Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Without being told, Alice Flynn set another place at the huge table, then stood back and waited while Bone stood in the dining room door, counting the hundred dollars. “Supper’s gettin’ cold,” she said, and graced him with a disapproving scowl when he sat down, never bothering to remove the leather hat he wore. Wearing a look of disgust, she returned to her kitchen. Of all the villains, killers, and saddle bums she had seen pass through the Rocking-D, this new face possessed the most potential for raw-cut evil. She hoped Drummond’s business with him would not take long.

  “Who is he, and whaddaya want done?” Bone asked point-blank as he greedily devoured his supper, assaulting the plate of food like a man who had not eaten for days.

  Drummond glanced toward the door to make sure Alice was not within earshot before answering. The cantankerous woman was not that naive. She most likely knew why Bone had been sent for, but Drummond saw no reason to have witnesses to the conversation. “Colt McCrae,” he replied. “I want him dead.”

  Bone studied Drummond’s face for a few moments before responding. “One man? What’s so special about him? How come you have to send for me to take care of one man?”

  Drummond explained. “I’ve lost eight men trying to kill that son of a bitch. He’s a little more wildcat than you expect, and he doesn’t stay in one place long enough for anybody to get to him. That’s why I need somebody who’s a tracker. By God, I’m running out of men.”

  “What’s he worth,” Bone asked, “this son of a bitch who’s so hard to run down?”

  “Two hundred dollars,” Drummond replied, “not counting the one hundred I already gave you.”

  “Shit,” Bone shot back. “That’s what I get for goin’ after somebody like Brownie out there. Four hundred, not countin’ the hundred you already gave me. Take it or leave it.”

  “That’s a helluva lot of money for killing one man.” Drummond hesitated, but he knew it was worth it to get rid of the main key to his problems. Without Colt, he anticipated the resistance would crumble. “All right, we’ve got a deal.” He extended his hand.

  Bone ignored it. “What about the law?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about the law. I’ll take care of that. The sheriff won’t get in your way. As long as you don’t do anything in town to upset the citizens of Whiskey Hill, the sheriff doesn’t care what happens out on the range.”

  Chapter 9

  Intending to ride quietly into town, buy the ammunition and supplies he needed, and leave as quickly as possible, Colt pulled the buckboard to a stop by the hitching rail at Raymond Fletcher’s dry goods store. His uncle had volunteered to make the trip into town, but had to make a choice between that and riding over to Vance’s ranch to tend to his nephew’s stock. Several quiet days had passed since the shoot-outs at both ranches had occurred, and Vance was encouraged that maybe the trouble was over. Both Colt and Burt saw it differently, knowing that Drummond was not going to accept his apparent defeat. But since there was a lull in the action, Colt suggested that his uncle had better take advantage of it and make sure the stock was taken care of.

  “What if that puffed-up excuse for a sheriff tries to arrest you?” Burt had asked.

  “For what?” Colt replied. “I haven’t done anything but defend myself. I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “That didn’t stop ’em from sendin’ you off to prison for nine years,” Burt had reminded his nephew.

  “That ain’t gonna happen again,” Colt had promised. “You can count on it.” That thought was on his mind as he got down from the buckboard.

  Taking but a moment to look up and down the empty street, Colt stepped up on the board walkway and entered the store. Eunice Fletcher glanced up from the counter where she was sorting some new material that had just come in. She immediately spun on her heel and retreated to the back room where her husband was busy repairing a shelf. “Raymond!” she gasped. “That murderer is out there in the store.”

  Raymond dropped his hammer on the shelf and stepped down from the chair he had been using as a ladder. He, like his wife, had no desire to deal with the ex-convict. But unlike her, he was burdened with the role of man of the family. “I’ll see what he wants,” he told his wife.

  “Tell him he’s not welcome in this store,” Eunice directed. “We don’t have to cater to his kind.”

  “I’ll tend to it. You just stay back here until he’s gone.” Mighty damn easy for you to say, he thought, remembering the formidable image of the man just returned from prison.

  Colt turned as Fletcher walked in from the back. Mindful of his wife’s instructions, the nervous store-keeper was hesitant to pass on her sentiments, but he was also reluctant to greet him with the courtesy usually accorded a regular customer. Consequently, he was left in a quandary, the result of which caused him to say not a word, but to gape openmouthed. Colt seemed not to notice, and handed him a scrap of paper with a list of items his uncle needed.

  “Uncle Burt will be needin’ these,” Colt said as he passed the note to Fletcher.

  “All right,” Fletcher replied, relieved to have an explanation for his wife as to why he didn’t order Colt out of his store. The supplies were for Burt, and Burt was a valued customer. That made a difference. Gathering up the items on the list, Fletcher wasted little time in filling his customer’s order, and within minutes of his arrival, Colt was loading the supplies onto the buckboard.

  Deputy Stoney Yates craned his neck to stare at the driver of the buckboard pulling away from Fletcher’s store. Certain then that it was who he thought it was, he turned around and went back inside the office. “Sheriff, you ain’t gonna believe who’s drivin’ a buckboard down the middle of the street.”

  “Who?” J.D. asked.

  “Colt McCrae,” Stoney answered.

  “Are you sure?” the sheriff questioned, and got up from his chair. Going to the window, he stared out. “Why, that son of a bitch . . .” was all he uttered at the moment. He had figured that he would hardly see the likes of Colt McCrae in Whiskey Hill again, and if he did, it would more than likely be on a slab at the undertaker’s. “I reckon I’d best have a word with him,” he said, feeling that he was called upon to do something.

  It was not an easy decision for J.D. at this juncture. In spite of Frank Drummond’s efforts to keep the battle between him and the McCraes a private affair, some of the town’s citizens knew there was a range war going on. The mayor had asked J.D. point-blank why he was not taking action against one or both of the parties involved. J.D. had tried to sidestep the issue by insisting that it had been blown out of proportion, and besides that, it was not affecting the citizens of Whiskey Hill. It didn’t help matters when the bodies of three of Drummond’s men were found tied to the hitching rail in front of the jail. Roy Whitworth had suggested contacting the army, and J.D. had lied to the mayor when he said he had sent word to Fort Russell. I wish to hell Drummond would end this thing, he thought as he put his hat on and started for the door.

  “Hold up, there, McCrae,” J.D. sang out as he walked out onto the dusty street.

  Colt drew back on the reins, pulling the horse to a stop. He picked up the Winchester behind the seat and propped it beside him—a move the sheriff did not fail to notice. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Maybe you can start by tellin’ me about them three dead men you left tied up in front of the jail the other day,” J.D. said in a tone as authoritative as he could manage.

  “Who said I left them there?” Colt responded.

  “There was two or three folks that saw you leadin’ ’em down the street,” the sheriff insisted.

  “Maybe I found ’em outside of town and just dropped ’em off at the jail—figured you’d let Drummond know they were his men. How do you figure they got shot, Sheriff? I figured they musta been out huntin’ and surrounded a bunch of antelope, and wound up shootin’ each other.”

  J.D. didn’t respond for a few moments while he absorbed Colt’s sarcasm. “Mister,” the sheri
ff finally warned, “you might think you can buffalo me, but you just might find yourself a guest in my jail.”

  “For breakin’ what law?” Colt demanded. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t have to break a law to get locked up in Whiskey Hill.” He glared at the obviously irritated lawman for a moment. “Now, can I be on my way?”

  Frustrated, but not to the point of challenging the steady hand resting on the rifle barrel, J.D. stepped back from the buckboard. “I think it’s best if you just ride on outta town now. You ain’t welcome in Whiskey Hill.”

  Although his intention had been to do just that, the sheriff’s warning struck an irritating chord in Colt’s mind and he responded defiantly. “I expect I might fancy a cup of coffee before I make the trip back to Broken-M.” He popped the reins sharply across the horse’s back and left the sheriff standing in the street. He had no particular desire for coffee, but he was damn tired of people telling him to get out of town. When he came to the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, he had just about cooled his temper enough to forget the spiteful cup of coffee, but something changed his mind.

  “Colt!” Someone called and he turned to see Mary Simmons standing in the doorway of the dining room. He pulled up before the door. She walked out to the edge of the board sidewalk, a broad smile across her face. “Well,” she said, “I see they haven’t run you out of the territory yet.”

  “No, but it ain’t been for lack of tryin’,” Colt replied, a grin slowly forming on the face that was so defiant moments before.

  “You must be as ornery as they all say. Pearl and I have been telling ’em you didn’t seem the kind to cut and run.” She didn’t mention the fact that Pearl also said he’d be a damn fool if he didn’t. It was an ill-kept secret that Frank Drummond wanted him gone, and J.D. was usually quick to do Drummond’s bidding.

  “Is that a fact?” Colt replied. His decision made then, he guided the buckboard out of the street and climbed down. “I expect I could use a cup of that stuff you folks pass off as coffee.”

  “Well, come on in,” she invited grandly. “I just made a fresh pot not more’n fifteen minutes ago.” She opened the door wide for him. “Pearl might even be persuaded to scramble some eggs for you.”

  “Just coffee’ll do,” Colt said.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Pearl Murray sang out when Colt took a seat at the counter. “Thought you’d be dead by now.”

  “Is that so? Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Pearl laughed. “You got more’n your share of sand. Ain’t he, Mary?”

  “That’s a fact,” Mary agreed while she filled a cup from the pot on the stove. Noticing a wide grin on Pearl’s face, accompanied by an impish nod toward the kitchen, Mary glanced in that direction in time to see the back door closing. She almost laughed, knowing Oscar had ducked out the back, heading for the sheriff’s office. To Colt she said, “We might be seeing J.D. any minute.”

  “He’s already seen me,” Colt said. “He told me to get outta town. That’s the main reason I stopped here for coffee.”

  “Well, I like that,” Mary replied as though insulted. “I thought you just wanted to see me and Pearl.”

  “That, too, I reckon,” he said with a sheepish smile.

  Pearl walked over to stand directly in front of him while he sipped the hot coffee. “Colt, what in hell’s goin’ on out there? All they’ve been talkin’ about in the back room is some kinda range war goin’ on—dead men showin’ up at the sheriff’s office, one of Drummond’s men with a bullet in his leg, you bringin’ Tom Mosley in with a gunshot—and now I hear your brother, Vance, was shot. What the hell’s goin’ on? J.D. says it ain’t nothin’ that concerns Whiskey Hill.”

  Colt took another long sip of coffee while he decided how to answer her question. “It’s kinda simple,” he said. “Somebody’s tryin’ to take land that belongs to other folks, and those folks ain’t inclined to let him have it.”

  Whether or not it was explanation enough to suit her, it was obvious that it was all she was likely to receive, so she just shook her head and said, “It ain’t right. J.D. oughta do somethin’ about it.”

  “I’d just as soon he didn’t,” Colt replied, " ’cause I know which side he’d be on.” He gulped the last of his coffee down. “I’d best be goin’. It’s already gonna be after dark by the time I get back. How much I owe you?” Pearl waved off his attempt to pay.

  Mary walked him to the door. “Colt, you be careful, ” she said. “They’re out to get you.” Then lightening her tone, she added, “Don’t stay away so long.”

  He glanced down to look directly into her eyes. Smiling, he promised, “I’ll get back to see you. You can count on that.”

  Pearl came from behind the counter and walked over to stand in the door with Mary. They watched him until he turned at the end of the street and disappeared from their view. “Honey,” Pearl warned, “you’re lookin’ to find yourself some trouble if you keep givin’ him those sheep eyes. That man attracts trouble like a horse turd attracts flies.”

  “I was not,” Mary protested. “But I still think he’s a lot nicer than everybody makes him out to be.”

  Pearl was about to say more, but couldn’t help but giggle when they heard the sound of the back door closing. “Oscar’s back,” she whispered. “Came back to throw Colt out.” They both laughed at that.

  He set the horse’s nose on the trail leading back toward the Broken-M and Bar-M ranges, thoughts of Mary Simmons filling his mind. The young woman had a way about her. He couldn’t decide if she was pretty or not—certainly attractive, with those dark eyes that so easily captured his attention—and hair as dark as her eyes. This ain’t the time to be thinking about a woman, he lectured himself. Get your mind back on the business at hand. But he found that was not so easily done. Already he had lingered in town longer than he had intended. I just hope this horse of Uncle Burt’s knows his way home in the dark, he thought. Had he been aware that Stoney Yates had ridden out of town on a fast horse while he was drinking coffee, he might have been more alert for trouble.

  Stoney galloped in through the front gate of the Rocking-D Ranch and slid to a stop at the porch, his horse lathered and wheezing. Halfway up the steps, he heard someone call. Turning, he saw Drummond and two men coming from the barn. He immediately ran to meet them. When Drummond heard that Colt McCrae was driving a buckboard back from town, he knew he had been given an opportunity to settle with him once and for all. “Rafe,” he ordered, “you and Slim get mounted right away. If you hurry, you might catch McCrae before he gets to the other side of Pronghorn Canyon.” Knowing their mission well, they didn’t have to ask questions, and were off and running before many minutes had passed.

  “Is that the man you hired me to kill?” Bone asked, surprised that Drummond had sent two of his men to do the job.

  “It is,” Drummond replied evenly.

  More confused, Bone said, “Them two are most likely to get in my way.” He started to head back to the barn to get his horse.

  “Hold on,” Drummond said. “Things have changed.”

  “Changed?” Bone questioned, his dark face twisted in a scowl as he began to get the gist of things. “I thought we had a deal.”

  “I was gonna hire you to track McCrae and kill him. I don’t need you to track him when he’s riding down the road on a buckboard. My boys can take care of a simple bushwhacking job.”

  “We had a deal,” Bone said, his scowl deepening into anger.

  Remembering then, Drummond reminded him, “We never shook on it. You ain’t lost nothin’, anyway. You got a hundred dollars just for taking a ride up from Denver.” Seeing the anger building up in the brutal face, Drummond decided it wise to offer a settlement. “I’ll give you an extra fifty for your trouble. It’s too late to start back tonight, so you’re welcome to stay here for supper—start back in the morning.”

  Hardly appeased, Bone shrugged nonetheless, and without another word, turned and went to the bunkhouse. Drummond grinned, pleased that he h
ad saved the cost of the notorious killer’s fee.

  Pronghorn Canyon was not really a canyon at all. In reality, it was a shallow ravine almost a mile long that served as a buffer between Crooked Creek and the open range beyond. In fact, no one knew from whence the name had come. As far as anyone could remember, there had been no abundance of pronghorn there, either. Colt drove the buckboard along the center of the ravine, intending to veer off to the east at the end. To remain on a straight course would take him to the Rocking-D range.

  He had traveled approximately halfway through Pronghorn Canyon when a big, almost full moon rose over the distant hills, bathing the ravine floor with moonlight. Uncle Burt will start to worry about me, he thought. He didn’t have time for other thoughts along that line, for in the next instance, a bullet gouged out a strip of wood from the floorboard, followed almost at once by the bark of a rifle.

  His reaction was automatic. Lashing the horse with the reins, he crouched down in front of the seat, calling for all the speed the sorrel could give him. More shots rang out, sending lead slugs slithering through the frosty air all around him. A fist-sized chunk of wood flew over his shoulder, knocked out of the seat back. Suddenly he felt a solid blow against his side that caused him to sprawl sideways on the floor, losing the reins as he fell. In the next instance, the horse screamed as a bullet found fatal purchase, and the sorrel tumbled, throwing the buckboard upside down, spilling the contents, including the man. By miracle or instinct, he was able to hang on to his rifle as he sailed through the air, landing hard on the canyon floor.

  Still with no idea of how many or from where, he lay on the ground trying to regain the breath that the fall had pounded from his lungs. The numbness in his side began to sting and he grabbed his side, only to pull it away again covered with blood. Off to one side, the buckboard lay smashed, the dead horse still in the traces. He had his rifle, but no extra cartridges. There were cartridges somewhere in the parcels that had been scattered, but he could not see them. After a few agonizing minutes, he regained his breath. Now, with nothing but the pain in his side, which seemed to be getting progressively worse, he struggled to get to his feet.