elite men, like a black tide pouring into an ant's nest, stormed into the office's first-floor lobby with pistols drawn. Following closely behind were Rambo and the fifty other Action Department veterans he personally led.
The first-floor lobby had only one dozing night guard. Before he could react to what was happening, a cold gun barrel was pressed against the back of his head, and a pungent-smelling cloth covered his mouth and nose. Ten seconds later, he collapsed to the ground without even a whimper.
"Second floor, left side, the innermost room is Durant's office," a team member, who had previously infiltrated disguised as a cleaner, whispered to Rambo.
"He usually works very late. The office has an independent rest area."
Rambo nodded and gestured. Jackson immediately led five team members, like leopards, stealthily up the stairs. Rambo, with the remaining men, quickly secured all rooms and exits on the first floor and began systematically searching filing cabinets and desks.
The second-floor corridor was covered with thick carpet, completely absorbing footsteps. Jackson and his team members, like ghosts, hugged the walls and quickly reached the door of Durant's office.
A faint light emanated from under the door.
Someone was inside!
Jackson did not hesitate, making a breaching gesture to the team members behind him.
The next second, the office door was violently forced open.
Thomas Durant was indeed still in his office. He wasn't sleeping; instead, he was wearing pajamas, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, reading a document by the light of a kerosene lamp. The sudden crash of the door made him abruptly look up, his face filled with shock and the anger of being disturbed.
"Who—"
His answer came in the form of five dark gun barrels and Cole Jackson's voice, as cold as ice.
"Dr. Thomas Durant? We have something we'd like to discuss with you."
Durant looked at these sudden, black-clad figures, like reapers from hell, and his mind instantly went blank. He instinctively reached for the pistol in his desk drawer.
"Bang."
A muffled gunshot. Smoke curled from the barrel of Jackson's gun. The bullet precisely struck the desktop in front of Durant, wood splinters flying, less than an inch from his hand.
Durant's movement froze, cold sweat instantly soaking his pajamas. He looked into the other party's emotionless eyes, knowing that if he moved again, the next bullet would pierce his head.
"A very unwise choice, Doctor."
Jackson slowly stepped forward, sweeping the documents on the desk and the still-unholstered pistol aside.
"Now, please come with us. Do not attempt to resist, and do not try to make any sound. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee your safety."
At the same time, Rambo had found what he wanted in the first-floor archives. A heavy tin safe, cleverly hidden behind a bookshelf.
"Open it," Rambo ordered in a low voice.
Two skilled team members immediately stepped forward. They carefully worked around the safe's lock with a special acidic substance and precise drilling tools.
In less than five minutes, accompanied by a slight sound of corrosion and twisting metal, the safe's heavy iron door was silently opened.
Inside, there was no large amount of cash or gold, only several thick stacks of ledgers, a pile of land transfer contracts bearing the Union Pacific Railroad Company's seal, and... a cipher book specifically for sending and receiving telegrams.
Rambo's lips curved into a smile, "Take everything. Check carefully, and leave no trace of us."
It was four in the morning, just one hour after the raid began.
Rambo and his men, escorting a pale, gagged Thomas Durant, along with several large canvas bags filled with documents and ledgers, silently withdrew from the railroad office like ghosts merging into the night.
The streets were still deserted. Only the distant singing of drunkards from the tavern and a few solitary dog barks could be heard. It was as if nothing had happened.
Daniels and the team members responsible for the outer perimeter also receded like a tide.
The telegraph operator, terrified, was unbound, but he could only recall a few blurry dark figures and cold gun barrels, unable to say anything else.
When the first rays of dawn shone on the seemingly peaceful Union Pacific Railroad office building in Omaha Town, no one knew that the balance of power in this frontier town, and the vast web of interests it connected, had been completely torn open with a fatal breach in the silent storm of the previous night.
In the early morning of Omaha Town, when the employees of the Union Pacific Railroad Company's land office yawned and pushed open the unlocked oak door, they were met not by the usual stern gaze of Doctor Durant, but by an unsettling silence and a faint, strange chemical smell.
"The Doctor came in really early today," young clerk Billy mumbled, habitually walking towards the archives to retrieve the land deeds needed for the day's work.
However, when he saw the violently broken lock on the archive door and the wide-open, empty tin safe inside, the sleepiness instantly vanished from his face, replaced by a deathly pallor.
"Oh no, Ike, come look!" Billy's voice was distorted by fear.
The older accountant, Ike, ran over at the sound. When he saw the safe's opening, as if torn by a beast, and a few scattered, insignificant scraps of paper on the floor, his legs went weak, and he almost collapsed.
"The ledgers, the ledgers are all gone! And… and the codebook!" Ike's voice was tearful. "It's over. It's all over!"
Panic spread like a plague through the small office.
They rushed upstairs. Doctor Durant's office door was wide open, and the room was empty. The kerosene lamp on the desk had long since gone out, leaving only a puddle of congealed wax. A coffee cup lay overturned on the floor, its brown stain soaking into the expensive carpet. The drawers were pulled open, their contents ransacked, and there was a bullet hole on the desk.
"The Doctor… the Doctor is gone too!" Billy's teeth began to chatter. "Last night… he was clearly still working here."
"Quick! Go to the telegraph office!"
Ike forced himself to calm down; he was the highest-ranking person there.
"Immediately send a telegram to Mr. Crane in New York, tell him… tell him everything that has happened here."
…In New York, John Crane's office was bright with sunshine, a stark contrast to the gloom in Omaha.
He had just seen off several important bankers, and his mood was particularly pleasant due to a lucrative railway material supply contract.
He had even started to forget the bad news that had arrived from Omaha a few days prior.
Perhaps that fellow Durant was just making a mountain out of a molehill, and Cartwright had already settled things. After all, conflicts in the West came and went quickly.
Just as he was about to instruct his secretary to prepare lunch, his secretary, Benson, burst in, pale-faced, holding a freshly translated telegram.
"Sir," Benson's voice trembled with nervousness, "Omaha… Doctor Durant's office… something has happened."
Crane's heart sank abruptly, and an ominous premonition instantly seized him. He snatched the telegram, his gaze sweeping over the few brief lines of text.
"Office invaded… safe opened… all ledgers, documents, codebook stolen… Doctor Durant… missing…"
Crane felt as if his blood had instantly frozen. The telegram paper in his hand felt like a red-hot branding iron, so hot he almost dropped it.
Argyle.
It was him, it must be him!
That damned madman, not only did he butcher Cartwright's men with that terrifying weapon, but he even… he even directly sent people to break into the Union Pacific Railroad Company's office, kidnapped Durant, and stole all the secrets.
How dare he.
How dare he be so lawless.
Crane felt a wave of dizziness. He staggered back a few steps and slumped into his leather armchair. Cold sweat instantly drenched his shirt.
The ledgers, the codebook. He knew better than anyone what was recorded in those things. Not just Durant's personal unsavory dealings, but also many secrets within the Union Pacific Railroad Company concerning land speculation, bribing officials, and even… misappropriating congressional appropriations.
Once these things fell into Argyle's hands and were made public… Crane dared not think further. That would not only be his personal ruin, but the entire Union Pacific Railroad Company, and even some important figures on Capitol Hill, would be embroiled in an unprecedented scandal.
He had to immediately inform the Chairman of the Board, inform the real bigwigs.
No, that wouldn't work.
Crane shook his head violently. He couldn't say, at least not now.
Durant's use of Cartwright to deal with Argyle's men was something he had tacitly approved, even hinted at. The core members of the Board were unaware of this matter.
If he exposed the matter now, he would not only fail to get help but would instead become the first scapegoat pushed forward to bear responsibility.
Those high-ranking figures would never risk trouble for themselves to protect a contractor like him.
He had to find a way out for himself before things spiraled completely out of control.
But who could he turn to? Who could help him? And who could stand against that ruthless Argyle, who acted without scruple?
A young figure suddenly appeared in his mind.
John Pierpont Morgan.
That deep-thinking young banker, the one who had inadvertently offered him advice.
Had he… foreseen all of this?
Or even… was all of this part of his plan?
A deeper chill seized Crane's heart.
But now, he had no other choice. Morgan might have impure motives, but the Morgan family he represented had influence in Europe. Moreover, this matter was his idea; in a sense, he couldn't escape responsibility either.
Yes, go to Morgan, he must have a solution.
Crane suddenly stood up. He didn't even bother to straighten his tie and hair, disheveled from panic.
"Prepare the carriage!" he shouted to Benson. "Immediately, to Duncan, Sherman & Company."
He grabbed his hat and cane and stumbled out of the office, leaving Benson alone, facing the telegram that felt like a death warrant, and a room filled with coldness and panic.
On Wall Street, the sun was still bright, and carriages still flowed incessantly.
But for John Crane, this financial jungle where he had once thrived now felt like a dark forest, fraught with danger, ready to devour him at any moment.
He had to know what his next move should be as a chess piece out of control.