In the main house of Cartwright Ranch, Nebraska.
The flames in the fireplace licked at the thick oak logs, crackling and casting a warm glow on the grim animal head trophies on the walls, yet they could not dispel the doubts in the homeowner's heart.
Ben Cartwright, the old rancher who ruled tens of thousands of acres of land south of the Platte River Valley, sat alone in a large cowhide sofa.
On the table in front of him was an untouched glass of whiskey, and the cigar between his fingers had long gone out, emitting a bitter, cold smoke.
The news Buck Stone brought back yesterday was like a thorn in his flesh, making him restless.
The sudden appearance of those Prospectors, that sensitive spot in the valley... all of it reeked of something unusual.
Especially their location, too close to where Slade's men had cleared out those people last month.
Coincidence? Cartwright never believed in coincidences.
On this prairie where the strong prey on the weak, every coincidence could hide a fatal trap.
He had originally thought that the disappearance of a few easterners was just a silent warning, a small interlude where the railroad company and he teamed up to maintain local order. As long as the bodies were disposed of cleanly, the matter would vanish without a trace, like dust scattered by the wind.
But the appearance of this new group of Prospectors made him sniff out a hint of danger. Were they really here to look for gold? Or... were they after the secrets buried underground?
Cartwright stood up in annoyance, pacing back and forth on the thick carpet.
He felt as if he had been drawn into a larger vortex, and Thomas, the railroad company representative who had always acted like a generous partner, didn't seem to have told him the whole truth.
No, he had to get to the bottom of it.
He abruptly rang the brass bell on the table.
"Saddle the horses," he instructed the butler who came in at the sound, "I'm going to Omaha."
...In the new land office of the Union Pacific Railroad Company in Omaha.
Unlike the chaos and mud elsewhere in town, here there were polished wooden floors, exquisite railroad planning maps hanging on the walls, and the air was filled with the scent of fine cigars and money.
Thomas, nominally a doctor but in reality the spokesman for the railroad magnate, sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, leisurely perusing a telegram from Washington.
Suddenly, the door was pushed open, and Ben Cartwright walked in, wrapped in a chill, not even bothering with the secretary at the door trying to stop him.
"Doctor Thomas," Cartwright's voice held suppressed anger, "I think, perhaps we need to talk."
Thomas looked up, saw that it was this important local "ally," and immediately plastered on a professional smile. "Oh dear, it's Mister Cartwright. What brings you here? Please, have a seat. Someone, bring our best coffee."
"No need."
Cartwright waved his hand; he didn't sit down, but stood in front of the desk, looking down at the other man.
"My men encountered a group of Prospectors claiming to be from the east yesterday, south of the valley. Their location... was very strange."
Thomas's smile faltered slightly, but quickly returned to normal.
"Prospectors? That's quite normal, Mister Cartwright. Ever since Congress approved the railroad bill, this land has been like a giant magnet, attracting all sorts of speculators. They all dream of getting rich overnight here."
"Is that so?" Cartwright's gaze was fixed on Thomas's eyes. "But this group of 'Prospectors' is different. There are quite a few of them, well-equipped, and... they seem more interested in the stones buried underground than the gold on the surface."
The smile finally vanished from Thomas's face. He put down the telegram he was holding and leaned forward slightly.
"Mister Cartwright, what exactly are you trying to say?"
"Hmph... I want to ask, are you hiding something from me about those eastern land dealers who disappeared last month?"
"Hiding something from you? Wow..." Thomas let out a feigned laugh of surprise. "My friend, look at what you're saying? Wasn't that matter concluded long ago? They were very unfortunate, perhaps they met with an accident while crossing the river, or... angered an Indian tribe. Dangers are everywhere on the prairie, aren't they?"
"Accident?" A sharp glint flashed in Cartwright's eyes. "Then why did your precious subordinate, Jack Slade, suddenly bring back so many gunmen yesterday? And why has security been tightened in town? What are you afraid of?"
Thomas's face darkened, clearly annoyed. "Slade is just doing his duty, protecting the Union Pacific Railroad Company's property and personnel. Indian activity has been frequent lately. As for the new hands, it's just a normal rotation."
"Is that so?" Cartwright sneered. "My men heard a different story in the saloon. Slade's men were bragging that those eastern surveyors... were handled very cleanly by them."
Thomas's pupils contracted sharply, but he quickly covered it up.
"You believe drunken talk in a saloon? Mister Cartwright, you should know better than I that those Cowboys will brag about anything for a few free whiskeys."
"Perhaps."
Cartwright didn't press further; he knew the other party would never admit it. This deepened his doubts. He felt like a pawn, pushed into a dangerous position by this doctor from the east and the massive Union Pacific Railroad Company behind him.
After taking a deep breath, he asked, "Let's get back to the current problem, Thomas. Now there's a new group of Prospectors, skulking around on my land. I don't care who sent them, and I don't care what they're looking for. Before dawn tomorrow, my men will go and clear them out. This matter has nothing to do with you, or your Union Pacific Railroad Company. Understand?"
This was a warning, and also a test.
A barely perceptible cold light flashed in Thomas's eyes, but a smile reappeared on his face.
"Oh, of course... of course, Mister Cartwright. Your territory is naturally yours to command. We, the Union Pacific Railroad Company, always respect local order and traditions."
He slowly stood up and walked to Cartwright's side, patting his shoulder warmly.
"However, as a friend, I must remind you. These are extraordinary times, and the railroad construction is at a critical stage. Any... unnecessary trouble, could attract attention from Washington. At that point, it wouldn't be good for any of us."
"So," his voice dropped even lower, "if you need to clean up, make sure it's a thorough cleanup, and don't leave any loose ends."
Cartwright looked at Thomas's hypocritical smile, and his last shred of hope vanished. He understood; the other party not only knew the origin of that group of Prospectors but might even be eager for him to deal with them, so the Union Pacific Railroad Company could remain uninvolved.
He felt like a fool who had been used.
"Hmph, do I need you to tell me how to do things?" Cartwright threw out this remark, no longer looking at Thomas, and turned to stride out of the office... As Cartwright's figure disappeared at the doorway, the smile on Thomas's face instantly vanished, replaced by a cold calculation.
He walked to the window, watching Cartwright mount his horse and gallop away with his men, disappearing into the dust at the end of the street.
Then he picked up the internal telegraph line's handset on the desk and whispered into the microphone, "Get me North Platte, find Slade."
A moment later, the line connected.
"It's me," Thomas's voice was cold. "That old man Cartwright is getting suspicious. But it doesn't matter, I've got him under control. He'll personally take his men to deal with those new flies in the valley tomorrow."
Slade's hoarse voice came from the other end of the line: "Do you need our men to help?"
Thomas shook his head, not thinking that the other party couldn't see, "No, let them bite each other. We just need to watch from the side, making sure... no one survives to carry the message out."
He paused, then added, "We've been instructed from above to stop Cenon Mining Company's people from gaining a foothold in the Platte River Valley, at all costs. That Argyle... he's reaching too far."
Hanging up the phone, Thomas sat back down behind his imposing mahogany desk. He looked out the window at the land full of violence and opportunity, a cold smile appearing on his face.
Tomorrow, the waters of the Platte River would likely be stained red again.
But what did that matter? As long as the Union Pacific Railroad's absolute interests in this land could be preserved, sacrificing a few insignificant pawns was nothing.
On the south bank of the Platte River valley, Buck Stone tightened his heavy sheepskin coat, the white mist from his breath condensing in the air.
Behind him, fifty selected Cowboys silently reined in their horses, their cold gun barrels reflecting a metallic sheen in the morning light.
Yesterday afternoon, after Ben Cartwright returned from Omaha, his face had been grim. He locked himself in his study, drinking for half the night, then before dawn, he called Buck over and told him to take his men to the valley to 'clean up' those people, and to do it cleanly.
Buck Stone felt a sense of unease.
The leader of the Prospectors yesterday, with his calm yet wolf-like cold eyes, had left a deep impression on him. They did not seem like docile sheep.
But a Boss's order was an order. On this land, Mr. Cartwright's words carried far more weight than the fat Sheriff's badge in Omaha.
"Stay alert!" Buck roared at his men. "Spread out in pairs and search the bushes on both sides of the riverbank thoroughly. Especially the places where those guys camped yesterday. Don't miss any disturbed soil or unusual tracks!"
The fifty Cowboys quickly fanned out, like a spread net, and slowly began to search the sensitive area. Hooves trod on the frosty grass, making faint sounds.
However, half an hour passed, and they found nothing except a few deliberately concealed campfire ashes, which still showed signs of recent human presence.
The group of Prospectors from yesterday, along with their mules and tools, seemed to have been blown away by the prairie's morning breeze, vanishing without a trace.
"Boss," a Cowboy responsible for searching the downstream riverbank rode back to report, "Nothing found five miles downstream. Only some... very strange wagon tracks, like from some heavy carriage, heading east."
"East?"
Buck frowned. East was the direction of Omaha, but further on, there was a sparsely populated hilly area, where only an old, long-abandoned sawmill stood.
"What are they doing there?" Buck muttered to himself.
Just then, Jim, another experienced old Cowboy, also galloped back, a look of disbelief on his face.
Jim's voice was a bit hoarse, "Buck, you'd better go see for yourself."
Buck followed Jim, riding about a mile upstream. At a relatively secluded bend in the river, Jim reined in his horse.
Jim pointed across the river, to a hillside near the cliff covered by a dense pine forest, "Look there."
Buck raised his binoculars.
At first, he saw nothing but the usual rocks and trees. But as his eyes adjusted to the shadows of the woodland, his heart gave a sudden leap.
At the edge of the pine forest, several faint sentry posts were visible. And several figures, dressed in dark clothes that blended with the environment, were lurking motionless, their long-barreled rifles, with their dark muzzles, aimed in every direction of the river valley.
"Oh, God..."
Buck lowered his binoculars, feeling a chill run down his spine.
"They... they didn't leave, they just moved to a different spot to watch us."
"More than that," Jim's voice was even lower, "Look further east, towards that old sawmill."
Buck raised his binoculars again, turning the lens towards the eastern hills. This time, he looked more carefully.
About three or four miles away, the outline of the abandoned sawmill was vaguely visible. But unlike his memory, there seemed to be more things around the sawmill.
Some neatly arranged... tents? No, they were wooden cabins! At least a dozen of them! And, on the highest roof of the sawmill, there seemed to be a watchtower erected?
Buck's heart sank completely.
A dozen wooden cabins, a watchtower, plus those professional sentries across the river... this was definitely not something a group of ordinary Prospectors could pull off.
This looked more like a well-trained army camp!
"How many of them are there?" Buck's voice trembled slightly.
"I don't know," Jim shook his head, "But judging by the size of the camp, at least a hundred."
A hundred well-equipped, secretive people, who were clearly likely to be hostile to his side.
Buck Stone felt as if he had stepped into an ice hole. He finally understood where the cold confidence in the leader's eyes yesterday had come from.
Mr. Cartwright told him to clean them up?
This was like telling him to lead fifty sheep to provoke a hundred armed-to-the-teeth hungry wolves!
No, he had to report this immediately; this was far beyond his capabilities.
"Retreat!"
Buck suddenly pulled on his horse's reins, not even bothering to search the valley further. "Everyone, follow me back to the ranch immediately! Quickly!"
The fifty Cowboys, who had arrived with such momentum, now turned their horses in a panic, like a startled herd of deer, galloping back along the way they came, leaving the valley that hid a deadly secret, and the cold gazes from across the river, far behind them...
From the watchtower of the abandoned sawmill, Hawkeye lowered his binoculars, a cold smile playing on his lips.
"Boss," he said to Rambo beside him, "Cartwright's men came, took a look around, and then ran off. Like a bunch of scared rabbits."
Rambo did not respond. He just quietly watched the dust of the Cowboy troop disappear over the horizon.
"Pass the word. From now on, the camp is on Level Two alert. All outbound teams are to suspend prospecting and conceal themselves in place, awaiting orders. No one is to initiate contact with local forces without my command."
He knew that Cartwright would never let it go. What he saw today would only make him more uneasy, and more frantic.
A storm was quietly brewing on this seemingly calm prairie.
He walked to the other side of the watchtower, his gaze turning eastward, towards Omaha.
"Any news from Daniels?" he asked.
"Not yet, Boss," Hawkeye replied, "The telegraph office and the Sheriff's office are quiet. Slade's men also seem to have only increased patrols in town, with no signs of moving towards us."
Rambo was somewhat silent; this calm before the storm made him uncomfortable.
What were Slade and Cartwright, these two jackals of the prairie, truly brewing?
Inside the main house of Cartwright Ranch in Nebraska.
The fire in the fireplace cast flickering light and shadow on Buck Stone's face, cracked by the cold winds of the prairie.
He had just finished his report about the surprisingly large camp at the abandoned sawmill, the cold muzzles of guns hidden in the woods across the river, and the more than one hundred Prospectors who clearly meant no good.
Ben Cartwright sat opposite him in a huge cowhide sofa, motionless, like a silent stone statue.
The almost untouched glass of whiskey in his hand had condensation running down its side, slipping past his rough fingers. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace and Buck Stone's slightly hurried breathing.
"More than a hundred men... watchtowers... and sentries across the river..."
Cartwright finally spoke, his voice hoarse as two stones grinding together, every syllable raspy.
"Buck, are you sure you didn't see wrong?"
"Sir, I swear to God," Buck Stone's voice carried a hint of lingering fear.
"I saw it clearly with your British-made telescope. Those men moved uniformly, were well-equipped, and even dug... what looked like fortifications around the camp's perimeter. This is definitely not an ordinary prospecting team, sir. They are more like an army."
"An army..."
Cartwright chewed on the word, and deep suspicion and a sense of being fooled surfaced in his sharp, hawk-like eyes. He recalled Thomas Durant's hypocritical smile in Omaha yesterday afternoon, and his hint about clearing out the flies.
Flies? More than a hundred heavily armed flies building a fortress right under his nose?
That bastard Durant, he definitely knew these people were not simple. What did he take him for?
A fool to test the enemy's firepower, or a pawn to take bullets for him?
Cartwright suddenly stood up, slamming the whiskey glass in his hand onto the stone slab in front of the fireplace, sending amber liquid and glass shards flying.
"Those railroad swindlers, sons of bitches!" he growled, his wrinkled face flushed crimson with anger, "They're playing me for an idiot!"
Buck Stone lowered his head, not daring to speak. To be honest, he had never seen his Boss so agitated.
Cartwright paced back and forth in the room, like an old wolf trapped in a cage. His many years of frontier experience told him that things had spiraled far beyond control.
The appearance of the mysterious Prospectors was no accident, and their purpose was certainly not just a few rocks.
It was very likely they were after the easterners who disappeared last month, or even... Avengers sent by the forces behind them.
What now? Retreat? Pretend he saw nothing?
Impossible.
Buck had already exposed his tracks; the other side must have known about his suspicions. To withdraw now would only make them think he was weak and easily bullied, leading them to more brazenly dig up the secrets that should have remained buried forever in this land. He would die a terrible death then.
But to confront them directly? They had over a hundred men, unknown equipment, were clearly well-trained, and held advantageous terrain. Although he had several hundred Cowboys under him, most were good at herding, and not many had truly seen battle or shed blood.
A rash attack had little chance of success, and even if by some luck they won, it would be a Pyrrhic victory. And once things escalated, alarming the federal troops in Omaha, or even Washington... Cold sweat beaded on Cartwright's forehead. He felt as if he stood on a cliff edge; one step forward was an abyss, and one step back... equally led nowhere.
He had to act decisively!
He suddenly stopped, a ruthless glint, belonging to a powerful figure, flashing in his eyes. Since he had been pushed into a corner, he could only solve the problem with the oldest rule of the prairie: crush all threats with absolute force!
"Buck." He turned around, his voice having regained its usual coldness and resolve.
"Yes, sir."
"Gather the men immediately!"
"Call all the men on the Ranch who can carry a gun, including those patrolling the border and those on leave. Tell them, there's a fat sheep delivered to our doorstep. After this job, everyone will get double pay this winter!"
"Sir... are you saying..." Buck Stone's heart skipped a beat.
"That's right!" Cartwright's eyes gleamed with a wild intensity, "Three hundred men! Before dawn tomorrow, I want three hundred guns to surround that damned sawmill! Like a buffalo hunt. I want those eastern bastards to know who is the master of this prairie."
"But sir," Buck hesitated, "They have over a hundred men, and..."
"What if they have over a hundred men?" Cartwright cut him off, a grim smile on his face, "This is Nebraska, this is my territory! We have three hundred men, we know the terrain, and we are fighting to defend our home. Even if we have to overwhelm them with numbers, we will bury them in that river valley."
"Remember, Buck," his voice dropped, like a venomous snake hissing, "Leave no one alive. Burn everything, including that damned sawmill, to ashes. Let the waters of the Platte River wash away all traces."
Buck Stone shivered, looking at the undeniable madness in his Boss's eyes. But he still nodded heavily. "Yes, sir, I'll go at once!"
Watching Buck's hurried departure, the madness on Cartwright's face gradually faded, replaced by extreme exhaustion and a kind of... fear.
He knew this was a huge gamble. If he won, he might still live. If he lost... He walked to his desk, took out a document from a locked drawer, one that had been drafted long ago but which he had never brought himself to sign. It was a letter of intent to transfer all the land on the south bank of the Platte River to the Union Pacific Railroad Company at a relatively low price.
He couldn't help but give a self-deprecating laugh, it must be because of this, right?
But now he had no choice.
He picked up the pen and signed his name on the document.
Then he took out another sheet of paper and began writing a letter to his sister, who was far away in Europe.
Cartwright knew very well that no matter the outcome of tomorrow's hunt, this land he had managed for most of his life was no longer safe.
It was time... to find a way out for himself.
He put the signed land intent letter and the letter to his sister into an envelope and sealed it with wax.
"Someone." he called out.
The butler walked in.
Cartwright handed him the envelope, his voice hoarse, "Have the most reliable person deliver this letter to Doctor Durant in Omaha immediately."
"Tell him, no matter what happens after tomorrow, I hope he keeps his promise."
The sun had not yet fully climbed above the horizon, and the pale golden light struggled to penetrate the thin mist hanging over the Platte River Valley, painting the withered yellow prairie with an ethereal hue.
However, in the vast courtyard of Cartwright Ranch, there was no hint of poetry at this moment, only a suffocating tension.
Over three hundred Cowboys and ranch workers were gathered there, their horses neighing restlessly, exhaling white puffs of breath.
Most of them still bore the fatigue of a hangover on their faces, but their eyes gleamed with a mixture of greed, excitement, and a hint of imperceptible fear.
Buck Stone stood on the steps in front of the main house, his weathered face devoid of expression, save for a flicker of barely concealed anxiety deep in his eyes.
"Listen up, everyone."
Buck's voice cut through the murmuring of the crowd and the neighing of the horses.
"The Boss said that those Prospectors from the East in the valley have occupied places they shouldn't, and seen things they shouldn't. Today, we're going to 'invite' them out."
A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd; they all understood what "invite" meant.
"The target is that abandoned sawmill."
Buck unfolded a crude, hand-drawn map. "We'll encircle them from three directions. Jim, you take a hundred men and go around the southern ridge to block the mountain path they might use to escape. Pete, you take a hundred men and advance upstream along the riverbank to draw their attention from the front."
"The rest of you, follow me." Buck's gaze turned fierce. "We'll approach from the eastern hills, where the terrain is highest, directly overlooking the entire sawmill. Once Jim and Pete's men are in position, we'll give them a surprise."
"Remember the Boss's words." He raised his voice. "Deal with them quickly, leave no one alive. Burn everything clean. After this job, your families will all have new cotton-padded jackets and hot milk this winter."
The crowd erupted in excited shouts once more. Double pay, coupled with their hatred for these outsiders encroaching on their territory, was enough to make them forget the potential danger.
"Move out." Buck waved his hand.
Over three hundred riders, like three gray torrents, moved silently under the cover of the morning mist, converging on the abandoned sawmill...
In Omaha, inside the Union Pacific Railroad Company's land office.
Dr. Thomas Durant was leisurely enjoying his breakfast: a premium steak from Chicago and a steaming cup of Brazilian coffee.
Last night, he had received the signed land intention letter sent by Cartwright's man, as well as another letter addressed to his sister.
Everything was under his control, even smoother than he had anticipated. That old man, as expected, had been pushed to a dead end and, foolishly, chose the most direct and easiest way to leave evidence.
Truly, a Western idiot whose mind only contained violence, even as a great landlord, he was still a big idiot.
"Sir."
His secretary walked in and placed a newly arrived telegram on the table. "It's from Mr. Slade."
Durant wiped his mouth with a napkin and picked up the telegram. "The fish are in the net, tightening now. Do you require assistance with cleanup?"
Durant smiled and picked up the internal telegraph line operating handle on the table.
"Connect me to Slade."
Moments later, the line connected.
"It's me."
Durant's voice carried a lazy, cat-and-mouse tone. "That old man Cartwright has already made his move. Over three hundred men, they set out before dawn. Enough to crush those flies."
Slade's hoarse voice came from the other end of the line. "Do you need our men to go over?"
"No, let them bite each other. If they kill each other, all the better. Even if they don't, it's enough to stir up the waters. Remember, our people must absolutely not appear at the scene. Ensure that the name of the Union Pacific Railroad has nothing to do with this conflict."
"However," his tone shifted, becoming cold, "still have your men keep a close watch on the periphery. Ensure that no one survives to bring the news back to Omaha, or New York."
"Understood."
Hanging up the phone, Durant picked up his knife and fork again, slowly cutting the steak on his plate.
He turned to look out the window at the dusty street, as if he could already see the fertile lands of the Platte River Valley, about to fall into his hands without obstruction.
As for the Prospectors who might die in the valley, and Cartwright, who would also be embroiled in trouble... they were just pawns. As for promises?
Heh, let's talk about that if he survives...
Abandoned Sawmill Camp, on the watchtower.
Eagle Eye's hand gripped the cold edge of the binoculars tightly, his knuckles white from the effort. Although his breathing was steady, his eyes were filled with extreme vigilance.
"Boss."
He whispered to the communicator beside him, his voice carried through a hidden thin copper wire to Rambo's ears in the wooden cabin below.
"They're here. Three directions, at least... three hundred riders. They're spread out, trying to encircle us."
Inside the wooden cabin, Rambo was facing a topographical map of the surrounding area. The map clearly marked every high point, every possible retreat route, and... the locations of five carefully camouflaged machine gun positions, enough to cover the entire fan-shaped area around the camp.
Hearing Eagle Eye's report, he showed no surprise. Cartwright's counterattack was faster and more frantic than he had anticipated.
"Order all outer sentries to immediately withdraw to the camp."
"All teams move to their designated defensive positions, check weapons and ammunition, and keep communication lines open."
He looked at Cole Jackson, who stood beside him. "Stone Wall, are your men ready?"
Jackson nodded. "All five 'Organ Guns' are in position, ammunition is plentiful, and the gunners and technicians are in good condition."
"Excellent."
Rambo picked up a Vanguard 1863 Rifle from the table, skillfully checking the bolt and magazine.
"Tell everyone, no one is to fire the first shot. Only open fire after hearing gunfire."
He walked to the cabin door, looking out at the seemingly calm, yet murderously dangerous camp. The team members were silently, like leopards melting into shadows, moving into their respective defensive positions. Camouflage nets were lifted, and dark muzzles quietly extended from behind sandbags and piles of lumber.
"Daniels."
"Here, Boss."
"You go to the eastern high ground, the visibility there is best. Once firing begins, you will command the rifle fire, prioritizing the elimination of enemy commanders and sharpshooters."
"Understood."
Rambo's gaze finally fell on the eastern sky, which was about to receive the first rays of dawn.
"It seems Mr. Cartwright is quite considerate of us."
He firmly braced the stock of his rifle against his shoulder.
"He chose to personally bring the evidence... right to our doorstep."
When the first glimmer of dawn, like thin milk, spilled across the frosted prairie on the south bank of the Platte River, Buck Stone and his three hundred Cowboys had already completed a three-sided encirclement of the sawmill camp.
Buck raised his binoculars, once again observing the eerily silent camp.
There was no smoke from the cabin chimneys, no guards at the entrance, and even the mules and horses tied to the wooden fence had their heads bowed, an unsettling quiet.
It was too quiet.
An ominous premonition, like a cold snake, coiled around his heart.
But looking back at his men, whose eyes gleamed with excitement at the impending slaughter and double pay, and recalling his Boss's unquestionable orders, he ultimately suppressed this doubt.
He took a deep breath, drew the gun from his waist, and pulled the trigger towards the sky.
The gunshot tore through the silence of dawn.
"Charge!"
From the riverbank, Pete drew his revolver and was the first to leap from behind the bushes, letting out a hoarse cry.
A hundred Cowboys, like a breached flood, yelled and charged with their weapons towards the seemingly defenseless camp.
Hooves shattered the frosted ground, emitting a dull thunder.
A distance of three hundred yards was merely a matter of tens of seconds for these men on horseback.
They seemed to already see the panicked faces of the easterners and the scene of dividing the spoils after victory.
However, just as they had covered half the distance and entered the one hundred and fifty-yard range, the deathly stillness of the sawmill camp was once again broken by a gunshot.
There was no warning or return fire.
What greeted them were five torrents of steel, erupting almost simultaneously like the roar of hell.
"Da da da da da da da da da..."
Five vanguard 1863 gatling guns, hidden behind sandbags and lumber piles, roared like five prehistoric beasts instantly awakened, emitting their continuous, dull, and ear-splitting fury.
Crimson tongues of fire spewed madly from the rapidly rotating barrels, weaving an impenetrable net of death that instantly enveloped the entire front line of the charging formation.
The dozens of Cowboys at the very front, along with their horses, didn't even have time to let out a single scream.
Their bodies, in the dense hail of bullets, were torn apart like rag dolls by an invisible giant saw, turning into a spray of blood and flesh.
The wails of horses, the screams of men, the terrifying sound of bullets tearing through flesh, and the seemingly endless gunfire instantly replaced all other sounds on the battlefield.
The charging wave crashed against this invisible dam constructed of death, shattering with a roar.
"My God..."
On the eastern hill, Buck Stone stared blankly at the scene through his binoculars; he felt as if his blood had frozen.
He saw Pete and his hundred brothers falling in swathes, like wheat cut down by a scythe during harvest.
That wasn't a battle; that was... a massacre.
A one-sided massacre of a kind he couldn't comprehend.
"Retreat! Quickly, retreat!"
The Cowboys behind him also saw the terrifying scene; some began to scream in panic, instinctively wanting to turn their horses around.
But it was already too late.
The moment their formation fell into disarray, deadly flames also spewed simultaneously from behind the seemingly inconspicuous defensive works on the outskirts of the sawmill camp.
"Bang. Bang bang. Bang."
The ninety experienced veterans under Rambo's command began to pick off targets with their Vanguard 1863 Rifles.
Their targets were not the ordinary Cowboys who had already lost their nerve, but rather the leaders attempting to maintain order, and the stubborn individuals still holding their guns and trying to fight back.
Buck Stone watched with his own eyes as one of his deputies, a mist of blood erupting from his forehead, fell straight from his horse.
Another Cowboy attempting to organize his men to shoot at the camp screamed and tumbled from his saddle, his chest as if struck by a heavy hammer.
Fear spread among Cartwright's men.
Their proud horsemanship and marksmanship seemed so ridiculous and powerless in the face of those precise bullets.
Not to mention the five things in the center of the valley that were still continuously roaring with death.
"Run!"
Someone shouted it first, and the remaining Cowboys completely collapsed.
They threw away their weapons, frantically whipping their horses, only wanting to escape this hellish battlefield shrouded in the shadow of death as quickly as possible.
On the southern ridge, the hundred men led by Jim, after seeing the devastating rout of their allies on the front and flanks, didn't even dare to fire a single shot before joining the fleeing ranks.
The entire hunting operation, from start to complete collapse, did not even exceed ten minutes...
The gunfire gradually subsided.
The open ground in front of the sawmill was left in a mess.
Nearly two hundred twisted bodies and dying horses covered the grass, and blood stained the frosted ground a terrifying dark red.
The air was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder, blood, and death.
Rambo slowly stood up from behind the cover, his face devoid of any expression.
He walked to the edge of the camp, looking at the distant figures fleeing in panic like startled birds.
Daniels walked over, his face splattered with a few drops of blood, but his eyes were unusually calm, "Boss, it's all handled.
On our side... only three brothers had their arms grazed by stray bullets, nothing serious."
One hundred men against three hundred.
Almost zero casualties, annihilating nearly two-thirds of the enemy.
This was an overwhelming victory, worthy of being recorded in any military textbook.
"Clear the battlefield, and collect any useful weapons and ammunition.
Tie up anyone still breathing and interrogate them separately.
I want to know where Cartwright is now."
He looked at the prisoners huddled on the ground, trembling with fear, without any pity in his eyes.
"Tell them, those who speak can live.
Those who try to conceal or lie..."
He didn't finish his sentence, but his cold gaze said it all.
Ten minutes later, Daniels came before Rambo again.
"Boss, they all confessed."
"That old man... should still be in his ranch main house, waiting for Buck to bring him good news."
Rambo nodded.
"Daniels."
"Here."
"Pick twenty brothers, change into those Cowboys' clothes and take their horses, and come with me."
"To pay a visit to this 'master' of the Platte River Valley."