American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 148 The Farm Owners of Montana

Montana, on the banks of the Yellowstone River.

Even before the morning mist had dissipated, the outline of Dutton Farm was already visible in the morning light.

This land, bordering Yellowstone National Park and the Indian Reservation, has been marked by the Dutton family since the first raising of the Stars and Stripes in 1776. Two and a half centuries of weathering have transformed the pioneers' log cabins into the vast estate we know today.

John Dutton, the third-generation head of the family, is standing at this moment in front of the window of his century-old oak study.

Sunlight streamed through the whiskey glass, casting an amber glow on his face. In Montana, everyone knew this silver-haired old man was the state's largest rancher; but few knew that the bronze ring on his right little finger represented a third-tier seat in the High Table.

Compared to the powerful senator seats held by the Gianna Antonio family in Parliament, this position certainly seemed insignificant. But in this land bordering wolves and bison, a third-tier seat was enough for the Dutton family to firmly suppress the greedy developers and politicians in every land dispute.

On the desk lay a latest land acquisition agreement, reflecting the Dutton family's unchanging survival rule for two centuries: hold onto the land or die.

Beth Dutton strode into the study in her riding boots, the leather heels clicking on the marble floor. She deftly pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail while simultaneously tugging at the hair tie on her wrist with her teeth.

“The Antonio family is here.” She went straight to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a double shot of whiskey. “Rip stopped them outside the barbed wire fence on the south ranch. Tell me, why is that Italian bitch Gianna interested in our rickety fence?”

John ran his fingers over the wear and tear on the bronze ring, the sunlight streaming through the window making the wrinkles on his face even more pronounced. "It seems the winds of the High Table Council have finally reached Montana."

John Dutton set down his whiskey glass, the bottom of which clattered against the oak table. He raised his calloused hand and wiped his face.

“Let them in,” he said. “Do you really think Rip and those cowboys can stop Jaina’s people?”

“If we stop these few thugs today, tomorrow it’ll be that plague John Wick.” He looked out the window at the dusty ranch road. “By then, the Dutton family won’t even have enough people to collect the bodies.”

Beth flicked her ponytail: "Suit yourself." She slammed the door shut without looking back, causing the picture frame on the door frame to tremble slightly.

Less than fifteen minutes later, John saw Rip riding his chestnut Quarter Horse slowly approaching through the floor-to-ceiling window amidst the swirling dust. Behind him followed a black Toyota Sequoia, its paint splattered with mud.

Old Dutton sat back in his leather chair and took a well-maintained Colt Python from the drawer. The revolver was within easy reach of his right hand.

Outside the window, an SUV stopped in front of the porch, the roar of its engine startling birds in the oak tree.

The study door was pushed open again. Rip stepped aside to let the young man enter the room first, his leather boots leaving trails of pasture red dirt on the floor.

The young man was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old, looking as if he had just flown straight from Milan Fashion Week to a ranch in Montana. He wore camel-colored casual trousers and a light blue linen shirt, the cuffs casually rolled up to his elbows. He took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses, revealing icy blue eyes.

Old Dutton caught a glimpse of the faint outline of a holster at his waist.

“Saron Wick?” Old Dutton stared at the face that bore a seven-tenths resemblance to the Night Demon and laughed out loud: “I knew it. How could John Wick’s offspring really be some damn art dealer?”

Beta sat down and placed his sunglasses on the table.

The Antonio family crest, pinned to his shirt collar, said, “Mr. Dutton, let’s talk about that uninvited guest Santino sent. Is he still visiting your ranch? Or…”

"Do you know where he went?" Beta asked.

Old Dutton took a document out of the drawer and rubbed it on the desktop.

"That kid brought a generous gift," he chuckled. "He promised that as long as I'm on Santino's side, he can make these damn land disputes disappear completely."

Beta took the document, his fingers slowly turning the pages. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting striped shadows on his sharply defined profile. "What a coincidence," he said, closing the document. "I can also resolve these disputes. What are the terms?"

Old Dutton stroked his bronze ring: "The terms are quite generous, but I wonder if the Antonio family's promises will be as sturdy as the Dutton family's fence?"

Beta gently pushed the file back onto the desktop: "What do you think?"

Old Dutton tapped his knuckles three times on his bronze ring, then took a sip of his whiskey.

“Gianna Antonio’s credit,” the old man said. “I’d rather bet on that playboy Santino.”

He leaned forward, the leather chair creaking: "The person you're looking for is swaggering around Helena City."

Old Dutton dipped his finger in whiskey and wrote the letters "SG" on the table: "Saul Goodman, a buffoon who'd wear his law license on his forehead. He's driving his pink Cadillac, waiting for people to come knocking on his office on Fourth Avenue."

Beta nodded slightly and put on his sunglasses: "There will be no more land disputes along the Yellowstone River within forty-eight hours of Saul Goodman's disappearance."

The whiskey glass spun slowly in old Dutton's palm: "Young man, I'm quite curious. What exactly is your relationship with Jaina?"

“Some answers,” Beta said, “would be deadly to the listener.”

Beta stood up: "The hospitality was excellent. I hope we can have such a calm and peaceful conversation next time I visit."

Old Dutton added to Beta as he walked away, "Tell your father that Old Dutton hasn't forgotten the promise he made to Yellowstone thirty years ago!"

Beta remained noncommittal about the so-called promise. As he walked toward the black Toyota Red Shirt, the sound of rapid hoofbeats approached from the side.

Beth Dutton, the eldest daughter of old Dutton, rode a chestnut Quarter Horse, blocking the driver's door. Her legs were tightly gripping the horse's flanks, and the spurs on her boots gleamed in the sunlight. Surprisingly, this woman in her thirties was wearing only lace trousers on her lower body, sitting in the saddle.

"Jaina's lackey?" Beth asked, leaning down as her ponytail fell over her shoulder.

Beta's gaze lingered on her bare thighs for a moment: "Miss Dutton, the Montana sun is so strong."

He slowly and deliberately grasped the reins: "Aren't you afraid of getting sunburned?"

Beth spurred her horse, and it took two steps forward: "I'm asking you a question!"

Gunshots suddenly rang out.

Beta drew his HK45, the bullet whizzing past the horse's ear. Startled, the horse reared up, tossing Beth, who was only wearing lace panties, directly into the watering trough.

Amidst the splashing water, Rip and several cowboys simultaneously pointed their guns at Beta.

"Cough cough cough!" Beth struggled to sit up from the sink, her soaked white shirt clinging to her body. She wiped the water from her face, her anger turning into a bitter laugh: "You fucking bastard!"

Beta calmly sheathed his pistol and put it back in the holster on his lower back: "Now."

He scanned the cowboys around him: "Can't we talk properly?"

(End of this chapter)