Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Satisfied that he had a straight answer, he released the crazed woman. “The doctor, huh? Hell, I shoulda known to look there in the first place.”

  Chapter 11

  “Sheriff!” Barney Samuels yelled as he charged in the front door of the Whiskey Hill Kitchen. Running straight to the back room where the sheriff and Roy Whitworth were seated at the table, he called out excitedly, “One of them folks from over near Long Creek is driving a wagon down the middle of town lookin’ for you. He’s haulin’ a dead man in the back of his wagon.”

  “Well, hell,” J.D. replied, irritated that his noon meal was being interrupted. He scowled up at Barney. “Did he go to the office? Stoney oughta be there.”

  Barney shook his head vehemently. “He don’t wanna talk to Stoney. He wants the sheriff.”

  J.D. sighed reluctantly and got up from the table. Following Barney out to the street, he called to Mary to set his plate on the edge of the stove until he returned. “I hope this won’t take long.”

  Joined by Pearl then, Mary went to the window to see what the commotion was about. “Why, that’s Dewey Jenkins,” Pearl said. Concerned then, she went out the door after J.D. and Barney.

  Mary ran to the back room to get the sheriff’s plate, almost bumping into Roy Whitworth on his way out to the front. “Take my plate, too,” the mayor said as he hurried past. After setting the two plates on the edge of the stove, she ran out to join the other spectators, arriving just in time to hear the stricken father’s outcry.

  “Sheriff!” Dewey cried out upon seeing the bulky lawman approaching. “He shot my boy! He came into my home and killed my son!”

  “Who did?” J.D. replied as a small gathering of spectators crowded up to the wagon to peer at the boy’s body.

  “One of that murderin’ scum that works for Frank Drummond,” Dewey cried. “I don’t know his name. He just walked in my house and murdered Jeremy— threatened my wife.” He held his hand up to a nasty gash beside his head. “He pistol-whipped me till I couldn’t see straight.” Spotting Pearl in the crowd, he made an attempt to apologize. “He was lookin’ for that Colt McCrae feller. I’m sorry, Pearl, but he might come lookin’ for you.”

  This was not good news for the sheriff. Drummond had assured him that no one outside the Broken-M and the Bar-M would be involved in the elimination of Colt McCrae. He had gotten word about the hired killer Drummond had brought in, and he had feared he might have to answer some questions from the mayor and the council if some of the trouble spilled over into their little town. He glanced over at Pearl, a questioning look in his eye, wondering what she had to do with it. Before he could ask, he was forced to respond to Dewey’s demand.

  “I wanna know what you’re gonna do about it, Sheriff!”

  “Why, I’ll look into it,” J.D. responded weakly, not really knowing what he could or should do about it until he talked to Drummond.

  Pearl moved up to stand beside the wagon seat. “Dewey, I’m awful sorry. Is Vera all right?”

  “Well, her son is dead,” Dewey replied sarcastically. “How do you reckon she is?” After having grieved over their tragedy, he and his wife could not help but place a lot of the blame on Pearl for their loss. “I had to tell him you hauled him away from the church. He was gonna kill Vera if I didn’t. But I told him you took him to the doctor.”

  “I guess you couldn’t help it,” Pearl said, feeling her share of guilt for causing Dewey to become involved. Turning to look at Mary, whose worried expression told her they were both thinking the same thing, she whispered, “I’ve got to get him outta my house. They’re sure to find out where my place is.” They both turned to glance in the direction of Dr. Taylor’s house, half expecting to see the killer coming.

  Her emotions sufficiently tangled, Mary made some quick decisions. Pulling Pearl a few steps away from the wagon, she said, “I’ll go to your house and get Colt outta there.” When Pearl started to protest, she interrupted. “It’s best if you stay here where you won’t be alone. He doesn’t know anything about me, and we can’t let him find Colt in your house. You can tell Oscar I got sick and had to go home.”

  “It’s my fault for hidin’ him,” Pearl insisted. “I don’t wanna get you involved. Dammit, I’ve already got Dewey’s son killed.”

  “I’m already involved,” Mary said. “I better get going. I can walk to your place in an hour.”

  “Hell, you can’t walk. Take my buggy, and I’ll walk home later. You’re gonna need the buggy, anyway, if you’re aimin’ to take him someplace, ’cause I don’t think he can walk.”

  Unnoticed by the others gathered around the wagon, Mary slipped away toward the stables where Pearl kept her buggy when she was in town. Meanwhile, J.D. made noises toward taking charge of the situation. “Everybody just settle down and let the man take his son to the undertaker,” he ordered in as official a tone as he could muster.

  “What are you gonna do about my son’s murderer? ” Dewey wanted to know.

  “I’m gonna look into it,” J.D. said. “You just go along and take care of your boy.”

  “Look into it?” Dewey exploded. “Goddammit, Sheriff, there’s a mad-dog killer loose out there. And you’re gonna look into it? Why don’t you get up a posse and run the murderer to ground?”

  “The man’s right, J.D.,” Roy Whitworth said. “We can’t have this sort of killer running loose in our town. You need to form a posse and go after this man.”

  “Dammit, Roy,” J.D. protested, “let me see what’s what before we talk about a posse. We don’t even know where to look for him.” He didn’t like the picture of Frank Drummond he already had in his mind if he came riding onto his range with a posse looking for Bone.

  “I expect you wouldn’t have to look no farther than the Rocking-D,” Barney Samuels grunted.

  “Now, see,” J.D. quickly remarked, “we don’t know any such thing. That’s why I wanna make sure we don’t go off half-cocked. We don’t know if Drummond had anything to do with the killin’.”

  “The hell we don’t,” Barney shot back. “Anybody that don’t think Drummond’s behind all the killin’ around here is dumber than a fence post.”

  “Barney’s right,” Roy Whitworth said. “We’ve all knuckled under to Frank Drummond for years, but I think this time he’s gone too far.”

  “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth,” Pearl spoke up. “It took a long time in comin’, Mr. Mayor, but damned if you ain’t finally said somethin’ that makes sense.”

  Ignoring the acid-tongued woman’s insult, the mayor continued to press the sheriff for action. “I think it’s time to confront Drummond about this wave of killings, J.D.—and this business about a war with the McCraes. I’m ashamed to admit that we’ve become so blind about Drummond that we’re afraid to travel far outside of town to see what’s really going on.”

  J. D. Townsend’s worst fears were suddenly being realized. Deathly afraid of crossing Frank Drummond, he had never deceived himself that he was anything but Drummond’s man. At the same time, he coveted his position as sheriff of Whiskey Hill, a position that afforded him some measure of authority. Now this latest escalation of killing had caught him right in the middle, and the town council expected him to do something. Of the two sides pressing him, he knew that he was a hell of a lot more frightened by Drummond than the town council. Still hoping, however, to appease the mayor and his fellow citizens, he tried to reassure the faces now staring at him and awaiting answers. “Now, Roy, we don’t wanna make more of this than it really is. Like I said, I’m gonna look into it. We don’t need to get up a posse just yet. I’ll ride out to talk to Drummond about it.” The response he read in their faces was not encouraging. “Now, you folks go on about your business, and let this poor man take his son to the undertaker.” His appetite totally destroyed, he turned and headed for his office.

  Colt McCrae grunted with the pain caused by his torturous walk from the bedroom to the kitchen. The wound stung with each step he took, but it was
his rib cage that caused him to flinch. He was convinced now that he had landed so hard when thrown from the buckboard that he had cracked some ribs. But painful or not, when he heard the buggy coming up the lane, he forced himself to move to the kitchen to get the double-barreled shotgun he had seen there.

  With the shotgun in hand, he checked to make sure it was loaded before letting his body collapse onto a chair at the table. With the weapon lying on the table before him, he sat facing the door.

  “Colt!” Mary cried out in alarm upon opening the door, startled to see the wounded man seated at the table.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Colt responded.

  “I’ve got to get you out of here,” she replied. “The man trying to kill you knows that Pearl brought you from the church. It’s just a matter of time before he finds out you’re here.”

  “What about Pearl?” Colt asked. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so. She’s gonna go over to my house when she finishes work today. I think as long as she’s in town, she’ll be all right. So far, none of Drummond’s crowd knows I’m involved, so let’s get you out of here to someplace safe.” Though she did not voice it, she felt reasonably sure that they would not think to look for Pearl in her parents’ house since her mother was a full-blood Cheyenne, and her father, a white man, was the town drunk.

  “I need to get back to my uncle’s—my horse, my rifle,” Colt started, then shook his head, bewildered. “I ain’t much good without a horse and rifle.”

  “You wouldn’t be much good even with them from the looks of you right now,” Mary stated. “Pearl said you’ve lost a lot of blood, and we need to get you someplace where you can heal.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he confessed. “I can hardly keep myself sittin’ up in this chair. Do you know a place I can hole up for a spell?”

  “I do,” she said as she moved to help him up from the chair. “My grandmother’s.”

  It was the second time Colt had ridden in Pearl Murray’s buggy. On this occasion, it seemed more painful than the first, when he was barely conscious of the trip from the church to Pearl’s little cabin. On this day, however, he felt every stone or rut that jolted his ribs as Mary drove the horse up through the foothills, at times when there was barely enough trail for the buggy to pass. It took most of his depleted strength just to remain in the seat beside her. To his relief, the rough journey finally ended when they crossed over a long tree-covered ridge that formed one side of a gentle basin and descended into a small gathering of a dozen tipis.

  Their arrival sparked an immediate alarm among the inhabitants of the village when the buggy was sighted. Women screamed excitedly “Vi ho ah I!” as they ran about, gathering their children. Men ran to their tipis to get their weapons, for the appearance of a buggy meant white man. Mary stopped the horse and stood up. To Colt’s surprise, she called out to them. Speaking in their tongue, she identified herself by the name her grandmother had always called her, Little Star. Then she pointed to Colt and said, “Ehaomohtahe. He is sick.” Her words seemed to calm the concerned Cheyenne.

  Near the center of the small gathering of Indians, an old woman made her way to the forefront. She stood looking at the young white woman for a long moment before finally her leathery old face broke into a wide smile and she called out, “Little Star.”

  Mary drove the buggy into the camp and they were quickly surrounded by curious men, women, and children. Mary stepped down to receive the warm embrace of her grandmother. The old woman’s smile was as wide as her wrinkled face, revealing gums with more gaps than teeth. It had been more than two years since Mary had visited the tiny village of her grandmother, Walking Woman, and it was obvious by the glow in the old woman’s face that she had been missed. When Mary explained why she had brought the wounded white man to their village, her grandmother did not disappoint her.

  “Take him to my lodge,” she said. “There he can rest, and I will make him strong again.” While two of the men helped Colt down from the buggy, Walking Woman asked Mary, “He is a good white man?”

  Understanding, Mary at once assured her grandmother that Colt was a good white man. Rightly concerned, Walking Woman was still sad that Mary’s mother had married a white man who was not good. “How is your mother?” she asked. Mary replied that her mother was getting along as well as could be expected. “She is still with that man, your father?” Mary nodded. Walking Woman shook her head sadly. “She should come back to her people.” Finished with the subject then, she spun on her heel and followed after the men carrying Colt. “Come, we will see about this white man. He is important to you?”

  Mary blushed. “Well, kinda, but some bad men are looking for him. I didn’t know where else to take him.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Walking Woman said. Inside her tipi, she fashioned a bed with several blankets on one side of the lodge. Feeling helpless in a strange world, Colt lay quietly while the old woman took the bandage off and looked at his wound. “Bullet go in, bullet come out,” she announced.

  “I think he’s got some broken ribs,” Mary said.

  Walking Woman placed her hand on Colt’s side and pressed gently, causing him to grunt with the pain. She nodded. “I’ll put some medicine on the wound, heal him up. We’ll bind his ribs.” She pulled her head back as if seeing him for the first time. “He’s a strong man. He’ll heal quick.” She left to search for the roots she needed.

  “What did she say?” Colt asked as soon as the old woman disappeared. The entire consultation between the two women had been conducted in Cheyenne, so he was lost and anxious. Mary repeated everything that they had said. “Where the hell am I?” Colt asked impatiently. “I’ve got to let my uncle know where I am.”

  Mary knelt down beside him. “You’re not in any shape to do anything right now but get well,” she told him. “You’re in Red Moon’s village. He is one of the men who carried you in here. He’s my uncle. You’ll be safe here. This camp is well hidden. Nobody bothers these people.”

  “I thought the Cheyenne fought with the Sioux at Little Big Horn, and were on the run from the army. How come these people are here so close to Fort Russell?”

  “When you were outside, did you see any young men?” she replied. “The young men are with Little Wolf. There is no one left here but the women and old men, and some children. The soldiers at Fort Russell know that Red Moon’s village is still here, but they don’t know exactly where—and they don’t care. These people are not threats to anyone.”

  “I’ve got to hurry up and get outta here,” Colt said. “I need a horse and my rifle. There’s a lot of unfinished business that needs to be taken care of.” He was concerned about the hired gunman who was stalking him, but his main worry was for Vance and his uncle Burt. They needed his gun to stand up to Drummond. “What about that sorry excuse for a sheriff? Is he doin’ anything about Drummond?”

  “J.D.’s too scared of Drummond to interfere. You know that.”

  “Damn, I’ve got to get outta here,” he moaned.

  “You’ve got to get well before anything else,” she informed him. “I’ll get word to your uncle that you’re all right.” She got up to leave. “I’ve got to get Pearl’s buggy back to her. You’ll be all right here. Walking Woman will take good care of you. She knows a few words of English.”

  “Mary,” he started, not sure how to express it, “I don’t know how to tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me—you and Pearl.”

  “You’re the first man who’s ever really stood up to Drummond,” she said with a smile. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She started toward the entrance. “I’ll try to get up here tomorrow if I can.”

  “Mary, wait.” He stopped her, his voice with a hint of urgency. She paused and waited, puzzled by his apparent inability to choose his words. “What if . . . A man has to . . . I mean, what if I have to . . . ?”

  “Pee?” she mercifully came to his aid.

  “Yeah, pee,” he said
, blushing.

  “You go out behind the tipi like everybody else. I think most of the men go in the willows on the other side of the creek. If you can’t make it on your own, Grandma will help you.”

  “Oh, I’ll make it on my own,” he assured her. He could still hear her laughing as she walked to the buggy. Left alone in this new, strange environment, he felt more helpless than before. His contact with Indians had been limited at best, and he was left to wonder why this village of Cheyenne would so willingly take him, a white man, in. If the reason was totally due to the fact that Mary was Walking Woman’s granddaughter, it still wouldn’t explain the cordial reception by the rest of the village. After all, the very land that his uncle and his father had claimed for themselves was once Cheyenne hunting ground. I’ll be lucky if one of them doesn’t cut my throat while I’m asleep, he thought as he lay back to ease the pain in his ribs.

  Outside, Mary paused by Pearl’s buggy to wait to say good-bye to her grandmother, who was already coming up from the creek with a handful of roots. “This white man,” Walking Woman said, “maybe he is a special white man.” She smiled knowingly with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Her granddaughter’s concern for the wounded man did not escape the old woman.

  Mary smiled with a slight blush. “He is a special man. Take good care of him.”

  “I will, little one,” Walking Woman assured her. “You will come back soon?”

  “I will.”

  “That can’t be nobody that’s up to any good,” Tom Mosley muttered under his breath. He reached down and picked up his rifle, then edged over to the end of the swale he had taken a position behind. It was mighty late at night for honest visitors, so Tom was not willing to show himself before he could determine what manner of rider was approaching Burt McCrae’s ranch.

  Watching intently as the rider gradually materialized in the darkness, Tom nervously touched the trigger of his rifle with his fingertip, wondering if he should alert the others back at the house. Seconds passed, and he could now see that it was only a single rider for certain, a fact that made him feel better about not sounding an alarm. Maybe it was Colt, he thought, but as the rider neared him, he could tell that it was not big enough to be Colt. He waited a few seconds longer before calling out. “Just hold it right there,” he said forcefully, still crouching low behind the swale. The rider stopped at once. “Who are you?” Tom demanded.