Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  “Mary Simmons,” the voice came back.

  Tom got up immediately and walked out to meet her. “Mary,” he exclaimed, “what in the world are you doin’ out here this time of night?”

  “I’ve come about Colt,” she answered.

  It was a greatly relieved brother and uncle to learn that Colt was still alive although seriously wounded. Burt and Vance had speculated on the possibility that he might be holed up somewhere, wounded, but they had found no clues that might tell them for sure. As each day passed without his appearance, it was difficult to avoid the conclusion that he might be dead.

  Mary told them of Colt’s concealment in the church by Pearl Murray and his subsequent escape to Pearl’s house—the events that followed resulting in the killing of young Jeremy Jenkins, and Colt’s removal to Red Moon’s village on Willow Creek.

  “I knew he was alive somewhere,” Burt exclaimed. “They’da damn sure let us know about it if he was dead.” The news was welcome, indeed, to Colt’s uncle, who was feeling the pressure of trying to defend two ranches at the same time. He desperately needed Colt’s help since there was very little he could do to stop Drummond from driving off his cattle. Vance’s healing was coming along very slowly, and Burt didn’t have the heart to tell him his cattle were scattered all over the prairie. He had sent Tom and Bill over to Vance’s ranch that morning, and they reported back that most of the stock was gone, and the house had been ransacked. At least they didn’t burn it down, but Burt was afraid it probably hadn’t occurred to them. They might be back.

  “I was there again yesterday,” Mary said. “He is getting much better, but it may be some time before he is fully strong again.” She paused to smile at Rena when the Cheyenne woman brought her a cup of coffee. The somber-faced Rena asked her about her mother, speaking in the Cheyenne tongue. Mary answered that her mother was well.

  Impatient with the exchange between the two women, since he had no understanding of Cheyenne, Burt interrupted. “I better go get him. Can you lead me to Red Moon’s camp?”

  “I think it would be better if you leave him where he is,” Mary replied. “My grandmother is taking care of him, and not many people know where Red Moon’s village is. He’s safer there.”

  “Little Star is right,” Rena said, calling Mary by her childhood name. “When he is strong enough, he will come.”

  “She’s probably right,” Tom said. “Them devils would most likely follow you if you went after him.”

  Burt nodded, reconsidering his first impulse. For the last two days, there had always been at least one rider spotted along the high ridge east of the ranch, watching for anyone coming or going. On the two occasions when Burt and Bill Wilkes rode out to confront him, the rider disappeared only to reappear after they returned to the house. “Anybody see you come in?” he suddenly thought to ask. He wasn’t really sure if there was anyone watching at night.

  “I don’t think so,” Mary replied. “It’s awfully dark out tonight, no moon, and I was pretty careful.”

  “I’ll see you back home,” Burt said. “It ain’t safe for a young lady to be ridin’ through these hills alone at night.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Mary insisted, “but thanks for the offer. One thing, though, Colt needs his horse and a rifle. He lost his when he was wounded.”

  Burt sent Tom to saddle Colt’s horse, then turned to question Mary. “You plannin’ to take him his horse tonight?”

  “No,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have time before morning. I’ll take his horse to my mother’s tonight, and take it to Colt tomorrow night.”

  Burt thought about that for a moment, still uneasy with the young woman alone on the prairie at night, but Mary seemed sure of herself. “All right, but you be mighty careful, young lady. I’ll send him one of the rifles we picked up from Drummond’s men. And it wouldn’t hurt to slap a pistol belt around that dainty little waist of yours while we’re at it.”

  With Colt’s horse saddled and tied on behind Mary’s, they walked outside with her. Burt wanted to know if the sheriff was doing anything at all to stop Drummond’s hired killers. Mary had to tell him that J.D. seemed to want nothing to do with the war that was going on. She also told him that Roy Whitworth and some members of the town council were growing impatient with the sheriff’s lack of response. “I reckon there ain’t no doubt which side J. D. Townsend’s on,” Burt said.

  “Nobody doubts that,” Mary said, “but I think maybe the town’s getting tired of it.” She turned then to climb up in the saddle.

  Watching without comment until then, Rena stepped up beside her and asked softly so no one else could hear, “Is your mother still living with that man Simmons?” When Mary nodded, Rena said, “He is a bad man. Tell your mother to go back to her people.” Mary could only respond with a sad smile. Her father was a brutal man, but alcohol had rendered him harmless, except for verbal abuse, and her mother felt an obligation to take care of him, choosing to forget the years of physical abuse. “Take care, Little Star,” Rena whispered as Mary turned her horse toward the ridge.

  Chapter 12

  Marjorie Taylor was startled for a few moments when she opened the door to confront the sinister figure standing there. The tall, gaunt man wearing a long black coat stood smirking at her. His dark, menacing eyes peered out from under the wide brim of a leather hat, seeming to penetrate her brain as he glared at her.

  “The doctor’s with a patient right now,” Marjorie said, closing the door partway. “You can wait on the porch. It shouldn’t be very long.” With most of the doctor’s patients, she would invite them to wait in the parlor, but she was reluctant to let this ominous-looking individual into her home.

  Her apparent concern amused Bone. His smirk widened into a large grin. He shoved the door open again, pushed past the astonished woman, and walked into the parlor. “I’ll just have me a look around,” he told her, then proceeded to walk through the house, looking into every room. Ignoring the shocked woman’s protests, he opened any doors he found closed to peer around inside the room before moving to the next. When he opened the last door, he discovered a speechless Dr. Taylor in the midst of lancing a boil on the backside of one of the town’s citizens.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Dr. Taylor blurted when he found his voice.

  About two steps behind the rude intruder, Marjorie tried to explain. “I tried to tell him—” was as far as she got before Bone walked over to the examining table, grabbed the unsuspecting patient by his hair, and jerked his head back sharply.

  Taking a hard look at the wide-eyed patient, Bone shoved his head back down on the table. “This ain’t Colt McCrae,” he charged. “Where is he?” Bone had never laid eyes on Colt, but it was fairly obvious that the frightened little store clerk on the table was not the man he hunted.

  Flustered for a few moments only, Dr. Taylor recovered his professional dignity to demand, “What do you mean, busting in here like this? I’m with a patient. Now get out of here!”

  The doctor’s haughty response tended to amuse Bone immensely. “You’re a feisty one, ain’t you?” he said, suddenly thrusting a pistol into Taylor’s face. “I asked you a question. Now, where’s Colt McCrae?”

  The defiant attitude rapidly drained from the doctor’s face, leaving him a good deal more contrite. “Colt McCrae?” he stammered. “I don’t know where Colt McCrae is.”

  “He was here,” Bone insisted. “Some woman named Pearl brought him here with a gunshot wound.”

  “No,” Taylor pleaded, “not here. I haven’t seen McCrae or Pearl. I didn’t even know he was shot.”

  Bone looked uncertain. “You sure you ain’t just lost your memory? Night before last, woman named Pearl brought him here late.”

  “Not here, she didn’t,” the doctor insisted. “Tell him, Marjorie. Have I treated Colt McCrae for anything? ”

  Bone jerked his head around to glare at the woman while she confirmed her husband’s claims with a nervous shaking of her head. He looked ba
ck at Taylor, glowering at him for a few moments more before deciding the doctor was probably telling him the truth. “That lying son of a bitch,” he mumbled, thinking of Dewey Jenkins. “I shoulda shot him instead of that whelp son of his.” Now a sliver of doubt crept into his mind about the rest of Dewey’s tale. Maybe this Pearl woman hadn’t been the one who took McCrae away from the church. Well, we’ll find out if she did or not, he thought.

  Done with the doctor, he holstered his pistol and turned toward the door. As he walked by the table, he delivered a hard smack with his open palm on the shivering patient’s bare backside. “Go on back to work, Doc, before this jasper freezes his ass off,” then chuckled when Marjorie stepped quickly back, aghast, shocked by his crudeness.

  Figuring that this was as good a time as any to pay a visit to the town of Whiskey Hill, Bone headed his horse toward the little gathering of rough buildings a few hundred yards away. Drummond had requested that Bone stay away from the town so as not to upset the citizens who lived there. But this hunt for McCrae had gone on long enough to start to eat at Bone’s pride, and he was determined to end it as quickly as possible. The next step in his search was to tail the woman named Pearl, since she obviously did not take the wounded man to the doctor. Drummond’s man, Brownie, said Pearl was the cook at the Whiskey Hill Kitchen. So I reckon I’ll go find her, he thought.

  There were only two customers in Oscar Anderson’s place when Bone walked in. Both turned to gape at the man in the long black coat. With his hat brim pulled low over his forehead, and the long ponytail of greasy black hair, with one eagle feather dangling against his back, he walked casually over to the counter and sat down.

  Mary almost dropped the stack of plates she was carrying from the back room when she saw him. She knew at once this was the killer who was hunting Colt. Pulling her wits together as quickly as she could manage, she took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then went to the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Bone looked her up and down for a long moment before answering. “Yeah, gimme a cup of coffee.”

  She turned about and went into the kitchen where Pearl was still bending over a tub of dirty dishes. “It’s him!” Mary whispered. “That killer hired by Drummond. He’s out there at the counter!” She glanced anxiously at her friend while she hurriedly poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the edge of the stove. Pearl said nothing in reply, but Mary could see that she was properly shaken. “He’s bound to recognize you,” Mary said. “You better stay back here in the kitchen till he’s gone.” Pearl nodded, still not speaking. Her mind was racing, however, and looking around for something with which to protect herself, she settled for a large butcher knife.

  About to deliver Bone’s coffee, Mary stopped when Oscar came in the kitchen door. “Who’s that settin’ at the counter?” Oscar asked. “I ain’t ever seen him before.”

  “That’s the son of a bitch that shot Dewey Jenkins’ son,” Pearl volunteered. “Maybe you oughta slip out the back and fetch J.D.”

  The news sobered Oscar in a second. “Damn, he’s a mean-lookin’ feller, all right. Maybe I had better get the sheriff.” Wasting no time, he went out the back door. Mary looked at Pearl and shook her head with a gesture of dismay, then proceeded through the door with the coffee.

  “Took you long enough,” Bone growled when Mary set the cup down before him. She could feel his eyes roaming up and down her body. Dumping several heaping spoonfuls of sugar in the black coffee, he took a sip, then asked, “You ain’t the cook, are you?”

  Not sure how she should answer, she said, “Sometimes I cook.”

  “Yeah, but your name ain’t Pearl, is it?” She didn’t have to answer. He was certain that she was not the woman he had words with in the church. It had been fairly dark in the little church, but he was sure that the woman who had sassed him was a good bit older than this one.

  “I’m busy in the kitchen,” Mary said. “Just holler if you want something else.” She left him then to drink his coffee, hoping that Oscar would show up at any minute with the sheriff.

  Joining Pearl in the kitchen, Mary whispered, “That’s the most evil-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life.” She was about to relate Bone’s questions to Pearl when the door suddenly opened, and both women froze.

  “That’s what I thought,” Bone grunted with a wicked grin. “Hello, Pearl. Me and you got a little somethin’ to talk about.”

  “Hold on there, mister,” a voice commanded from behind him.

  Bone spun around to see Stoney Yates standing squarely behind him. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m the law,” Stoney replied. “I need to talk to you about that killin’ over at Dewey Jenkins’ place the other day.”

  “What killin’?” Bone replied. “Who’s Dewey Jenkins?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about. You shot Dewey’s son, Jeremy.”

  Bone didn’t answer at once, looking the young deputy over, measuring the adversary facing him. “Was that his name? Yeah, I shot him. I reckon it broke him of the habit of comin’ after somebody with a shotgun. What are you aimin’ to do about it?” A spiteful smile crept slowly across his dark face as he waited for the lawman’s response. He was in a killing mood. He hoped the deputy would push him.

  Oscar, who had been standing behind Stoney, backed away toward the door, but stopped dead still when Bone shot a warning glance in his direction. The only two customers in the diner were both struck like statues, afraid to move. Stoney sensed at that moment that perhaps he had gone too far. J.D. should have been the one to confront Bone, but J.D. was not in the office when Oscar came for help. He was not sure at this point if he should arrest the self-admitted killer or not. Maybe Bone had simply fired in self-defense. On the other hand, he thought, this might be an opportunity to show the people of Whiskey Hill that he might be the man to replace an aging J.D. He made up his mind. “I’m gonna have to take you in,” he said and dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his revolver.

  He might have walked away from the confrontation had he not reached for the pistol. A fatal mistake— Bone whipped out both of his pistols and pumped four slugs into Stoney’s chest before the deputy’s even cleared the holster. At such close range, the shots backed the startled lawman a couple of steps before he crumpled to the floor.

  The sudden explosion of the two .45s shocked the already frozen spectators in the establishment. The room was now clutched by an eerie silence as a thin blue cloud of gun smoke floated waist-high over Stoney’s body. Bone, pistols still drawn, slowly scanned the room, making direct contact with every horrified eye. “Everybody in here saw him go for his gun,” he said softly. His voice, low and absolute, carried an obvious threat. Thinking it best never to linger too long at the scene of a killing, however, he holstered his weapons and walked to the door, pausing for a second only to cast a warning threat in Pearl’s direction.

  When he was gone, no one dared to move for many long seconds until Mary rushed to Stoney’s side, releasing the room from the killer’s icy grip. “Somebody go get Dr. Taylor,” Oscar said, his hands still shaking from the ordeal.

  “No use goin’ for the doctor,” Pearl said, shaking her head woefully. “He was dead when he hit the floor.” She looked up to meet Mary’s eyes, both women harboring the terrible thought that Pearl might be next on the killer’s list. “Has anybody seen J.D.?” Pearl asked. No one knew where he was.

  At the moment of his deputy’s death, J. D. Townsend was seated in the parlor of Frank Drummond’s ranch house. He quickly got to his feet when Drummond entered the room. “Sit down, Sheriff,” Drummond said as he walked across the room to select a cigar from a box on his desk. Without bothering to offer one to his visitor, he lit up, then asked, “What brings you all the way out here, J.D.?”

  “Things are gettin’ a little touchy in town, Mr. Drummond,” J.D. started, not sure of himself or how he should say what he wanted. “What I mean is—a lot of the folks are pushin’ me pre
tty hard to do somethin’ about the trouble out here between you and the McCraes.”

  “It’s none of their damn business what goes on between me and the McCraes,” Drummond replied. “Sounds to me like you ain’t lettin’ ’em know who runs things in Whiskey Hill.”

  “Yessir,” J.D. responded respectfully. “I’ve been tryin’ to let ’em know just that, but they’re complainin’ that the trouble is spillin’ over in town—especially with that new feller you hired. He walked right in Dewey Jenkins’ house and shot his son.”

  “Those people were hidin’ that murderin’ Colt McCrae,” Drummond said. “Bone said he had to shoot in self-defense.” When he saw J.D. wincing, trying to think of a better way to state his request, Drummond was quick to cut him off. “I thought we had an understandin’ on what I’m tryin’ to do here, and that you would handle things in town, and I’d take care of troublemakers like Colt McCrae. Now, if you ain’t up to the job, maybe it’s time we had a talk about that.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” J.D. was quick to reply, “it ain’t about that. I was just makin’ sure you knew what that man is up to. I mean, I thought you’d wanna know. I can handle my job all right.”

  “Good,” Drummond said, “I thought for a minute you’d lost your nerve.”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, then,” Drummond concluded, getting to his feet. “Anything else you need to talk about?” When J.D. shook his head, Drummond left the room, saying, “Go out to the kitchen. Alice will find you somethin’ to eat before you go back.”