BLOODY STREETS,
BLOODY HILLS
When both men were ready, Willett raised his hat high above his head, holding it there while he gave one last instruction. “The boys here will be judge and jury on which one of you gets his gun out first. You both ready?”
Both men nodded, then waited, poised, for Willett to drop his hat.
The brim of Willett’s hat had barely left his fingertips before Billy Ray’s Colt was in his hand and leveled at his adversary. The young cowhand was fast, but he was no match for Billy Ray, who was almost quicker than the eye could follow. With just a hint of a grim smile on his face, he seemed to purposely wait a second for his challenger’s pistol to clear the holster. In the next instant, the crowd of spectators was shocked into stony silence as Billy Ray pulled the trigger.
The young cowhand dropped his pistol and, clutching his gut, sank to his knees in the muddy street, his face contorted into a mask of stunned disbelief. Not one of the spectators moved for what seemed a long moment, as shocked as the wounded man. Like the young cowhand, they had all assumed they were betting on a simple contest of speed. No one had counted on Billy Ray’s intent.
BLOODY
HILLS
Charles G. West
SIGNET
Published by New American Library,
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2004
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2004
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-66284-7
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FOR RONDA
Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
William Raymond Blevins knew from a young age that he wasn’t likely to be a big man when he was full grown. As soon as he was old enough to consider such thoughts, he took a look at his daddy—short and skinny as a hay rake—and knew he was destined to be the same. But Billy Ray, as the townsfolk of Dry Fork called him, was born with a mean streak and a total distain for weakness in any form. Being an undersized child, and one who did not cotton to backing down to anyone, he always carried some form of equalizer in case he was challenged. He attended six years of classes in the one-room school at the south end of town before being permanently expelled for using a pocketknife to carve up one of his classmates. Not being particularly fond of school in the first place, Billy Ray didn’t mind being kicked out. In his opinion, the three saloons in the little town offered a much more practical education for a young man of his ambitions.
At the age of thirteen, Billy Ray counted himself fortunate to gain employment in the Lucky Spur Saloon when his predecessor accidentally stepped between two angry card players and suffered an eight-inch double-edged blade to his abdomen. Making fifty cents a day, with a cot to sleep on in the storeroom out back, Billy Ray was well on his way toward what he reasoned to be the good life. Due to his slight physique, however, he fully realized that he would never gain respect in that rough saloon life with his fists—and no young man ever had a stronger need for respect. So he saved every cent he could until he had enough to purchase one of Samuel Colt’s popular Peacemakers.
From that moment when he first held the shiny new pistol, he knew that he must dedicate himself to the mastery of the weapon. The cool, heavy feel of the metal in his hand gave him an immediate sense of lethal power, a feeling that commanded respect. He continued saving his money, spending most of it on cartridges for daily target practice. Long hours were spent far out on the prairie, where he practiced drawing his pistol in a split second. He filed the front sight down to further facilitate his speed in pulling his weapon from the holster.
Billy Ray’s dogged practice paid off—so much so that before he reached his seventeenth birthday, he was regarded as the fastest gun in the territory. And he had what he most wanted—respect—although it came solely from the saloon riffraff who inhabited his world. Along with his notoriety for being a fast gun, he developed a nasty arrogance that seemed to cause him to constantly seek fights. With the solid weight of his six-gun riding on his thigh, he feared no man. While he thoroughly enjoyed the fact that no one was willing to provoke him to the point of a showdown, there was still one thing to prove. He had never killed a man. That one fact began to plague him to the point where the few friends he could claim at the Lucky Spur became quiet in his presence and avoided him whenever possible. Soon he found himself a belligerent loner, always spoiling for a fight, looking for an excuse to carve that first notch on the handle of his Colt .45. The only person who genuinely solicited his friendship was Sonny Demry, a simpleminded teenage boy who raked out the stalls at the livery stable. Billy Ray tolerated him because he enjoyed the unconcealed hero worship. Sonny would always look in the Lucky Spur whenever he passed that way to see if his hero was seated at the back corner table, isolated in his belligerent bearing, always alert to the opportunity to demonstrate his mastery of his six-gun. The time would not be long in coming.
It was a rainy night in Dry Fork with the kind of cold rain that chills a man to the bone—the kind of rain that makes a man thirsty for a drink of the burning rotgut whiskey served for a quarter a shot at the Lucky Spur. Consequently, Dry Fork’s most notorious saloon was filled with thirsty custome
rs seeking warmth and companionship on a raw night in early spring. At his usual spot at the back table, Billy Ray propped his chair against the wall, a bored scowl upon his face as he nursed a drink of Willett Burns’s cheapest. His practiced smirk attracted the notice of a young stranger at the bar, a cowhand from a nearby ranch.
“Who’s the cocky-lookin’ dude eyeballin’ everybody at the back table?” the cowhand asked.
“You must be new in town,” Barney Tatum replied. “That there’s Billy Ray. He’s the fastest with a handgun that you’ll ever see.”
“Is that so?” the young man responded, the liquor in him stimulating his competitive impulses. “I’m pretty fast gettin’ my pistol outta the holster myself.”
This sparked Barney’s interest. “Think you’re faster than Billy Ray? I’ve never seen you draw, young feller, but I’d bet against it. Billy Ray’s like lightning.”
The cowhand was intrigued by the challenge. He was not without reason to feel confident. No one on the spread he rode for could match him when it came to clearing his pistol and popping the head off a rattlesnake. “Maybe he just ain’t run into no real competition yet.”
Hearing the young fellow’s comment, Barney was even more interested in what might shape up to be a right entertaining contest. He flagged Willett Burns down at the end of the bar. When Willett came down to see what he wanted, Barney said, “Young feller here says he can draw faster than Billy Ray.”
“Is that so?” Willett asked, directing his question to the cowhand.
The young man shrugged. “I might,” he replied, unconsciously reaching down to ease his pistol a little to make sure it was riding light in the holster.
“Well, there’s one sure way to find out,” Willett said, grinning at Barney. “We can set up a little contest right now. Some of the boys might wanna lay a few bets on it.” He looked back at the cowhand. “Whaddaya say, young feller?”
Tossing the rest of his drink down to bolster his confidence, he said, “Wouldn’t hurt just to see who’s the fastest, I reckon.”
“Well, then,” Willett crowed, and raised his voice so he could be heard above the noisy din of the saloon. “Boys, we got us a young man here who says he might be faster with a six-gun than Billy Ray over there.” His announcement brought an immediate response. The saloon grew quiet for a few moments while all eyes turned to the smirking young man at the back table. “What about it, Billy Ray?” Willett asked.
There was never a moment of hesitation in Billy Ray’s mind. “I reckon,” he said, and lowered his chair to the floor. With a studied swagger, he walked to the front of the bar to stand before the cowhand, looking him up and down in his familiar sneering fashion.
The noise returned immediately with calls for bets echoing back and forth across the packed saloon. “I’ll lay a little money on Billy Ray,” one voice could be heard. “Put me down for five dollars,” another voice said. “How fast is that young feller?” someone wanted to know. Willett took charge of the betting, and when all the money was down, he said, “Come on, everybody back up and give these boys some room.” There followed some pushing and shoving as his patrons attempted to clear a small area in the middle of the floor.
Billy Ray stood, still sizing up his challenger, one foot slightly ahead of the other, as if he was about to step forward, his head tilted slightly down, peering at the cowhand through his eyebrows. He said not another word until Willett stated the rules, and prepared to drop his hat as a signal to draw. Then Billy Ray spoke. “I ain’t got enough room.”
“Let’s take it out in the street so these boys’ll have plenty of room,” Willett said.
Following the two contestants, the crowd spilled out into the muddy street, elbowing each other for position on the board walkway, ignoring the rain that continued to fall. Still in charge of the formalities, Willett directed the young men to stand approximately twenty yards apart. Facing each other, with the rain beating unmercifully in their faces, they did as he instructed. When both men were in position and ready, Willett raised his hat high above his head, holding it there while he gave one last instruction. “The boys here will be the judge and jury on which one of you gets his gun out first. You both ready?” Both men nodded, then waited, poised, for Willett to drop his hat.
The brim of Willett’s hat had barely left his fingertips before Billy Ray’s Colt was in his hand and leveled at his adversary. The young cowhand was fast, but he was no match for Billy Ray, who had spent countless days off in the prairie practicing the smooth motion that was almost quicker than the eye could follow. With just a hint of a grim smile upon his face, he seemed to purposely wait a second for his challenger’s pistol to clear the holster. In the next instant, the crowd of spectators was shocked into stony silence as Billy Ray pulled the trigger. The young cowhand dropped his pistol, and, clutching his gut, sank to his knees in the muddy street, his face contorted into a mask of stunned disbelief. Not one of the spectators moved for what seemed a long moment, as shocked as the wounded man. Like the young cowhand, they had all assumed they were betting on a simple contest of speed. No one had counted on Billy Ray’s intent.
When the cowhand crumpled facedown in the mud, the spectators finally broke the pall that had descended upon them, and rushed to give what aid and comfort they could. It was too late. The young man was dying, gut-shot, in the filthy quagmire of wagon ruts and horse droppings. Seemingly oblivious to the disturbed state that now enveloped the crowd, Billy Ray stood, transfixed, apart from the chaos he had caused.
“I reckon somebody better go wake up Sam Ingram,” Willett said with a helpless sigh.
After the incident, there was a lot of talk in private conversations about the blatant murder of the innocent young man. Sheriff Ingram was hell-bent on hanging Billy Ray for the dastardly deed, but Billy Ray maintained that he had been under no assumption that it was supposed to be a harmless contest. The man had pulled a gun on him, he insisted, and he had feared for his life, and acted in self-defense. A jury could not deny the fact that the cowhand had pulled a gun, and there was no way of knowing whether or not he intended to use it. Much to Sam Ingram’s disgust, Billy Ray was allowed to go free.
* * *
It was a fine spring morning in Dry Fork. Remnants of an isolated shower from the night before were already drying up, leaving only a few puddles here and there in the dirt street. Billy Ray leaned back in a chair in front of the Lucky Spur, his feet propped on the rail. He was soaking in the warm sun, seeking to dry out after a night of heavy drinking. Because of the nagging headache accompanying his hangover, he was in a bad mood. His eyes almost closed due to the bright sun, he squinted at the familiar rotund figure of Sheriff Sam Ingram coming his way. Fat old fart, Billy Ray thought, knowing the sheriff would have something to say to him. He always did after the showdown with the cowhand several weeks before, and Billy Ray wasn’t in the mood to hear one of Sam Ingram’s mealymouthed lectures. The thought caused him to consider the possibility of moving on. On this early May morning in the year 1875, two months shy of his twenty-first birthday, he figured that he had outgrown Dry Fork. There was no one left in the little settlement to challenge him. His confidence was such that he was certain no man was faster with a gun—anywhere in the territory. And he was ready to expand his reputation. Maybe, he was thinking, he ought to ride up in Dakota territory. If there was as much gold in the Black Hills as folks talked about, he might as well take his share—and he wasn’t thinking about using a pick and shovel.
“Mornin’, Billy Ray,” Sheriff Ingram said with a noticeable lack of cordiality, a tone Billy Ray was used to. The sheriff stopped and waited for Billy Ray to remove his feet from the railing so he could pass. Billy Ray made no effort to accommodate him. Making no attempt to disguise his irritation, Ingram scowled and said, “I hear tell you raised a little fuss in the saloon last night.”
“Is that a fact?” Billy Ray answered, a contemptuous smile spread slowly across his face. “Was there an official complaint fr
om somebody?” He knew the answer without asking. Nobody had the guts to file a complaint.
Ingram frowned, his disgust with the young hooligan blatantly apparent. “No,” he replied after a pause, “but you’re gonna have to change your attitude. You’re startin’ to worry some of the good citizens of Dry Fork.”
“Is that so? Well, maybe I’ll just go have a little talk with some of your good citizens—see what the problem is.” Billy couldn’t resist taunting the sheriff. It had the proper effect on Sam Ingram.
The sheriff responded immediately. “You do, and I’ll lock you up for disturbing the peace.”
Billy Ray laughed. “Now, Sheriff, you know I wouldn’t do nothin’ to rile the good folks of Dry Fork.”
Exasperated, Ingram shook his head in disgust. “That attitude of yours is gonna land you in my jail one of these days.” He walked around behind him and went on about his business, unwilling to waste any more time on the belligerent young troublemaker.
“If that day ever comes,” Billy Ray called out after him, “you’d best bring that hayseed deputy of yours, ’cause it’s gonna be a full day’s work for both of you.”
Sam didn’t even bother to look around. “One of these days,” he muttered to himself, and continued on toward his office, convinced that the day was not far off when Billy Ray would manage to get himself in real trouble.
Pleased with himself for getting Sam Ingram’s goat, Billy Ray shifted his chair so as to have a view of the other end of the street. The warm sunshine almost made him doze, and after a few minutes, he opened his eyes wide in an effort to rouse himself from his sleepy state. It was then that he caught sight of something that always captured his attention. Revealing just a glimpse of stocking, Rachael Andrews was in the process of climbing out of her buggy when her gingham skirt snagged on the corner of the seat. The young wife of the new schoolmaster had caught Billy Ray’s eye on the first day of their arrival, some three months before. She was a shy girl who favored everyone she met with a timid smile, averting her eyes as she passed. On several occasions, Billy Ray had attempted to make eye contact with her, but she had always avoided it.
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