Brownie Brooks sat close to the fire while he strained his eyes to examine the wound in his leg. “Bad business,” he mumbled as he picked at a little pocket of pus that had formed on one end of the wound. “It mighta had a chance to heal up proper if Mr. Drummond coulda let me rest it like the doctor said.” Unhappy with the job he had been given to keep an eye on the Broken-M ranch house, he crowded even closer to his small campfire. “What in hell could a man see out here in the dark, anyway? Hell, I couldn’t see a dozen riders from this ridge at night.” The ridge, some five or six hundred yards from Burt McCrae’s ranch house, was as close as Brownie dared to get. Even that was too close to suit him. A man who was half good with a rifle could pick him off at that distance. For that reason, he intended to move back a couple hundred yards before sunup.
Finished with picking at his wound, he made himself as comfortable as he could, and pulled his blanket over him. “Ain’t nobody comin’ or goin’ this time of night,” he said as he pulled his hat down tight and tucked his whiskers inside his blanket. In less than a quarter of an hour, he was sleeping. An hour before sunrise, his snores still resonated off the chill night breeze as he slept the peaceful sleep of the simple-minded—unaware of the man quietly walking into his camp.
Pausing to look at the sleeping form for a brief moment, Colt recognized him as the man he had shot in the leg. He reached down and picked up the rifle resting across the saddle. Brownie snorted, but did not awaken. Colt stepped around him and walked over to Brownie’s horse. Removing the hobbles from the horse’s fetlocks, he led the obedient animal away.
Tom Mosley came out of the bunkhouse to spot a rider approaching, leading a horse. He squinted against the sunlight for a moment until the rider reached the creek and he identified the visitor. “Colt,” he exhaled softly, then sang out for those in the house to hear. “Colt!” he yelled. “It’s Colt!” He was soon joined by Bill Wilkes, followed in a few seconds by Burt coming from the house. They stood waiting to greet his nephew as he walked the horses up to the porch.
“Where’d you get the extra horse, Colt?” Tom asked as Colt dismounted.
“From a feller back there on the ridge,” Colt replied. “He wasn’t usin’ him.”
Tom threw his head back with a hearty chuckle, well aware of the constant surveillance. “It’s a long walk back to Drummond’s ranch totin’ a saddle.”
“Especially with a bad leg,” Colt said.
“Lord knows, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Burt McCrae said. “How’s the wound comin’ along?”
Colt replied that the wound was healing fine, that Walking Woman had given him the best of care. His ribs were the cause of most of his discomfort. “Sorry I had to leave you shorthanded,” he said.
“Well, come on in the house,” Burt said. “Rena will fix you some breakfast.”
Inside, they were joined by Vance and Susan. Colt was disappointed to see how slowly his brother was recovering from his wound, but he had not been counting on Vance’s gun in the business to be concluded with Frank Drummond. “Have there been any more raids since I’ve been gone?”
“No,” Burt answered. “They’ve been satisfied with just settin’ on that ridge up there and watching us. I think Drummond ain’t got enough men left to do any real fightin’. They plundered Vance’s place, but at least they didn’t burn it down. We’re just too thin to cover both houses.”
“What about the sheriff?” Colt asked. “Has he done anything about it, one way or the other?”
“Hell,” Burt snorted. “There ain’t no sheriff. That gunman Drummond hired shot Stoney Yates, and J.D. just cut out and headed for who knows where.”
Colt let that register in his mind before responding. “Well, I reckon that wasn’t much of a loss for the town.”
Burt watched his nephew eat for a few minutes before asking, “What are you aimin’ to do now?”
“I’m thinkin’ I’d best get back to that Cheyenne camp. Mary’s pa told that gunman of Drummond’s that I was there. He’s been lookin’ all over creation for me, and I think it’s time he found me. Then I reckon we’ve got to settle this fight with Drummond.”
When the early rays of the sun lit upon his face, Brownie Brooks stirred briefly before shifting his body, looking for a more comfortable position. Still half asleep, he reached down to pull his blanket up closer around his shoulders, only then remembering that he’d planned to move his camp back from the ridge before full daylight descended. Reluctantly, he sat up and poked around in his campfire in an effort to rekindle a flame. “Damn, it’s cold,” he commented. It occurred to him then that there was no sound from his horse. Knowing the horse wouldn’t be far away, he looked all around him. “Well, where the hell . . .” he started to question, but his eye caught sight of his hobbles lying on the ground some twenty feet away. At once alarmed, he reached for his rifle. It wasn’t there. Near panic then, he jumped up and looked all around him on the ridge. There was no one in sight. He strained to see down the ridge toward the ranch house he had been watching. He could see no activity as yet on the frosty morning.
Knowing he’d better not linger on this spot, lest Burt McCrae and one of his hands decide to ride out again to challenge him, he hurriedly picked up his belongings, not waiting to make breakfast. It didn’t make sense, he thought, as he hefted his saddle up on his shoulder and started walking as fast as he could manage under his burden. Injuns? he wondered. That don’t hardly figure, since I still got my scalp. No, he told himself, somebody from the Broken-M had to have a hand in this. The more he thought about it, the more foolish he felt. How in hell was he going to explain this to Mr. Drummond?
The sun was just beginning to climb above the hills as Brownie trudged along. The load of his saddle was already bearing down, rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder, and he was forced to limp to favor his wounded leg. He was reluctant to leave his saddle behind, so he had no choice but to continue on, placing one already weary foot before the other. His simple mind was a mass of confusing thoughts as he berated himself for being fleeced while he slept, and tried to picture the storm he could expect to see in Frank Drummond’s face.
So much occupied with these thoughts, and thinking about the distance he had to walk, he failed to notice the slow plodding of the horses following along some thirty yards behind him. Finally realizing he was not alone when one of the horses snorted, he jerked his head around to look behind him. A new panic arose when he discovered the stern countenance of the man astride the big buckskin, casually content to follow along behind him. Colt McCrae! The name screamed out in his brain, and he dropped the saddle on the ground. Then he stumbled over it as he reached for the pistol on his side. Once it was free of the holster, he hesitated to raise it when he considered the Winchester aimed at him. He knew he was a dead man if he raised the weapon. Easing it back in the holster, he decided it better odds to beg for his life. He sat down on the saddle and waited.
“I reckon you got the drop on me,” he said as the somber-faced man rode unhurriedly up to pull his horse to a stop before him. “You got no call to shoot me. I wasn’t killin’ no cattle or nothin’. I just camped for the night—wasn’t doin’ no harm to nobody.”
“Is that a fact?” Colt replied and continued to fix his gaze on the nervous man. “I figure you’ve been spying on the Broken-M. This is war, and spies are shot durin’ wartime.”
“Whoa, now wait a minute, mister,” Brownie quickly replied. “I ain’t no spy!”
“Then what the hell are you doin’ on McCrae range?” He cocked his rifle.
“Wait! Dammit!” Brownie blurted. “I’m just a hired hand. I got no quarrel with you or your uncle.”
“Is that so?” Colt replied. It was plain to him that Brownie was becoming a bit unraveled. “I’ve been lookin’ at that rifle I picked up this mornin’, and I’m thinkin’ it’s the rifle that put a bullet in my father’s back. Somebody’s gotta pay for that.”
“Wait! Wait!” Brownie cried as Colt brought the
rifle up, the barrel looking at Brownie’s face. “Mister, I swear, I ain’t ever shot nobody. I weren’t anywhere around when your pa got shot.”
“That may be, but somebody’s got to pay for it, and you’re the one that got dealt the losing hand.”
Colt brought the Winchester up to his shoulder, preparing to pull the trigger. “But I know who did!” Brownie blurted, his eyes wide with terror.
This was what Colt had hoped to scare out of the frightened man. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got about two minutes to tell me what you know. If it doesn’t sound right to me, you’re on your way to hell.”
“God’s honest truth,” Brownie pleaded. “Me and Lon Branch rode over to the Bar-M and waited while Mr. Drummond rode in to talk to your pa. When Mr. Drummond came back, he was madder’n a hornet. He grabbed Lon’s rifle and went back about two hundred yards or more. When your pa rode out, Mr. Drummond cut down on him. I ain’t never seen Mr. Drummond dirty his hands like that before or after.”
Though he gave no indication, Colt was stunned. After a moment, he said, “That’s the story you wanna take to your Maker?”
“It’s the truth, I swear it,” Brownie stammered. “Please don’t kill me. Let me go and I’ll ride outta Wyoming Territory right now.”
With the answer to the one question he wanted answered most, Colt continued to fix his gaze on the defeated man’s face. Was Brownie telling the truth? Colt decided that he was. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder again.
The doomed man’s eyelids began to flutter uncontrollably as Colt took deliberate aim and squeezed the trigger. Terrified, Brownie braced himself for the shot. His heart skipped a beat when he heard the metallic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. “Shit!” he screamed involuntarily as if it had been the sound of a gunshot.
“If I see you around here again, I’ll kill you,” Colt pronounced. Then he dropped the reins to Brownie’s horse and tossed his empty rifle on the ground. Without another word, he nudged the buckskin into a lope, and left the shaken gunman on the prairie.
“You ain’t gonna get the chance to kill me,” Brownie mumbled to himself when Colt had ridden out of hearing distance. “I’ve had enough.” Feeling it was high time for him to find a healthier climate, he struck out for parts unknown.
Chapter 14
Frank Drummond scowled at the three men left to run his ranch as they stood nervously waiting for his orders. He had not slept well during the night just past. Thoughts of frustration had kept his mind churning with the anguish of seeing his once invincible gang of men reduced to these three sorry specimens standing before him. For a man accustomed to the conqueror’s role, it was excruciating to admit defeat so far in this contest with the McCraes.
What troubled him most at this moment was the question of whether Burt’s nephew, Colt, was alive or dead. Rafe was halfway convinced that McCrae had been mortally wounded in the ambush on his buckboard. Bone had not returned to collect his money, and Drummond was determined not to pay him a cent without positive proof of Colt’s demise. Where in the hell was the notorious killer? Drummond wondered with the dawn of a new day and Bone still not returned.
Drummond was anxious to move on Burt McCrae. Young Vance’s ranch had been abandoned, according to his lookouts, and it appeared that both families were holed up on the Broken-M. Had Drummond not lost so many men, he would already have sent in a half dozen guns to claim the Bar-M. But with only three, he could not spare any of them when he moved against Burt McCrae. It had to be a complete victory, with no one left to talk about it—man, woman, or child. Still, he would prefer to know for certain that Colt McCrae was not out there somewhere waiting. He decided to wait one more day for news from Bone.
“Rafe,” he ordered, “ride on out to Broken-M and relieve Brownie. He’s probably bellyachin’ already about bein’ out there all night. And, Rafe, take some grub, ’cause you’re gonna be there all night. You keep a sharp eye. I wanna know who’s comin’ and goin’, ’cause tomorrow I’m gonna make him an offer he ain’t gonna turn down this time.”
“Whaddaya want us to do about the stock, Mr. Drummond?” Charlie Ware asked. “We got cattle strayin’ all over hell and then some.” During the past week, Rocking-D cattle were finding their way onto Bar-M and Broken-M land. It had become more than Drummond’s skeleton crew could control.
“We’ll worry about that next week,” Drummond replied. “It won’t matter where they stray then, they’ll still be on my land.”
His mind was racing to weigh the decision he was about to make, after Brownie Brooks’ startling revelation. Colt would never have suspected that Frank Drummond was the man who actually pulled the trigger that killed his father. He figured Drummond to be a man who never dirtied his hands, preferring to hire gun hands to take care of things of that nature. When he first heard, he was ready to forget all other issues. The most important reason he had returned to Whiskey Hill was to settle with the man who had killed his father. He immediately turned his horse toward the Rocking-D.
The farther he rode, however, the more other things crowded into his thoughts. Mary Simmons and her grandmother came to the forefront of his conscience, and the lethal shadow that was bearing down on that peaceful village preyed upon his sense of duty. Red Moon and Walking Woman were not prepared for a poisonous snake like Bone to slither into their quiet camp. He tried to tell himself that the Cheyenne men of that village could easily handle one gunman. They could certainly take responsibility for their own protection. Even as he thought it, he knew it was not the case. Red Moon and his people were no longer warriors. They rode the warpath too many years ago. The young men had left the small band of old people long before this time. No, he, Colt McCrae, must be the warrior to face Bone. Frank Drummond would have to wait. With these thoughts weighing heavily upon his mind, he turned Buck’s head toward Bear Basin and the inevitable showdown with Bone.
It was late afternoon when Bone’s horse topped the last ridge between the basin and Willow Creek. He pulled the horse to a stop and sat looking down for a while on the tiny Cheyenne village on the opposite side of the creek. There was very little activity other than a few cook fires started before several of the tipis. A few old women trod back and forth to the water. A group of four men sat talking before one of the fires. There was no sign of a white man. There was still the question of how badly McCrae was shot. If his wounds were minor, Bone might have spotted him outside one of the lodges—more serious, he could still be inside one of the lodges. Bone meant to find out which.
With a kick of his heels, he started down the slope, angling across the ridge toward the camp at a fast walk. He had approached to within one hundred yards before one of the men in the circle of four stood up and pointed toward him, alerting the others. Bone continued his steady approach, crossing the creek at a shallow ford, then climbing the bank, his rifle cradled in his arms. The entire village was alert to his arrival by this time, and began to slowly converge on the four men by the fire.
When within a distance of forty yards, Bone held up one arm and spoke in the Cheyenne tongue. “I come as a friend of the Cheyenne,” he announced.
Red Moon raised his right arm and answered, “Come, then. If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Red Moon and his friends watched the white man dismount. A curious man, he carried the look of a dark spirit, and Red Moon wondered if this was the man Little Star had fled the village to avoid. “What brings you to our humble village?” he asked.
“I come to find a man,” Bone replied, “a bad white man. I heard that he was in your village. He is wounded, and I have come to get him.” Holding his rifle with his right hand on the trigger guard and the barrel resting across his left forearm, Bone stood ready in case his peaceful ploy failed.
Red Moon noticed the two pistols, their holsters reversed so that he could see the butts facing forward, and he remembered Mary’s description of the evil man she feared. “There is no white man in our village,” he replied truthfully.
Red Moon held up his hand to quiet his people. This man was not sent by the soldiers, of that he was sure, but some of his people would surely be killed if they determined to deny him. “I say to you, there is no white man in our camp, but you may look for yourself if it pleases you.”
Bone stood looking into the chief’s eyes for a few moments. Then he shifted his gaze to scan the passive faces of the people gathered around Red Moon. He ain’t here, he thought, disappointed. There was no need to search the tipis. “All right,” he said. “I believe what you say. But he was here. Where is he now?”
Red Moon saw no need to put his niece, Little Star, in danger, so he lied when he said, “He left here, but did not say where he was going.”
“He was wounded,” Bone insisted. “How bad was his wound?”
Red Moon shrugged as if unconcerned. “Wounded bad, maybe he went off to die.”
Bone studied Red Moon’s face intently. He could not be sure if the old chief was sincere, or just an accomplished liar. He looked around him at the other old men standing by, their faces as devoid of expression as their chief’s. He knew he was wasting his time. “Which way did he go?” he asked. Red Moon pointed toward the way from which Bone had just come. Making no attempt to hide his disgust, Bone stepped up in the saddle and took his leave. It was useless to think about scouting around the camp to try to pick up McCrae’s trail. There were too many tracks coming and going, and he wasn’t familiar with the horse’s tracks he wanted to follow, anyway. Added to that was the scarcity of daylight. It was already late in the day, and he was not familiar enough with the trail to find his way in the dark. He decided to head back toward Whiskey Hill and ride until darkness caught up with him. If McCrae was still alive, he would pick up his trail somewhere. It was just a matter of time before he tracked him down. Bone was confident in the knowledge that he was the best. He was a born tracker and he had never failed to bring his prey to ground.
Range War in Whiskey Hill Page 18