Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Taken aback by the quiet man’s audacity, Taylor was speechless for a moment, a void filled by his wife. “How dare you talk to the doctor that way?” Mrs. Taylor exclaimed. She was not accustomed to hearing anyone dictate to her husband in such a manner.

  “Never mind, Marjorie,” Taylor said, his demeanor returning to calm, matching that of Colt’s. To Colt, he asked, “Is it your intention to force me to go with you?”

  “I reckon so,” Colt replied, still with no outward emotion. “I was hopin’ you’d come on your own, but whatever it takes, my brother needs doctorin’.”

  Dr. Taylor shook his head as if amazed. Gazing at the resolute face before him, he had no doubt that this determined young man meant what he said. “All right,” he conceded. “Marjorie, get my bag, please. I’m going with Mr. McCrae, here, as soon as I saddle my horse.”

  “I’d be glad to handle that chore for you,” Colt said.

  “By God, we showed that old buzzard,” Tom Mosley crowed. “I think we’ve done won this war. Drummond ain’t got more’n three or four men left.” Upon finding out what had happened in the failed raid on Burt’s ranch, they counted five men that Drummond had lost on that day alone. “Hell, he ain’t got enough men left to take care of all them cattle he’s got.”

  “Drummond ain’t the kinda man to take a whippin’ lightly,” Burt said. He took the cup of coffee that Rena held out to him and sat down at the table with Vance’s two cowhands. “I’m afraid he ain’t gonna quit as long as he’s standin’. And he’s got a craw full of Colt now that he can’t swallow or spit out. He ain’t gonna be satisfied until one of ’em’s dead.”

  “How come we ain’t seen hide nor hair of J. D. Townsend?” Tom Mosley wondered.

  “Shit,” Burt grunted in disgust. “Because J.D.’s on Drummond’s payroll, same as Tyler or Red or any of them others. Same reason he ain’t gone to the army for help. He was most likely ordered to keep the table clear for Drummond’s move to own the whole valley.”

  The discussion was interrupted briefly when Susan came in from the back bedroom. As one, they all turned to face her. “He’s sleeping now,” she said, “but he’s breathing awfully hard.” Exhausted, she sat down at the table beside Burt. Moments later, Rena placed a cup of coffee down before her. “Thank you, Rena,” she said, trying to form a smile for the solemn old woman. She gazed out the window at the fading light and said, “I hope Colt gets here with the doctor soon.”

  The conversation had not yet picked up again when Rena said, “Horses comin’.” The men scrambled from the table.

  “It’s Colt and Dr. Taylor,” Bill announced.

  The doctor nodded a brisk hello to everyone, then followed Susan back to the bedroom. The others remained at the table to await the prognosis. Without waiting to be asked, Rena set a plate of food before Colt and poured the dregs of the coffeepot in his cup. “I’ll make more,” she said and went to the pump to refill the pot. It was down to less than half-full when the doctor finally came out again, followed by Susan. Rena dutifully did the honors.

  “How is he, Doc?” Burt was the first to ask.

  “He was lucky. He’s got a serious wound through the upper chest, but it didn’t appear to hit his heart or lungs. I can’t say much more than it’s up to him, I guess—how bad he wants to live, I suppose. Anyway, these next twenty-four hours will tell the tale. I’ve done all I can. I’ve told Susan what to do for him.” When offered food, he refused, taking only a cup of Rena’s coffee. Looking out the window, he commented, “Getting dark already. Days are getting mighty short this time of year. I expect I’d better be getting along. Marjorie will be worried.”

  “I’ll see you back to town,” Colt said, getting up from the table. “You drink your coffee. I’ll get your horse outta the barn.” He pulled on his coat and went outside.

  Still suffering with indecision, Susan watched the quiet man as he walked out the door. She hesitated for a moment more before making up her mind, then got to her feet, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders against the cold night air, and followed him. She met him leading the horses out of the barn. Surprised, he greeted her, “Susan.”

  “Colt,” she started, uncertain how to say what she wanted to say. “I just wanted to thank you for saving our lives.”

  “I’m just glad I was close enough to hear the shootin’,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t closer. Maybe Vance wouldn’t have been shot.” He started to walk again.

  “Wait,” she said, deciding to say what really bothered her. He turned to face her, holding the reins of the two horses, their breath frosty plumes in the crisp night air. She hesitated, reluctant to go through with it. He was about to question her when she said her piece. “I owe you an apology, a debt I can’t really repay—”

  “It’s all right,” he interrupted. “Hell, it’s my fault Vance is wounded. They were comin’ after me.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about how you really saved my life, and after I failed you so terribly. You would not have gone to prison if I had come forward at your trial. I’m the one other person who knew where you were that day. I could have saved you, but I was so afraid it would have killed my father if he found out what we did that day.” She looked down at her feet, preferring not to look in his eyes as she poured out her guilt. “And you never said a word. Vance has no idea that he was not the first, and when you came back, I was sure you hated me so much that you would tell everybody. But you never said a word!” She started to cry, unable to hold back the shame she felt.

  He did not know what to say. Her apology brought back years of bitterness that he had suffered in prison, knowing that had she come forward, she could have saved him. His so-called trial had happened so fast that he was on his way to Kansas, it seemed, before there was any thought of a defense. Wild as he may have been at that age, he had still felt reluctant to destroy a young girl’s virtue, so he kept their secret. In the beginning, he had hope that his innocence would surely be proven when his father had pleaded for a new trial. After a few years with no results, he finally gave up hope and resigned himself to serve his time. Learning that Susan and Vance had been wed, he resolved that the secret would die with him. What’s done is done, he thought. What good would it do anyone to bring it out now? The years he had spent behind bars could not be returned to him. At this moment, he would have preferred that she had not opened that old wound. But since she had, what could he tell her? Forgiveness, he supposed, was what she sought. Well, for what it’s worth, I’ll give it to her. “Those days are long gone, Susan. I don’t think about them anymore. You might as well forget them, too.” Mercifully, Dr. Taylor walked out on the porch at that moment.

  Chapter 8

  Frank Drummond was furious. His troop of ten self-proclaimed gunfighters had been thoroughly defeated at every attempt to wipe out a puny force of five, three of whom were old men. The most infuriating aspect of the defeat was that those ten had been pared down to five. He had never before been so defeated, and the anger in him threatened to burst the blood vessels in his neck as he berated the remnants of his gang. He might have enlisted the services of J. D. Townsend and his deputies to go after Colt McCrae, but he was concerned that the sheriff might send word of the war to Fort Russell. He couldn’t afford to involve the army in his private conquest. There might be too many questions asked.

  Drummond was totally convinced that the one catalyst that had put backbone into Burt and Vance McCrae was the return of Colt McCrae. The thought of the broad-shouldered man with his rifle cradled casually in his arms so infuriated him that he picked up a lamp from a side table and smashed it against the wall. It did not serve to vent the rage that was eating him up inside. His five remaining men cowered before his wrath. Even Alice Flynn, his ill-tempered housekeeper, and usually the only person with backbone enough to stand up to him, made no remark as she looked at the broken lamp and the puddle of kerosene on the floor. Without a word, she turned and left the room to fetch some
rags.

  Drummond paused in his tirade for a few moments, perhaps calmed by the sight of the acid-tongued woman dutifully mopping up the spilled kerosene. He stood looking out the window, his mind on a man he had heard about from Pete Tyler, his recently departed foreman. Maybe it was time he met the man. After a long moment, he turned to the five seated there. “Brownie, I’m sending you to Denver to find a man for me,” he said.

  Drummond only knew the man by one name, Bone. Tyler had said that was all anybody knew him by, but every outlaw in Colorado Territory knew of him. He worked out of Denver because he wasn’t wanted for anything there. Tyler had described Bone as a hunter and tracker, a killer as deadly as a rattlesnake. It had been rumored that Bone had once taken a contract to track down and kill his own brother. Pete had said he had no reason to doubt the validity of it. It galled Drummond to have to resort to calling in a killer like Bone, but Colt McCrae had proven to be a dangerous man to trap. Tyler had said that the only way to contact Bone was to leave a message for him at the Palace Saloon on Cherry Creek.

  “What if he don’t wanna come?” Brownie asked, not really enthusiastic about riding south to Denver, especially since there had been some talk of a few recent isolated raids by a band of renegade Cheyenne warriors.

  “You tell him there’s a hundred dollars in it for him if he’ll just come over and talk to me,” Drummond said.

  “Most of them men like that want their money up front,” Brownie said. “Maybe I’d better have the money with me, since he don’t know you.”

  “You think I’m a damn fool?” Drummond came back. “I’m not about to send your worthless ass off with a hundred dollars.” Brownie cringed under the verbal assault. “You just deliver my message. Tell him Pete Tyler recommended him. He’ll come.”

  “Yessir,” Brownie slurred. “You’re the boss. I’ll fetch him.”

  “You’d better,” Drummond snapped. “I don’t wanna see you back here without him.”

  It was a little more than a good day’s ride to Denver, but it took Brownie more than half of the following day to find the Palace Saloon. When he did, it was somewhat of a disappointment. Hardly a palace, it turned out to be a small log structure with no sign to identify it, built on an old mining claim by the creek. There was a smaller shack behind it with a lean-to attached. He would not have found it at all had it not been for the directions given him by a local miner.

  With a slight limp, favoring his wounded leg, Brownie pushed the door of the saloon open and peered into the dark interior. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the poor light. When objects began to take definite shape, he could see only a single table near a door in the rear, and a roughly built bar facing him. Behind the bar, a huge man with a full beard and a bald head stood staring at him in stoic unconcern.

  A slight opening appeared in the brushy beard allowing a few disinterested words to escape. “What’ll it be?”

  “Whiskey,” Brownie responded and watched while the massive barkeep blew the dust from a shot glass and poured his drink. “I’m lookin’ for a feller name of Bone,” he said.

  “What fer?”

  “I got a message for him from my boss.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Mr. Frank Drummond, up at Whiskey Hill. Maybe you heard of him,” Brownie said as he tossed his whiskey back.

  “Nope,” the bartender replied, recorking the bottle. “I ain’t never heard of him. Bone don’t come in here no more.”

  At once dismayed to hear this, Brownie almost forgot, but then said, “Pete Tyler said to look for Bone here.”

  This seemed to make a difference. The bartender uncorked the bottle again and refilled Brownie’s glass. “You know Pete?”

  Gratified to see the change in the big man’s attitude, Brownie responded immediately. “I sure do. Me and Pete’s been ridin’ for Mr. Drummond for more’n a few years. Sorry thing, though, Pete’s dead, shot by a no-good ex-convict. That’s why Mr. Drummond sent me to find Bone.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” the barkeep drawled. “Pete Tyler dead—that’s bad news sure enough.” He shook his head slowly as he thought about it. “Bone ain’t hereabouts right now, but he said he’d most likely be back tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, I reckon I’ll come back tomorrow to see if I can catch him.”

  “If you want to, you can sleep in that shed out back. You can build you a fire in the open end—keep you warm enough—there’s wood stacked against the wall.”

  “Why, that’s mighty neighborly,” Brownie replied. “I just might take you up on that.”

  “Not a’tall,” the bartender said. “Here, let’s have another drink on the house to ol’ Pete Tyler. He was a good’un.” He took the bottle from the bar and replaced it with another. Had Brownie been a man of average intelligence, he might have surmised that he was no longer drinking watered-down whiskey.

  It didn’t take long for the full-strength spirits to addle Brownie’s brains, and after a couple of free drinks, he spent what money he had to continue into the evening. Dead broke, and barely able to stand on his feet, he managed to build a fire in the lean-to before wrapping his blanket around him and passing out.

  Gradually aware of his pounding head, Brownie was reluctant to open his eyes, praying earnestly that he would go back to sleep and wake up again without the feeling that he was going to throw up. He knew the chances were not good. He was going to be sick, just like every other time he’d had too much to drink, and he uttered a low moan as he felt the familiar churning in the pit of his stomach. To add to his discomfort, his face felt hot, and it seemed to get hotter by the second until it actually felt like it was burning. Unable to tolerate it any longer, he opened his eyes. Startled, he recoiled. His face was barely inches from the fire. Had he somehow crawled up to it while still asleep? He was dumbfounded. To further confuse him, the flames were building higher and higher. Then he jerked back in a panic when a sizable stick of wood fell on the roaring fire, sending sparks and ashes flying.

  Struggling to clear his groggy brain from his alcohol-induced sleep, he became aware of a pair of boots on the opposite side of the fire. His gaze immediately drifted up from the boots to a black coat, open to reveal a gun belt with two pistols, butts forward. Quickly tracing upward, his focus settled on a pair of piercing eyes, glowering out from under bushy black eyebrows like two dark orbs set in a pitiless countenance of weathered rawhide. Certain that he was gazing upon Lucifer himself, Brownie cringed before the frightening apparition, fearful that he may have awakened to find himself in hell.

  “I’m Bone,” the specter said, his voice hoarse and rasping as if echoing from the bottom of a gravel pit. “What do you want?”

  Totally sober now, Brownie experienced an irresistible urge to empty his bladder, but he was too nervous to move. Trying his best to disguise his stunned reaction to his frightful awakening, he said, “Mr. Drummond sent me to fetch you. He’s got a job for you.”

  “Mr. Drummond? I don’t know no Mr. Drummond. What does he want?”

  Grimacing as his need to urinate became more and more intense, Brownie explained as quickly as he could relate the problems that Drummond wanted eliminated. “The main job he wants for you is to take care of one man, Colt McCrae,” Brownie strained, his condition now becoming excruciating, so much so that Bone finally took notice.

  “What in hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I gotta pee,” Brownie admitted sheepishly.

  “Well, get up from there and go piss,” Bone growled, disgusted. “I reckon I can see why your boss sent for me.”

  The ride back to Whiskey Hill was an uncomfortable one for Brownie Brooks. The man called Bone did not ride beside him, preferring to follow along behind. Brownie could feel the man’s piercing gaze upon his back. With his long black coat and his dark hair in a long greasy ponytail, adorned with one eagle feather, hanging from a wide-brimmed leather hat—Bone bore the perfect image for one of Satan’s lieutenants. He never se
emed to have thirst or hunger, and might not have stopped all the way back had it not been necessary to rest the horses. He uttered no more than a handful of words, only those absolutely necessary. Brownie likened it to riding with a corpse. He had ridden with quite a few bad men in his life. Pete Tyler, Lou George, and Jack Teach came to mind. Buck and Jack were not only bad—they were crazy-bad. But none compared to the eerie manner of Bone. Brownie was damn glad to see the front gate of the Rocking-D when they crested the final ridge before riding down into the valley.

  Brownie, as was customary among the hired hands, dismounted, walked to the edge of the front porch, and knocked respectfully on the porch floor. Casting a curious glance in his direction, Bone walked up the steps and headed straight for the door. It opened before he reached it, and Frank Drummond came forward to meet him. “You’ll be Mr. Bone, I presume,” Drummond said, looking the reputed tracker up and down.

  “Just Bone,” his sinister visitor replied.

  “Right. Well, Bone, looks like you got here just in time for supper. Come on in the house and we can discuss some business while we eat.” He gave Brownie a dismissal glance. “Alice just took some chuck down to the bunkhouse. You’d best hurry if you want to eat. And take care of Bone’s horse for him.” He turned, held the door open, and indicated for Bone to enter.

  Bone did not move, his deadpan expression never changing. “Your man promised a hundred dollars if I came,” he said.

  “You’ll get it,” Drummond replied. “We’ll eat supper first.”

  “I wanna see the hundred dollars first,” Bone responded, still standing firm.

  Drummond saw at once that he was dealing with a man accustomed to having the upper hand. He didn’t like it. When he gave an order, he expected an immediate yes, sir. He started to tell him that he would decide when he got paid, but something about those cold, lifeless eyes told him that this was a man who cowered to no one. They stood gazing eye to eye for several moments, a lion trying to stare down a cobra, before Drummond decided to give in. “Fine,” he finally muttered, “let’s go inside and I’ll get your money out of the safe.” Bone nodded and followed him inside.