Chicago, near the Union Stock Yards Exchange, the headquarters of Metropolitan Trading Company.
Bill's office was simple and direct, with a huge map of the American West hanging on the wall, marked with dense ranch distributions and railway lines in red and blue pencils.
Bill, who had just returned from New York overnight, didn't even have time to change out of his coal-dust-stained overcoat before plunging into work.
His desk was piled high with deed records, business directories, and the latest telegrams concerning the Omaha area of Nebraska.
His bloodshot eyes, filled with anger and anxiety, were fixed on the vast area of the Platte River Valley on the map.
"Caleb!"
He roared towards the door, "Have you found the head of Union Pacific Railroad's land office in Omaha?"
Chief buyer Caleb hurried in, placing a handwritten note in front of Bill.
"Found him, sir. His name is Thomas Durant. A speculator who started as a doctor, reportedly with deep connections in Washington. He played a big part in Union Pacific getting such favorable land grants."
"A doctor?" Bill scoffed, "I'd say he's a butcher bleeding this prairie dry! Who are the people under him? Any leads on those so-called 'survey teams' and 'security companies'?"
"We have some clues, sir."
"Locals in Omaha all know that Doctor Durant has a 'special survey team' led by a fellow named Jack Slade. Officially, they're responsible for land surveying and security along the railway, but unofficially… it's said that anyone who obstructs the railway company's profits 'accidentally' encounters some trouble. They aren't many, about twenty to thirty men, but each one is a tough character who has licked blood on the frontier."
"Jack Slade…"
Bill repeated the name, as if chewing on a piece of bloody raw meat.
"How far is the last reported location of Tommy and his team from the Union Pacific's planned main line?"
"Less than twenty miles in a straight line, sir." Caleb pointed at the map, "Right within their land grant buffer zone."
Bill's fist slammed heavily on the desk. The pencil markings on the map jumped.
"F***! I knew it was these railroad bandits."
"We can't be entirely sure yet, sir." Caleb reminded him, "The local big ranch owners in the Platte River Valley also have motives. My people have heard that an old fellow named Ben Cartwright is the biggest landowner there, hot-tempered, and extremely xenophobic. He once publicly stated that he would never sell an inch of land to 'vampires from the East.' Some of the small ranch owners Tommy's team contacted this time are downstream from Cartwright's ranch."
"Cartwright…" Bill also wrote down this name, "How many men does he have? Does he have any dealings with Slade?"
"Cartwright's ranch employs about fifty cowboys, all tough men who can ride and shoot well. As for him and Slade…"
Caleb shook his head, "There's no direct evidence of collusion yet. But some say that last month in Omaha, Slade's men were seen drinking with Cartwright's foreman."
The clues pointed in two equally powerful and dangerous directions.
Bill felt as if he was on a pitch-black prairie, facing two lurking hungry wolves at once.
"Keep investigating!"
"Dig up everything on Slade and Cartwright. I want to know all their movements for the past month! Who they met, what they did. Also, send people to re-contact those small ranch owners Tommy's team spoke with, and indirectly ask if they noticed anything unusual!"
"Yes, sir."
...Meanwhile, on a westward-bound Union Pacific Railroad Company freight train. Twenty men, appearing to be pioneers, hunters, or ordinary travelers, were silently crammed into a hot and bumpy carriage.
These men were Miller's second team, commanded by Daniels, an experienced veteran from the Action Department with the codename "Grey Wolf."
Their weapons were cleverly hidden among their luggage and crates; each man looked no different from the ordinary passengers heading West to prospect for gold or seek new lives.
"Boss," a young team member codenamed Hawkeye asked in a low voice, looking out at the endless prairie scenery through a crack in the carriage, "Do we really have to take this damned train all the way to Omaha? This speed isn't much faster than walking."
"This is the safest and least conspicuous way."
Daniels' reply was brief; his gaze remained vigilant, scanning every unfamiliar face in the carriage.
"The Boss's order is to find people, not to fight. Until we figure out exactly what happened, we are just ordinary travelers."
"But what if… Tommy and his team really ran into trouble…"
"Then we'll deal with it when we get to Omaha." Daniels cut him off, "Until then, mind your eyes and your mouth. This isn't New York, kid. Here, saying the wrong thing or misjudging someone could leave you on this prairie forever to feed the wolves."
The train stopped at every small station made of tents and wooden planks.
Some people got on, some got off.
Daniels noticed that more and more people in the carriage were openly carrying weapons, and their eyes became increasingly rough. The conversation also shifted from initial crop harvests to complaints about Indian raids and land disputes.
At a small station, still a day's journey from Omaha, a special passenger boarded.
He was a well-dressed man with unusually sharp eyes. He was accompanied by two equally capable attendants, and upon boarding, they immediately occupied the best spot in a corner of the carriage, openly displaying the expensive Remington revolver at his waist.
"It's Slade's man."
Hawkeye whispered to Daniels; he recognized the brass badge pinned to the man's chest, representing the Union Pacific Railroad survey team.
Daniels nodded slightly, signaling him not to act rashly.
He simply leaned against the dirty carriage wall like an ordinary passenger, closing his eyes as if asleep. But his ears caught every word of the unwelcome guests' conversation.
"…The Boss ordered that those 'surveyors' from the East shouldn't leave the Platte River Valley alive… That old man Cartwright also agreed to 'clean up' those disobedient youngsters downstream…"
The fragmented conversation, like cold shards, pierced Daniels' ears.
His hand, under his bulky coat, silently tightened around the grip of the Colt revolver at his waist.
It seemed this mission would probably not be as simple as just "finding people," as the Boss initially envisioned.
The wind on the prairie already carried a strong scent of blood.
The Union Pacific Railroad freight train, like a weary steel serpent, finally exhaled its last puff of thick black smoke and wheezed to a stop at Omaha's dusty, makeshift platform.
This place was less a city and more a giant construction site.
Tents everywhere, makeshift wooden shacks, unfinished railway embankments, and air mixed with the smell of dirt, sweat, horse manure, and cheap whiskey, together formed the wild and rugged backdrop of this frontier town.
Daniels and his twenty Action Department members, disguised as various travelers, disembarked the train with the surging crowd.
They didn't linger, nor did they curiously survey this new world full of opportunities and dangers like other newcomers.
Instead, they split into four groups according to their pre-planned routes and quickly disappeared into Omaha's chaotic and dirty streets.
Daniels himself, along with "Hawkeye" and two other team members, walked directly to the only decent-looking two-story brick building in town, which was the Omaha Telegraph Office.
There was only one lazy duty officer in the telegraph office, dozing on the counter.
Daniels tapped the counter, "Hey... buddy, we'd like to check if there are any telegram messages addressed to the Metropolitan Trading Company in Chicago or a Mr. Tommy O'Donnell."
The duty officer rubbed his sleepy eyes and impatiently flipped through the register.
"None. No telegrams addressed to those two places in the past week."
"Then... have there been any telegrams received from the south bank of the Platte River?" Daniels pressed, "Any news of accidents or conflicts?"
"Oh, brother, that happens every day," the duty officer scoffed, "Either Indians stole a wagon, or some poor soul fell into the river. This is Nebraska, sir. It's only news if a few people *don't* die every day." He clearly didn't want to say more.
Daniels didn't press further. He left a dollar tip and the hotel address.
"If there's any news about Mr. O'Donnell or his team in the next few days, please notify me immediately, for a fee, buddy."
The duty officer's eyes lit up at the sight of the shiny silver coin, and he immediately put on an eager smile.
"Of course, sir, I'd be happy to assist you!"
Walking out of the telegraph office, Hawkeye's face showed disappointment. "Boss, it seems Tommy and his men really couldn't send any messages."
"As expected." Daniels' expression remained unchanged. "If their opponent is someone like Slade, they would never leave any traceable clues."
Their next destination was the town's sheriff's office.
They were greeted by a portly middle-aged man with a rusty star badge pinned to his chest. He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, sipping coffee and reading an old copy of The Herald.
"From Chicago? Looking for someone?"
After hearing Daniels' purpose, the sheriff put down the newspaper and scrutinized them.
"The south bank of the Platte River? That place isn't peaceful. Did your men bring guns?"
"Of course."
"Good then." The sheriff shrugged. "Perhaps they just got lost, or were 'invited' as guests by some Indian tribe. The prairie is vast, and every year dozens of rich folks like you, who come from the East to make a fortune, disappear without a trace."
"Hey, I said, we've already officially reported it," Daniels reminded him.
"I know, I know." The sheriff waved his hand impatiently. "I've already sent my deputy to keep an eye out. But you also have to understand, I only have two men under me, covering hundreds of square miles. If you don't hear from your men within ten days, I advise you to go back early."
His tone was full of perfunctory dismissal and disdain for the troubles of Easterners.
Daniels didn't argue with him and left with his team members.
"Shit, what a bunch of useless people," Hawkeye cursed in a low voice after they left the office.
Daniels' gaze turned cold. "They're just playing blind. Or rather, someone paid them to play blind."
He stopped, looking at the newly built, yet very imposing Union Pacific Railroad Land Office nearby. Several fine horses were tethered outside, and a few gunmen, who clearly looked formidable, were leaning against the porch pillars, smoking.
"It seems that to find answers here, we can't rely on the star badge on their chests."
...That night, at the largest bar in Omaha.
This was a gathering place for pioneers, cowboys, railway workers, and various desperadoes.
The air was filled with the scent of cheap whiskey, sweat, tobacco, and the wild, dangerous aura of the frontier. A pianist played off-key ragtime music, arguments and curses erupted from the card tables, and heavily made-up dancers weaved through the drunken crowd.
Daniels' four teams had dispersed throughout the bar, blending in. They didn't gather together but, like ordinary patrons, each occupied a table, quietly drinking beer, and perked up their ears, trying to catch every potentially relevant word in the air.
"...Did you hear? That old Cartwright, he swallowed up those small ranches downstream last week. Said they owed him for feed." A drunken cowboy loudly declared to his companion.
"Shh! Keep it down! Do you want to die?" His companion quickly covered his mouth. "Cartwright's men are over there!"
Daniels' gaze subtly flickered towards the bar. Indeed, several men in well-made leather jackets and new revolvers at their waists were sitting there, scanning the entire bar with wary eyes.
In another corner, near the entrance, Hawkeye noticed another group of people. They were wearing coarse canvas coats with railway company markings, sitting together and chatting in low voices.
One of them was the same subordinate of Slade that Daniels had seen on the train.
"...Those surveyors from the East were pretty tough. Too bad they ran into the Boss..."
One voice was very low, but Hawkeye, with his keen hearing, still caught it.
"Shut up! Drink your beer!"
Another, slightly older man, glared at him fiercely, cutting him off.
Hawkeye's heart sank. Perhaps he had heard crucial information. He didn't act rashly, simply finished the last sip of beer in his glass like a regular patron, then stood up and staggered out of the bar... At midnight, in an inconspicuous stable in the hotel's backyard, the four team leaders under Daniels met.
"Boss," reported the team leader responsible for gathering information on local ranchers, "Cartwright has indeed been annexing surrounding small ranches recently, using very aggressive tactics. And we found out that the biggest buyer of his ranch's beef is the Union Pacific Railroad Company's logistics contractor."
"What about Slade's side?" Daniels looked at Hawkeye.
Hawkeye recounted the conversation he had overheard in the bar, word for word.
Daniels' expression turned cold.
Although there was no direct evidence yet, all clues pointed to one thing.
The railway company and the local big ranch owner had likely teamed up to "clean up" Tommy and his unwelcome guests in an extremely brutal manner.
"Boss, what do we do now?"
Hawkeye asked, his voice tinged with barely suppressed anger. "Should we... go directly to Slade?"
"No," Daniels shook his head. "We only have twenty men, and we're on enemy territory. A head-on confrontation would only lead to us suffering the same fate as Tommy and his men."
He pondered for a moment, then made a decision.
"Immediately send telegrams to Mr. Bill in Chicago and Mr. Miller in New York."
"Tell them we've found the tracks of a wolf, but there's more than one wolf. We need more hunters."
He looked out at the dark, dangerous prairie, full of unknown perils.
"At the same time, from now on, everyone is on high alert. Put away your curiosity, and polish your guns."
"The wind in Omaha is about to change."
In the headquarters office of the Metropolitan Trading Company in Chicago, the air was thicker with gunpowder than a Union stockyard.
Bill slammed a telegram, just translated through secret channels, onto the table. The paper, filled with the preliminary investigation results regarding Jack Slade and Ben Cartwright, was almost crushed in his hand.
"I knew it! I knew it was these bastards!"
His roar made the windowpanes vibrate slightly.
"The railroad company and those local tyrants have teamed up. Tommy and the others... they must have been..."
Anger choked his voice.
Tommy O'Donnell, the young man who used to call him "Uncle Bill" and followed him around, was someone he had pulled out of the mud of the New York docks with his own hands.
He couldn't accept that the young man might have been left forever on the cold plains of Nebraska.
Caleb, the chief purchasing agent, stood by, his face equally grim.
"Sir, Daniels' telegram states very clearly that this is only a preliminary inference. We have no direct evidence. Furthermore, Slade and Cartwright are not opponents we can easily provoke. The Union Pacific Railroad... their influence reaches Washington."
"Evidence? I'll take men to Omaha right now and seize that Slade. I'll use pliers to pry the evidence from his mouth!" Bill suddenly stood up, reaching for the shotgun hanging on the wall.
"Calm down, Bill!" Caleb quickly stopped him.
"You can't go! If you go to Omaha now, Daniels said at the end of his telegram that he needs more hunters, not prey. This matter must first be reported to New York, and we must await the Boss's orders!"
"Felix..."
Bill stopped moving. His mind, clouded by anger, finally regained a trace of reason. He knew Caleb was right.
This wasn't a street brawl; their opponents were a massive railroad company and deeply entrenched local forces. Rushing in with just hot blood would be meaningless, except to die.
He slumped back into his chair, his burly frame seemingly shrinking a few inches instantly.
"Alright... send a telegram to New York. Tell the Boss about Daniels' findings."
...Meanwhile, in the president's office of Militech in Whitneyville, Connecticut. Miller looked at the encrypted telegram, which contained the same content, his brows tightly furrowed.
Unlike Bill's fury, his resolute face only showed a coldness like a blade about to be unsheathed.
"The railroad company colluding with local ranchers..." he muttered to himself, "Slade... Cartwright..."
He walked to the large map of America on the wall, his gaze falling on the vast region of Nebraska.
That was not just grassland, but a field of interest being fiercely contended for by capital and violence.
The disappearance of Tommy and his six Action Department members was no accident.
Without hesitation, he immediately picked up the operating handle of the internal telegram line connected to the New York headquarters. He needed to report this news immediately to the only person who could make the final decision... New York, Fifth Avenue mansion study.
Felix put down the final confirmation document for the Prussian cooperation agreement. Frost had just reported the contents of the encrypted telegrams from Chicago and Connecticut.
The study was quiet, with only the faint crackling of flames in the fireplace.
Felix leaned quietly back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously turning the family signet ring on his thumb.
He was thinking, weighing.
The land in Nebraska was a crucial link in his future empire's westward expansion strategy.
The ranches there would provide him with a continuous source of meat, freeing him from reliance on Chicago's slaughtering giants.
A deeper consideration was that the Platte River Valley was also a necessary route for the future transcontinental railroad.
Controlling the land here meant controlling a key node of America's future economic lifeline.
Therefore, he could not back down.
But his opponents were equally powerful.
Although the Union Pacific Railroad had only recently been established, it was backed by the most powerful figures on Capitol Hill and the most avaricious capital on Wall Street.
Local forces like Ben Cartwright represented the deeply entrenched, conservative power of the Western frontier, which rejected all outsiders.
Directly sending troops for revenge was the most foolish approach. Not only would it fail to find the truth, but it would also plunge him into an open war with two powerful enemies, potentially even inviting intervention from the Federal Government.
Frost looked at Felix's profound gaze and asked in a low voice, "Boss, do we need to adjust the plan in Nebraska?"
"No."
Felix shook his head, "The plan remains unchanged. Not only unchanged, but accelerated."
He stood up, walked to his desk, and picked up a blank sheet of paper.
"Telegram Miller back."
He began to dictate, "Daniels' judgment is accurate. There should be more than one enemy, and they are more cunning than we expected. Tell Daniels to immediately cease all active investigations. Go into a dormant state, only responsible for monitoring Slade and Cartwright's every move, collecting evidence, and ensuring his own safety."
A cold glint flashed in Felix's eyes, "Then, from the Shadow Unit, select ten of the most elite members, especially those skilled in reconnaissance and tracking. Also, select seventy people from the Action Department, making a total of one hundred people including those already there, to thoroughly investigate."
Frost's pen tip paused slightly.
One hundred people, this was already equivalent to the size of a full infantry company.
Felix continued, "This team will be commanded by Rambo of the Action Department."
"Have them disguise themselves as a private geological survey team. Publicly state that they are commissioned by 'Sainon Mining Company' to go to Nebraska to prospect for potential gold and silver mines."
"In addition to the necessary prospecting equipment, everyone must be equipped with our latest rifles and revolvers. Double the ammunition. Furthermore, allocate five vanguard 1863 gatling guns from the warehouse in Connecticut, disassemble them, disguise them as core components of drilling equipment, and transport them together."
Frost's heart skipped a beat; the Boss was getting serious.
"Tell Rambo that his mission in Nebraska has three parts."
"The primary mission is to find Tommy and his men. If they are alive, we need to see them; if they are dead, we need their bodies. If it's the latter, then the true culprits must be identified, and irrefutable evidence obtained."
"Secondly, protect all legitimate rights and interests of 'Sainon Mining Company' in that area. Any attempts to obstruct our exploration and land acquisition through violent means must be resolutely countered."
Felix walked to the window, looking at the distant western sky that symbolized infinite possibilities.
"If... I mean if, Slade or Cartwright are foolish enough to choose to provoke us, then let the plains of Nebraska experience, in advance, what industrial anger feels like."
He turned around and looked at Frost.
"Go handle it, Edward."
It was important to remember that this matter also involved other strategic arrangements, and it absolutely could not be easily let go.
South bank of the Platte River, a few miles outside Omaha, Nebraska.
Inside a small, somewhat dilapidated sawmill.
Dozens of brand new white canvas tents were pitched in a cleared area. A flag bearing the words "Sainon Geological Exploration Company" drooped limply from a makeshift flagpole.
This was the temporary camp for Rambo and the hundred "exploration team members" he brought with him.
Rambo, dressed in ordinary pioneer leather clothing, stood at the broken second-floor window of the sawmill, silently observing the distant, yellowing prairie in the cold autumn wind through a high-magnification, German-made telescope.
"Boss."
Daniels, code-named "Gray Wolf," appeared silently behind him. He, too, had changed into an inconspicuous hunter's outfit.
"How are things?" Rambo asked without turning his head.
Daniels reported, "The camp has been initially established. Three guard post have been set up on the periphery, and our people are working twenty-four-hour shifts."
"As for the core components of those five big machines, they have been disguised as core power units for new drilling equipment, as per your instructions, and are stored in the innermost warehouse of the sawmill, guarded personally by 'Stonewall' and his men."
"Stonewall" was Cole Jackson, the commander transferred from the First Task Force of the "Shadow Unit." He and nine other equally battle-hardened team members were the true core firepower of this team, and Rambo's last resort.
"What about the informants in town?" Rambo continued to ask.
Daniels replied, "They are all in position. 'Hawkeye' and his team have successfully integrated into several information hubs. The telegraph operator at the Omaha Telegraph Office, and that Fat Man deputy at the sheriff's office, have also received some 'greetings' from New York at the appropriate time. They promised to pay special attention to any news about missing teams or suspicious conflicts."
Rambo nodded. Money was the most effective key to unlock all secret passages in a border town.
"Any new developments from Slade and Cartwright?" This was the question he cared about most.
Daniels opened his small notepad upon hearing this. "Slade's men have been very quiet these past few days. They seem to have suspended all exploration activities on the south bank of the Platte River. My men saw Slade himself return by train yesterday afternoon to the Union Pacific Railroad's regional headquarters in North Platte. It seems there was an important meeting."
"What about Cartwright?"
"That old man is even more cunning."
Daniels' brows furrowed slightly. "His ranch is too large; our men can only observe from the periphery. We only know that he has indeed annexed several small ranches downstream recently, but the methods were very clean, all completed through legitimate debt mortgages or low-price acquisitions. There are no direct traces of violence."
"Clean?"
A cold arc appeared at the corner of Rambo's mouth.
"Prairie jackals always lick the blood from their mouths after hunting."
He put down the telescope and turned to look at his deputy.
"Daniels, we can't just wait here. Starting tomorrow, let our 'exploration team' truly get moving."
"The Boss's meaning is…"
"Divide into ten small groups."
"Each group of ten people, led by a veteran from the Action Department, equipped with necessary exploration tools, horses, and a week's supplies. Centered at the sawmill, conduct a fan-shaped, carpet search of the south bank of the Platte River."
"Outwardly, claim to be searching for gold mines or other valuable mineral deposits."
"But the true objective is to find any traces left by Tommy and his men, whether it's a camp site, abandoned items, unusual wheel tracks, or even… buried bodies."
"That's too dangerous, Boss!" Daniels immediately objected, "One hundred people spread out, the target is too large, and it's easy to be cut off and defeated! If Slade or Cartwright's men find out…"
"Then let them find out."
Rambo interrupted him, a cruel glint in his eyes.
"We are like a pack of strange wolves that have trespassed into someone else's territory. Hiding will only make the other party more reckless. We must show our fangs and let them know that we are not to be trifled with."
"But remember not to fight. If you encounter any provocation, try to maintain restraint, record it, and immediately retreat and report. Our primary goal is to find Tommy and the evidence."
"To find out who dared to touch the Boss's people."
...Early the next morning, ten fully equipped geological exploration teams, under the cover of morning fog, quietly left the sawmill camp, like ten combs, slowly and meticulously combing through the perilous prairie.
Rambo personally led one of the teams, advancing along the approximate direction from which Tommy O'Donnell had sent his last telegram.
In the team, besides eight veterans from the Action Department, there were also two members from the Shadow Unit: "Stonewall" Jackson, and the young man code-named "Hawkeye," who had Native American ancestry.
They did not ride horses and crack whips but led mules, carrying heavy packs, like true prospectors, walking slowly and observing extremely carefully.
Hawkeye squatted on a trampled patch of grass, picking up a bit of dry soil with his fingers. "Boss, there are wheel tracks here, very fresh, probably left about three weeks ago. They are from a four-wheeled wagon, more than one. The direction… is to the southwest."
Rambo walked over, carefully observing the marks.
"Can you tell who left them?"
Hawkeye shook his head. "The marks are too messy, as if there was a stop, or an argument. There are also some scattered hoof prints nearby; the riders were in a hurry."
They followed the wheel tracks for about five miles. In a low-lying thicket near the riverbank, Hawkeye stopped again.
His expression grew solemn as he pointed to a small patch of charred ashes deep within the thicket. "Look, here… someone made a fire. And the fire burned fiercely, for quite some time."
Rambo signaled the others to be on alert, while he and Hawkeye carefully pushed aside the thicket.
Buried beneath the ashes were not ordinary campfire remains.
Several twisted and deformed brass casings, half a charred leather holster, and… a small, blackened silver cufflink, still recognizable with a "W" family crest engraved on it.
Rambo's pupils suddenly contracted.
Those were cufflinks Felix Argyle personally customized for mid-level employees of the company, and Tommy O'Donnell also had a pair.
He slowly stood up, his gaze sweeping over this seemingly peaceful thicket, which nevertheless concealed the scent of death.
"Hawkeye, search here… very, very carefully again."
"See what else is buried beneath this land."
The seemingly peaceful thicket on the south bank of the Platte River had now become an investigation site shrouded in silent fury.
Rambo stood on the periphery, his eyes scanning the surroundings, alert to any potential threats.
Meanwhile, Hawkeye, along with two other Action Department veterans equally skilled in tracking and reconnaissance, meticulously searched the death-scented land, like experienced hounds, inch by inch.
"Boss," Hawkeye's voice was low. He crouched on a trampled patch of grass, pointing to some faint marks, "There are drag marks here. At least… three people were dragged away. The direction is towards the river."
Another team member, codenamed "Old Man," a veteran who had served as a combat engineer in the Mexican War, carefully dug near the charred ashes with a small entrenching tool.
"Found something."
He looked up, placing several shell casings of various shapes on a clean oilcloth.
"Two calibers. One is our own .44 Colt, the other… is for a .50 Spencer carbine. The railroad company's 'security' personnel are fond of using this type."
This discovery intensified the chill in the air.
This was not a simple skirmish, but a premeditated ambush.
"Keep digging," Rambo's voice was unperturbed.
The excavation continued for half an hour. Besides more shell casings and some burned, unidentifiable fabric fragments, no bodies were found.
Daniels walked up to Rambo, his face grim, "They took the people, or… threw them into the river. Boss, it looks like we need to expand our search area."
Rambo didn't answer immediately. His gaze fell on a patch of disturbed earth near the pile of ashes, pressed down by several stones.
He pointed there, "Hawkeye, see what's under that."
Hawkeye walked over, carefully using his bayonet to clear away the surface soil and stones. Soon, a dark object with a metallic sheen was exposed.
It was the remains of a pocket watch.
The brass casing had been blackened by fire, the watch face glass shattered, and the hands were permanently stopped at a blurred time.
But on the back of the pocket watch, an initial carved in cursive script was still clearly visible.
"T. OD."
Tommy O'Donnell.
Hawkeye handed the cold metal to Rambo.
Rambo took the pocket watch, his thumb caressing the familiar engraving.
He remembered that Tommy had bought this treasure last Christmas with the first "large sum" of money he had saved, and for it, he had even specifically come to Militech to ask Mr. Miller for advice on how to maintain it.
Slowly, he closed his hand, tightly clutching the metal that held the last trace of a young life.
"Boss…" Daniels' voice was a little dry.
Rambo gritted his teeth and whispered, "Keep looking. Find everyone. Not a single one less."
The search area expanded.
They followed the drag marks all the way to the bank of the Platte River. The river water was murky and cold in the late autumn wind, and the swift current was enough to wash away any secrets.
"There are hoof prints here, Boss," Hawkeye pointed to the muddy ground by the bank, "At least ten horses. They stopped here, then headed downstream along the riverbank."
"Downstream…" Rambo looked at the murky river water, a cold glint of Murderous intent flashing in his eyes.
Just then, another team member, responsible for perimeter security, rushed over.
"Boss, a group has been spotted five miles to the west. About twenty men on horseback, armed. They look like… Cartwright Ranch men!"
Rambo's gaze instantly sharpened.
"Have they spotted us?"
"Not yet, they should just be on a routine ranch patrol. But their direction… is heading towards us."
"Everyone, immediately clear all traces from the scene. Take everything you've found! Retreat to the woods in the river valley."
The team moved swiftly and silently.
Within minutes, the thicket that held the evidence of death reverted to its original desolate appearance, as if no one had ever been there.
Only the pile of ashes, not yet completely cooled, silently recounted everything that had happened shortly before… Half an hour later, deep within a dense grove of cottonwood trees in the Platte River Valley, Rambo and his men were temporarily concealed.
Daniels looked at the cowboys slowly moving along the riverbank in the distance, "Boss, could Cartwright's men be here to 'clean up' the scene?"
"Possibly."
Rambo observed the group with binoculars, "But it's more likely they're just on routine patrol. We can't be sure yet if they're directly involved with Tommy's situation."
He lowered the binoculars, "Have all our people pulled back?"
"Except for Hawkeye and his team, who are monitoring Omaha, the other nine teams have all stopped their search as per your orders and have converged here for concealment."
Rambo nodded, "I understand. We can't expose ourselves until we figure out the situation."
He took out the broken pocket watch engraved with "T. OD." from his pocket.
Handing the pocket watch to his second-in-command, "Daniels, immediately send two of our most reliable men, as fast as possible, to deliver this, and all our findings from today, back to Chicago to Mr. Bill. Tell the Boss that we've found the 'token.' The perpetrators are likely Slade's men, and Cartwright probably can't be absolved either. Request further instructions."
"Yes, Boss."
...That evening, Chicago.
When Bill saw the deformed pocket watch, his burly body trembled violently. He reached out with a trembling hand and took the cold metal.
He recognized it.
That brat had even brought this pocket watch to him, asking how to maintain it. Damn God, how would he, a former butcher, know how to handle such a thing?
At the time, the brat had even made fun of him, and in his embarrassment and anger, he had sent him to Militech to receive Action Department personnel to scout and gain experience.
He never expected that upon seeing this pocket watch again, he would never see that brat again.
The office was dead silent. Only Bill's suppressed, heavy breathing could be heard.
"Slade… Cartwright…" He squeezed these two names through gritted teeth, each word laced with a bloody taste.
Caleb stood by, looking at his Boss's bloodshot eyes, filled with worry.
Just then, the telegraph machine on the desk suddenly rang, an encrypted telegram from New York.
Caleb quickly deciphered the message and handed it to Bill.
The telegram was short, with only a few words.
"Evidence unclear, continue surveillance. Let the bullets fly on the prairie for a while longer."
Bill looked at the line of text, struggling greatly.
He understood Felix's meaning.
With the evidence unclear and the mastermind unknown, it was not yet time for revenge.
Now was the time to gather more evidence, wait for the opportune moment, and then… with a thunderous force, uproot the enemy.
He understood all this, but thinking of the young man who had lost his life because of him, his breathing became somewhat rapid.
But then he thought of the path he had taken and Felix's care for him.
Bill couldn't help but take several deep breaths, closing his eyes.
Then he opened his eyes and slowly and carefully placed the pocket watch into his chest pocket, pressing it tightly against his heart.
"Caleb, inform Rambo and his team that the Boss said to continue the in-depth investigation."
"Don't rush."
"The prey will always show its weakness."
Nebraska, on the south bank of the Platte River. The abandoned sawmill camp was no longer a temporary collection of tents; instead, it was replaced by a dozen sturdy wooden cabins built from newly felled logs.
A makeshift watchtower was erected on the sawmill's roof, where two team members took turns day and night, using binoculars to vigilantly monitor hundreds of square miles of open prairie.
Shallow defensive fortifications were dug around the camp, sandbags were piled up, and several key positions even cleverly concealed firing platforms that could quickly deploy the "core components of drilling equipment"—that is, the five vanguard 1863 gatling guns.
This no longer looked like a temporary exploration camp, but more like a small frontline fortress, with all its armaments cleverly hidden beneath the facade of daily operations.
Rambo stood on the temporarily erected watchtower, the cold autumn wind rustling a few strands of hair on his forehead.
His gaze swept across the horizon, scrutinizing every suspicious wisp of smoke or moving black dot.
From the moment they set foot on this land, they had entered the hunting grounds, both hunters and potentially prey.
"Boss."
Daniels climbed up the ladder, handing Rambo a newly compiled intelligence report.
"All ten exploration teams have departed according to their scheduled routes. They have strictly adhered to your orders, maintaining a low profile, only conducting surface sampling and route surveying, and avoiding direct contact with any local forces."
"What about Omaha?" Rambo took the report, asking without turning his head.
"Hawkeye and the others have sent back the latest news." Daniels's tone carried a hint of gravity, "Slade did return to the North Platte railway headquarters, but only stayed for a day before coming back. Moreover, he brought back more men, at least twenty, all of them gunmen who look formidable. They now control almost all major crossings and roads from Omaha to the south bank, and they are checking very strictly."
"It seems he's either blocking information, or… setting a trap." Rambo's voice was devoid of emotion.
"What about Cartwright?"
"That old man is even quieter."
"His cowboys have only intensified patrols along their ranch borders, showing no abnormalities. But our people noticed that last night, an unmarked carriage quietly drove into Cartwright's main house and didn't leave until late at night. The guards were very tight, and our people couldn't get close."
"Keep an eye on him."
"Whether it's Slade or Cartwright, they will reveal their flaws sooner or later."
He handed the binoculars to Daniels.
"Take over for a bit, I'm going to check on our 'engineers'."
...In the deepest part of the camp, in the temporary workshop converted from the original sawmill warehouse, the atmosphere was starkly different from the grimness outside.
Cole Jackson and his nine technical specialists from the "Shadow Unit" were gathered around a disassembled vanguard 1863 gatling gun, its complex internal structure exposed.
"The wind and sand here are too severe."
Jackson meticulously wiped tiny grains of sand from the gun's action parts with a kerosene-soaked cloth.
"Oil easily solidifies and becomes ineffective in this environment. We need a more cold-resistant, lower-viscosity alternative."
"How about whale oil?" suggested a team member code-named "Wrench" nearby, "I used to work on a whaling ship; that stuff doesn't freeze even at minus twenty degrees Celsius."
"We can try it." Jackson nodded, "Also, the feeding system. The Boss's design for the box magazine was perfect on the Washington firing range. But with the bumpy carriage transport and outdoor environment here, I'm worried about the spring tension. Perhaps… we could refer to Dr. Gatling's original gravity-fed hopper design? It's simpler in structure and less prone to getting jammed by sand and dust."
"But that would sacrifice continuous firing time." another team member raised a concern.
"What we need is reliability, not a firepower display." Jackson's answer was concise, "Here, one fatal jam could cost all of us our lives."
Rambo stood at the doorway, quietly listening to their discussion.
He didn't understand the complex mechanical principles, but he could see the almost obsessive pursuit of weapon performance in the eyes of these "engineers." These ten men were different from the ninety Action Department veterans he brought.
They were the soul of this team, the true confidence that allowed the Boss to bare his fangs on this lawless prairie… Three days later, an "exploration team" led personally by Rambo was working in a relatively secluded river valley area on the south bank of the Platte River.
They led mules, carrying geological hammers and sample bags, looking no different from prospectors dreaming of striking it rich overnight.
Hawkeye was lying on a high ground, vigilantly observing the surroundings with binoculars. Suddenly, his gaze sharpened.
He lowered his voice, sending a signal through a vibration in his throat, "Boss, dust cloud about two miles southeast. A team of men on horseback is coming, at least fifteen. By their attire… they look like Cartwright's cowboys."
Rambo showed no sign of panic. He made a discreet gesture to the team members who were pretending to collect water samples and rocks by the river.
Ten men quickly and silently used the bushes and rocks along the riverbank to set up a temporary defensive position. Rifle safeties were disengaged, and rounds were chambered.
The team of cowboys had clearly spotted them too. The sound of hooves grew closer, eventually stopping at the entrance to the river valley.
Leading them was a man with a full beard, two large Colt Navy revolvers tucked into his waistband, his eyes haughtily sizing up Rambo's group of "uninvited guests."
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
The bearded man reined in his horse, asking loudly, his hand always on his gun hilt.
Rambo stood up from behind the cover, a simple and slightly nervous smile on his face, like an ordinary, startled prospector.
"We… we're from the Seinen Geological Survey Company, sir."
He raised the geological hammer in his hand, indicating he had no hostile intentions, "From the East, heard there might be… gold nearby."
"Gold?"
The bearded man and the cowboys behind him erupted in laughter.
"There's only cow dung and rattlesnakes here, Easterner! This land belongs to Mr. Cartwright. You'd best pack up your useless trinkets and go back where you came from."
"We're just… just looking, sir." Rambo continued to play the meek role, "We have exploration permits issued by the Federal Government…"
"Federal Government?" The bearded man's face darkened.
"Here, Mr. Cartwright's word is law! I'm giving you one last warning, leave immediately! Otherwise…"
He didn't finish his sentence, but the implied threat was clear.
Rambo glanced at the gun on the man's hip, then at the equally eager cowboys behind him.
The other party seemed to be just making a routine expulsion and deterrence, with no immediate intention of taking action.
Now was not the time to show their true colors.
"Alright, alright, sir. We'll go now, we'll go now."
He signaled his team members to pack up their "tools" and lead the mules, making it look like they were preparing to leave.
Just as they turned to leave the river valley, the bearded man's gaze unintentionally swept over the spot at Rambo's feet, where Hawkeye had just dug, leaving fresh soil marks.
He seemed to remember something, and his expression subtly changed.
"Wait!" he suddenly shouted.
Rambo's heart sank.
"What were you… digging there just now?" The bearded man's voice became cold and full of suspicion.
Rambo's mind raced; he knew any explanation might arouse deeper suspicion from the other party.
He slowly turned around, his face still bearing that simple smile, but in his deep-set eyes, there was no longer any warmth.
"Nothing, sir."
He said softly, his right hand casually moving closer to the revolver disguised in his exploration tool bag at his waist.
"Just… buried a few prairie wolves that were disturbing our sleep."
The wind of the Platte River Valley, carrying the chill of late autumn, whistled through the bushes along the riverbank.
Rambo's honest and slightly nervous smile hadn't changed, but his deep-set eyes, like quenched steel, instantly became cold and hard.
The words about burying a few prairie wolves floated lightly in the air, yet carried a chilling sensation that made one's spine tingle.
The bearded cowboy leading the group, the foreman of Cartwright Ranch named Buck Stone, had clearly dealt with "trouble" in this lawless land more than once.
He narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze sweeping back and forth over Rambo and the "prospectors" behind him, who appeared scattered but had in fact already taken advantageous positions.
He also noticed the bulging tool bags at their waists, their calm yet unusually vigilant eyes, and, even more, sensed a dangerous aura emanating from these men that was distinctly different from ordinary prospectors.
"Prairie wolves?"
Buck Stone scoffed, trying to mask a fleeting unease with mockery.
"I didn't know the wolves around here needed shovels to be buried. You Easterners have some peculiar habits."
His hand remained on the grip of his gun at his waist, his thumb gently caressing the cold hammer. The dozen cowboys behind him also instinctively tightened their reins, their lassos or rifles pointed in an unfriendly direction.
"The wolves here are a bit different."
Rambo's smile remained, but his tone grew several degrees colder.
"They like to move in packs, and they like to work stealthily at night. Sometimes, they even drag things that don't belong to them back to their dens to hide."
He slowly took a step forward, a seemingly casual movement that made Buck Stone and the cowboys behind him instinctively tense up.
"So, we have to use some… special methods to make them quiet."
"What do you mean by that?"
Buck Stone's voice deepened; he felt as if he were talking to a venomous snake.
"Nothing, partner." Rambo shrugged, still maintaining his harmless demeanor, "Just a reminder. This prairie is vast enough for us outsiders to find a few rocks. And it's also vast enough… to bury some secrets that shouldn't be discovered."
He glanced at the gun on Buck Stone's hip. "You should know, we just want to quietly finish our work and then leave. We don't want trouble, but we also… don't fear trouble."
This statement was almost a naked threat.
Buck Stone's face became extremely grim. Having run rampant in this land for over a decade, it was the first time he had encountered an "Easterner" who dared to speak to him in such a tone.
He wanted to draw his gun immediately.
But his battle-hardened instincts were screaming warnings at him.
The cold killing intent emanating from this seemingly ordinary middle-aged man was something he had only felt from the most ruthless battlefield veterans.
Moreover, although there were only ten of them, their positions were too advantageous. If a fight broke out, his side wouldn't gain any advantage, and might even pay a heavy price.
It wasn't worth it for a few insignificant 'prospectors'.
"Hmph!"
Buck Stone ultimately suppressed his anger, glaring fiercely at Rambo.
"I don't care what you've buried here, Mr. Cartwright's land doesn't welcome you. I'm giving you time to pack up and get out! If I still see you here this time tomorrow, don't blame my men if their guns do the talking."
With that, he didn't linger, abruptly pulling on his horse's reins and galloping downriver along the bank with his men, without looking back, kicking up a spray of mud.
Watching the group disappear around the bend of the river valley, Daniels finally breathed a sigh of relief and walked over to Rambo.
"Boss, did you scare them off?"
"Scared them off temporarily."
Rambo's smile vanished, replaced by a cold solemnity.
"But he also saw things we didn't want him to see; we've been exposed."
He glanced at the ashes that had been re-covered.
"That man isn't a fool; he'll definitely report to Cartwright when he gets back. Combining the time and location of Tommy's disappearance, he might soon connect us to that incident."
"So what do we do now? Do we stay here?"
"No." Rambo shook his head. "It's no longer safe here. Immediately notify all teams to change the original plan. Abandon the grid search; everyone is to secretly gather at the sawmill camp immediately."
"Since the jackals have smelled blood, the hunter should return to the trap and wait for them to come to him."
...That night, the main house of Cartwright Ranch was brightly lit.
A roaring fire burned in the huge fireplace, and the walls were adorned with large elk head specimens and a few crossed antique hunting rifles.
Ben Cartwright, the white-haired old rancher, sat in a large leather armchair, listening to Buck Stone's report.
"...They claim to be from the Sayen Geological Survey Company, from the East." Buck Stone's voice held a hint of uncertainty. "They look like ordinary prospectors, but it feels… off. Especially the leader, his way of speaking just feels strange."
"They were digging by the river?"
Cartwright's brow furrowed, his wrinkled face betraying no expression.
"Yes, sir."
"I asked them what they were digging for, and they said they buried a few wolves. The devil believes that! There are no wolves in that area. And… that location is too close to where Slade's men 'dealt with' those Easterners last month."
Cartwright silently picked up the whiskey on the table and took a sip.
"Any news from Slade?" he asked.
Buck thought for a moment. "I heard he came back this afternoon, and he brought more men. After returning, he went straight to the Union Pacific Land Office and hasn't come out since."
Cartwright's fingers tapped lightly on the smooth wall of his glass.
He was thinking.
The sudden appearance of the prospectors… that sensitive location… Slade's unusual actions… All of this connected, making him smell a hint of danger.
After some thought, he said, "Buck, first thing tomorrow morning, you personally take fifty men back to the river valley."
A ruthless glint flashed in his eyes as he continued, "Be more thorough this time. See what those prospectors actually buried… or what they're trying to find."
"If they're still there…"
"Then let them also become things that need to be buried."