Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  A heavy layer of low-lying clouds crept steadily over the foothills, borne on a northwest wind as Bone departed the Indian camp, and darkness descended upon him at the southern end of Bear Basin. If his memory served him, he estimated the notch that led him to Bitter Branch was probably no more than half an hour’s ride. Figuring another half an hour to pass through the notch, that worked out to about an hour to a campsite with water. Bone could do without water, but his horse couldn’t, so he pushed on into the night. After a little more than the hour he had figured, he made camp on the bank of Bitter Branch. With fingers stiff with the cold, he fashioned a bed of tinder to receive the spark from his flint and steel. In five minutes’ time, he had a small flame fighting for its life. He carefully fed it twigs and small limbs to sustain it until it breathed full life. With nothing to eat but a handful of dried jerky, and needing nothing more, the hunter of men settled in to wait for daylight.

  Separated by a distance of less than a quarter mile, on the opposite side of the ridge, another camper replicated many of the same motions as those just made by Bone. On his way to Red Moon’s village, Colt McCrae made his camp upstream on Bitter Branch. A cold wind freshened as he built his fire in a shallow dry wash, after hobbling Buck. Looking up at the clouds, he guessed it likely that he might wake up to a blanket of snow.

  The night passed peacefully. It was still a while before sunup when Colt was awakened by a soft dusting of snow. He took some of the limbs he had gathered the night before and rebuilt his fire. It was still not light enough to get started, but he figured by the time he made some coffee and cooked a little bacon over the fire, it would be. He was satisfied to see that the snow had not amounted to much. The wind was still up, so it was probably responsible for moving the snow clouds along. Unbeknownst to him, the wind took on the responsibility for another task, one more threatening than the movement of snow clouds.

  On the opposite side of the ridge, Bone’s eyes flickered open, and he lay there listening. Like a hungry timber wolf, he sensed something, but there was no sound other than the patient labor of the stream. He rose on one elbow and sniffed the morning air, realizing at once what had alerted his senses. He smelled smoke. He got to his feet at once, sniffing like a predator on the prowl. His curiosity aroused, he looked to the tops of the pines to determine the wind direction. He could see no smoke, but the wind was coming from the west, causing a downdraft after it crossed the ridge, and there was no doubt in his mind that the scent of a campfire was being carried on that wind.

  Could be Indians, he thought, or a hunting party maybe. I’d best take a look on the other side of that ridge. Taking only enough time to saddle his horse, he picked his way carefully up the dark slope to within a few dozen yards of the top before dismounting and leaving the horse; then he crawled the rest of the way. Settling on his stomach, he looked down the slope. Unable to spot the source of the smoke, he scanned the shadowy banks of the stream on both sides, straining to see in the predawn light. Convinced that there was someone below him, he determined to wait out the sunrise to see who it was.

  The light of a new day gradually began to empty the gullies and switches of their dark shadows, although it would still be a while before the sun climbed high enough to illuminate the cloudy sky. Colt reached for the coffeepot now boiling busily on the fire. It suddenly jumped as if alive a split second before his hand touched the handle, and clattered nosily against the side of the dry wash, a bullet hole drilled neatly through its middle. Colt dived away from the fire, rolling over against the edge of the gully as the sound of the rifle rang out over his head. Two more shots followed in quick succession, digging chunks of clay and rock out of the bank.

  While cursing himself for being careless, he crawled over to retrieve the rifle he had left beside his saddle. Two more shots closer to the fire told him that his assailant could probably not see him, but was just hoping for a lucky shot. He quickly moved farther down the dry wash to take a position behind a brace of young pines. Then with eyes straining to search the slope above him, he watched for some movement in the shadows or a muzzle flash. With no clue as to where the shots had come from, there was nothing he could do but wait.

  Dammit! Bone berated himself for missing with his first shot. The son of a bitch moved. I had him dead in my sights. Unsure of the identity of the man camped below him, he had hesitated, watching as Colt tended his fire. As the predawn light brightened, he caught a glimpse of the horse a few yards away. It was a buckskin. He had been told that Colt McCrae rode a buckskin. That was confirmation enough for him, and he quickly leveled his rifle and fired, but his man had moved by that time. Furious with himself for not firing when he had a better shot, he was now frustrated by the fact that he could no longer see his prey, and he wasn’t sure if one of his shots had found the target or not. Wasting no time speculating, he scrambled over the top of the ridge and made his way from one spot of cover to the next, descending the slope as fast as he possibly could. His main concern at this point was to prevent his prey’s attempt to escape. He reached a point halfway down the hill in time to get a glimpse of the buckskin horse disappearing under the bank of the stream. He’s running! he thought, and made a dash for a rock formation overhanging the water.

  Forty yards downstream from the spot where Bone had taken cover, Colt dropped down behind a grassy hummock on the bank. With his horse safely under the cover of the stream bank, he scouted the slope above him. He saw nothing for a few seconds. Then there was a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and he jerked his head around in time to see his assailant a step or two away from an outcropping of rock near the bank. He raised his rifle and fired, but there was no time to take dead aim.

  Breathing hard from his flight down the hill, Bone ducked low behind the rocks when a slug ricocheted overhead. Realizing then that the man he hunted was not in frightened retreat, he reconsidered his first impulse to charge after him. He then remembered Drummond’s warning that Colt McCrae was a different breed. The thought drew a thin smile across Bone’s face. He might be a different breed of cat, he thought, but I’ve skinned every breed there is. He drew confidence in the knowledge that no man had ever bested him when the stakes were life and death.

  There was no doubt in Colt’s mind that the gunman stalking him was the man called Bone. He showed no sign of retreating after his first attempt to bushwhack him failed, unlike the typical riffraff Drummond hired. Consequently, Colt decided he had better show the notorious killer some respect. He looked around him at the spot in which he had landed. It would not have been his first choice for a defensive position. The stream widened out at that point before converging again to take a sharp turn around a stand of willow trees some thirty yards behind him. If Bone decided to work back up the slope a ways, he might very easily pin Colt down against the bank.

  He had no sooner given birth to the thought than it apparently occurred to Bone as well. Suddenly, there he was, but only for a second as he dashed from the rocks and dived into a clump of pines a few yards up the slope. Colt got off a shot, but it kicked up dirt harmlessly behind Bone’s boot heel. Trying to guess what his adversary was up to, he followed the belt of thick pines with his eyes. There was a narrow ledge about three-quarters of the way up the slope just beyond the pines. I can’t stay here, he thought. If he gets up on that ledge above me, I won’t be able to hide or run. He considered his options as he hastily saddled Buck. If he made a run for it downstream, he would present his back as a broad target for thirty or forty yards before reaching the cover of the willows where the stream made a turn. The only option left was to ride hell-for-leather back upstream to the rock formation Bone had just vacated, and gamble on the notion that Bone was still moving along toward the ledge. It was impossible to know for sure because of the solid screen of pine trees that led up to the ledge. One thing for certain, the closer Bone got to that ledge, the more the angle improved to give him a clear shot at anything in the streambed.

  Working furiously, he finished saddl
ing his horse and jumped on his back. The buckskin bounded into a full gallop. With Colt lying low on the horse’s neck, they raced away up the shallow stream toward the rock formation. The quick retreat must have taken Bone by surprise, for no shots rang out after them. So far, so good, Colt thought. Then another thought crossed his mind. Bone’s horse has to be on the other side of this ridge. If he could beat him back to his horse, he would have his adversary on foot.

  Calling for everything the faithful gelding had in reserve, Colt gained the cover of the rocks just as bullets started flying around him—Bone having realized Colt’s sudden flight. Once he found cover, Colt pulled his horse to a stop while he studied the slope before him. In the morning sunlight now, he could see Bone’s tracks where he had descended the hill. He nudged Buck, and the big horse responded.

  Back in the pine thicket, Bone was caught in the middle of reloading when Colt broke from the rocks. At first he thought that his man was running again; then he thought of his horse left near the top of the slope. “I’ll be damned,” he uttered defiantly, realizing what Colt had in mind. He started back up the hill as fast as he could manage. Since he was farther up the slope to begin with, he was just able to win the race with the man on the horse. He whistled twice and his horse obediently trotted to him. With his horse safely out of harm’s way, he dropped to one knee and prepared to fire as soon as Colt appeared over the crest of the hill.

  Damn, I hadn’t counted on that, Colt thought as he reached the top in time to see the blue roan trotting away across the brow of the ridge. He didn’t wait. Throwing caution to the wind, he went after the roan at a gallop, hoping to get a shot at Bone. He charged over the top of the ridge to discover he had ridden headlong into an ambush.

  It happened in an instant, Colt saw Bone kneeling, waiting, his rifle aimed at him, and he knew he had but one option. He didn’t take time to think about it. Rolling off his horse as the startled buckskin skidded to a stop, he heard Bone’s rifle shot snap over his head while he was in midair.

  Landing hard on his side, he grunted with pain as his still tender ribs protested the rough landing on the hillside. Struggling to get to his hands and knees, he found he could not breathe. The fall had knocked the wind out of his lungs, but in spite of the pain, he forced himself to scramble back below the rim of the ridge. The impact with the ground had also almost caused him to lose his rifle, but he had somehow managed to hold on to it, knowing it determined whether he lived or died. The pain in his chest was excruciating, but he didn’t know what he could do to restore his breathing. Once when he was a boy, he had come off a horse and landed on his back. The same thing had happened then. But that time his uncle Burt had moved his legs up and down until his lungs relaxed and he could breathe again. Remembering that, he tried to work his legs, but there was no relief. The one thing he knew he must do at the moment was to find cover. Feeling as though he might black out at any moment, he collapsed behind a low evergreen shrub. It offered no real protection other than a visual screen, but he had no time for anything better. Gradually, after a few more seconds, he felt his chest relax, and his lungs began to take in air again, and he crawled over to the edge of the shrubs. Bone was bound to come over the top of the ridge after him, so he trained his rifle on the spot he figured him to show.

  When his target came off the horse, Bone wasn’t sure if his bullet had hit him or not. If Colt was shot, Bone was anxious to finish him off before he had a chance to drag himself off somewhere to hide. Far too smart to charge recklessly over the top of the hill, however, Bone proceeded to work his way along the ridge to his right, taking care not to expose his body above the brow. The anticipation of a kill swelled in his mind, and his senses told him it would be soon now.

  Colt crowded even closer to the edge of the pine shrubs in an effort to broaden his field of fire, his gaze still focusing upon the spot where he thought Bone would show. When there was no sign of the hired killer for a few minutes, Colt decided that Bone might be trying to flank him. A few seconds after that thought, movement off to his left caused him to shift suddenly, set to pull the trigger, only to discover he was about to shoot his horse. In less than an instant, he shifted back again when Bone rose to shoot. Both rifles fired at the same time. Bone’s bullet passed so close to Colt’s ear that the snapping sound made Colt’s ear ring, but otherwise caused no damage. Colt reacted in time to see his bullet strike Bone in the arm, spinning the surprised gunman around.

  Stunned, Bone retreated a few yards down the slope. He dropped to one knee to examine the wound in his arm. Just below the shoulder, it was beginning to bleed. He could feel the blood spreading on his shirtsleeve although he could not see it beneath the long black coat he wore. Almost staggered by the fact that he had been shot, he was caught in an emotional whirlwind between astonishment and anger. There was no time to shuck the coat and determine the seriousness of the wound before McCrae might appear on top of the hill. He tested the movement in his arm, and while there was now pain involved, the limb seemed to be functioning. With some relief then, he cursed. “I’ll cut you up in little pieces for that, you son of a bitch!” Realizing he was not in a good spot to defend, he ran back to retrieve his horse.

  Colt cautiously inched his way up the slope, expecting to be met at any second with a bullet. He knew he had hit Bone with one of his shots, but he was reasonably certain it had not been a fatal wound. He dropped to the ground before exposing himself above the brow of the ridge, and crawled the rest of the way on hands and knees. Peering carefully over the top, he was surprised to see Bone on horseback, galloping away. Springing up on one knee, he attempted to get off a shot, but there were too many trees in between. He wasted a cartridge anyway. He knew very little about the man who hunted him, but his instincts told him that Bone had not quit the fight, so Colt hurried to catch his horse and give pursuit. The hunted was now the hunter.

  His features twisted in a furious scowl, Bone bent low over his horse’s neck as he sped recklessly down the slope toward Bitter Branch, glancing over his shoulder frequently to see the buckskin hard on his trail. The blood dripping from his fingertips told him that he needed to tend to the wound before he lost too much of it. Finding cover to give him a chance to stop the bleeding, and maybe set up an ambush, was his main concern at the moment. When he reached the bottom of the slope, he pressed the blue roan harder, splashing across the stream, and heading for the hills beyond. With each stride the roan took, Bone’s anger burned hotter and hotter. This was not a role he was accustomed to, being chased, and his very soul screamed for vengeance.

  Colt bent low in the saddle as Buck gave chase. There was no need to press the horse for speed. The buckskin understood the game, and Colt knew he would force himself to falter before he willingly gave up the race. Bone was obviously looking for a place to hide, probably intent upon reversing the roles to become once again the stalker. One thing Bone did not know, however, was that Colt had spent much of his boyhood roaming these foothills of the Laramie Mountains.

  Both horses began to tire as Bone galloped down a grassy draw toward a line of low hills to the west. In a short time, Colt thought, feeling Buck strain to lengthen his stride, this race will be at a slow walk. At the base of the first in the line of hills, there was a narrow gulch that divided it from the second hill. Colt knew the place. When he was a boy, he had followed a deer into the gulch. He figured Bone would seek cover there. It appeared to be a perfect bastion to hold off an attack, but Colt knew there was a back door to that gulch, for he had lost the deer many years ago. With horses now tiring to the point of faltering, Bone did just as Colt figured.

  Veering sharply to the west, Bone drove into the gulch, coming out of the saddle before his horse had pulled to a full stop. Crouching beside the entrance, he laid down a series of rifle shots, causing Colt to veer off to the north and press Buck for one more burst of speed. It was just about all the weary horse had left, and Colt dismounted as soon as he reached the cover of the trees at the base of the
hill.

  Both men were on foot now, for the horses were spent for the time being. Wasting no time, Colt grabbed some extra cartridges from his saddlebags and started up the hill on the run. The gulch that Bone had taken refuge in looked for all the world to be a box canyon, but Colt knew there was a narrow passage between the rocks that required a sharp eye to discover. If he was quick enough, he should be able to get in behind his adversary before Bone knew what he was up to.

  Climbing up the side of the slope, in some places so steep that he had to use his hands, Colt made his way through the rocks toward a thick clump of pine trees wedged between two huge boulders. The trees were considerably larger than when he had lost the deer many years before—concealing the opening even more—but he was certain this was the passage. If his memory served him, once through the trees, he would find himself on a short ledge above the gulch.

  Pushing up to the trees, he struggled to keep from sliding on the loose gravel before the gap in the boulders. Finally reaching a point where he could grasp one of the trunks with his free hand, he pulled himself up on the ledge and into the trees. Moving quickly between the tightly crowded pines, he emerged onto an open shelf at the top of the gulch to suddenly discover that his adversary had been scouting it from the other side. The two found themselves face-to-face at the top of the gulch. Though it was for only an instant, both men were stunned motionless, before both raised their weapons to fire.