Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  The shots rang out simultaneously, both wide of the mark due to a lack of time to aim. With no immediate cover available, Colt could only fall backward to land on his back between two small pines. He automatically ejected the spent cartridge as soon as he hit the ground, and set himself as best he could to fire again. In less than a second, Bone appeared on the ledge with both pistols drawn, ready to finish what he thought was a wounded man. His evil eyes opened wide in shocked surprise when he felt the solid slam of Colt’s bullet against his shoulder. The impact sent him staggering backward to lose his footing on the ledge and tumble back down the inside slope of the gulch, both pistols firing into the air.

  Wasting no time, Colt scrambled to his feet and plunged through the pine thicket to the edge of the ledge. Some thirty feet below him, Bone managed to drag himself behind a sizable rock shelf, causing Colt to hesitate before rushing recklessly down the slope after him. He was certain he had put two slugs in the man who hunted him, and he was anxious to end it, but not to the point of exposing himself carelessly. A wounded bear was a dangerous bear. He stopped to decide what his next move should be.

  Below him, Bone lay grimacing in pain behind the rock shelf. With bullet wounds in his left arm and right shoulder, he was taken with fear for the first time in his evil life. Feeling his life’s blood seeping out to soak his shirt, he was too stunned to realize that he was experiencing the trauma he had administered to his many victims. His only thought now was to somehow extract himself from this certain death situation. Clutching his two pistols, he looked behind him toward his horse, wondering what chance he had of reaching it. Admitting to the horrible truth that he had at last been beaten, he now cared about only one thing—to save his life. To make a run for it was his only hope. He was afraid that if he stayed where he was, he might bleed to death.

  Struggling to pull himself back to the edge of the shelf, he peeked around the end in an effort to spot his antagonist. His efforts were immediately rewarded with a rifle shot that glanced off the rock beside his head. “Damn!” he swore and jerked back. He was effectively pinned down. His chances of running to his horse were nonexistent. But, he thought, the horse can come to me. I ain’t licked yet. Rolling over on his stomach, he whistled for the roan. The weary gelding stood, lathered, with head down, steam still rising from its body. It rolled its eyes in Bone’s direction, but did not respond. Bone whistled again, but the horse would not come. “Damn you!” Bone cursed, and the chilling thought occurred to him that his horse would be unable to run, even if he did manage to get to him without being shot. In angry frustration, he reached up over the edge of the shelf and fired his pistols blindly in the direction of the man on the ledge.

  Colt lay flat against the ledge, counting the shots until the firing stopped, then listening for the click of empty cylinders. On the ground beside him lay the rifle Bone had left there when he had pulled his pistols in preparation to finish him. He glanced again at the rifle and realized that it was his rifle, the Winchester his father had willed him. He quickly picked it up and cocked it. Then he laid his other rifle aside. It was ironic that Bone had been the one to find his rifle, so he felt it fitting that the rifle be used to eliminate Bone.

  Seconds passed since the barrage of pistol shots from the rocky shelf near the bottom of the gulch. Although he had not heard the sound of empty cylinders, Colt guessed that Bone had to be reloading both pistols. What the hell? he figured, ready to end the standoff, and disregarding the advice he had earlier given himself. With the rifle his father had left him in hand, he leaped off the ledge, landing on the steep shale-covered slope some six or seven feet below, sliding wildly down the loose gravel to the bottom.

  Startled midway in the act of painfully reloading both his revolvers, Bone rose when he heard what sounded like a small avalanche. With no time to finish loading the pistols, he snapped the cylinder of one in place and stood ready to fire at the man just then scrambling to his feet. Seeing he had the advantage, since Colt had not had time to aim his rifle, Bone could not help but gloat. With his pistol aimed directly at Colt’s head, he warned, “Hold it right there, damn you. You raise that rifle and I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes.” With his wounded shoulder in pain from the strain of holding his arm pointing at Colt, he took a few steps closer. “You son of a bitch,” he cursed, “you put a couple of holes in me. Ain’t no man ever done that before. You made me earn my money. I’ll give you that.”

  Colt stood motionless during what was evidently supposed to be his eulogy, thinking all the while that it may have been the dumbest move he had ever made— jumping off that ledge. Might as well turn over my last card, he thought. Looking the sneering Bone in the eye, he said, “You never finished loadin’ that pistol. I ain’t sure you ain’t settin’ on an empty chamber.” When he detected a question in Bone’s eye, he added, “I know my rifle’s ready to fire.”

  Uncertain now, Bone involuntarily glanced at the revolver in his hand. It was all the time Colt needed. He dropped to one knee, raising his rifle at the same time, firing before his knee hit the ground. Hit in the center of his chest, Bone staggered backward, his finger squeezing the trigger. The firing pin struck on a loaded chamber, but his shot went high over Colt’s head. He was dead before he had time to get off a second shot.

  Feeling as if he had been granted a double helping of luck, Colt rose and walked up to stand over the body. It was the first opportunity he had to study the man who had come to kill him. A tall man, his face was drawn into an angry scowl in death. His eyes, deep-set and dark, peered up at Colt as if staring at him from hell itself. This, then, was Frank Drummond’s hired demon. Now Drummond would have to stand alone to answer for his sins, without help from the devil. Colt drew his skinning knife, and kneeling beside the sinister corpse, he cut off Bone’s long greasy ponytail with the single eagle feather interwoven in it. After taking the late hired killer’s weapons, he took his boot and rolled the body over, leaving it to the buzzards.

  Chapter 15

  Frank Drummond had reached the end of his patience, a quality he had precious little of to begin with. Where the hell was Bone? He was supposed to be a deadly tracker and killer, and yet Drummond had no clue as to the whereabouts of him or Colt McCrae. And what happened to Brownie? His hired hand, Rafe Wilson, thought it a strong possibility that McCrae was dead, but Drummond couldn’t count on that. The son of a bitch has a habit of showing up to kill a couple of my men, he thought.

  Unaware that J. D. Townsend had fled the territory, he decided that it was time to ride into Whiskey Hill and order the sheriff to form a posse to hunt down Colt McCrae. Charlie Ware, one of Drummond’s three remaining men, was Drummond’s choice to accompany him. One of the last men Drummond had hired, Charlie came highly recommended as an obedient brain with a fast trigger on an indiscriminate gun. Drummond selected him to accompany him on this day primarily because Charlie was the only hand he had left who had not as yet failed him.

  Upon arriving in town, Drummond was puzzled to find the sheriff’s office door padlocked. His anger flaring immediately, he figured the most likely place to find the bungling sheriff was in the local diner, so he headed for the Whiskey Hill Kitchen.

  “Uh-oh,” Pearl Murray murmured as she stood drinking a cup of coffee while gazing out the window. “Here comes trouble.”

  “What is it?” Mary asked, moving to the window beside her friend. Seeing then the cause of Pearl’s comment, she said, “Frank Drummond—better tell the meeting in the back room.” In the years that Mary had worked at the diner, Drummond had not crossed the threshold on more than two or three occasions. Seeing him headed this way now brought a feeling of deep foreboding.

  Always one to enjoy seeing someone else’s behind in the fire, Pearl said, “Let’s not. Let’s let ’em find out for themselves.” She found it ironic that the mayor and the council members were at that moment in a meeting to discuss available action to break Frank Drummond’s choke hold on the town. “They oughta be tickled
to have him come to the meeting,” she said with a chuckle.

  Drummond strode forcefully through the door, followed by Charlie Ware, barely noticing the two women standing at the end of the counter. “Well, howdy there, Mr. Drummond,” Pearl sang out as the determined owner of the Rocking-D breezed past her. Ignoring her greeting, he headed straight for the room in back of the dining area. Pearl grinned and winked at Mary. The two women moved closer to the door of the back room.

  Roy Whitworth abruptly stopped in midsentence when the imposing figure of Frank Drummond suddenly appeared in the doorway. In reaction, all attendees of the meeting turned to see what had interrupted the mayor. The room went silent as Drummond stood searching the faces of the men seated around the table. A group of the usual council members save one, J. D. Townsend, sat gaping back at him, wondering how he could have discovered the purpose of their meeting. “Where’s J.D.?” Drummond demanded.

  There was a heavy silence for a moment before Roy answered, “J.D.’s not here anymore.”

  “I can see that. What do you mean he ain’t here anymore ?” Drummond shot back. “Where is he?”

  The mayor glanced at the others seated around the table, seeking support and receiving only blank stares. “Well, we don’t rightly know,” he said. “He just decided to leave—it’s anybody’s guess where he went.”

  Drummond hesitated a few seconds while he considered what he had just been told. It was surprising news and it was obvious that it didn’t please him.

  “That’s a fact,” Barney Samuels spoke up, since everyone else seemed to have been struck tongue-tied. “J.D.’s lit out, and he ain’t likely to come back, so we’re left without no sheriff—since your man shot Stoney Yates.” Drummond frowned at the mention of Bone, causing Barney to stop short of revealing the main purpose of the meeting, which was to stand up to Drummond.

  “But we’re discussing the business of naming a new sheriff in this meeting,” Roy Whitworth was quick to interject.

  Drummond’s gaze shifted back and forth around the table as if he was judging every face in attendance. “Hell,” he finally stated, “I can end your meetin’ right quick.” He turned and gestured toward Charlie Ware, who had been standing bored and sullen during the exchange. “Charlie, here, is your new sheriff. He’s highly qualified and I give him my endorsement.”

  The announcement was met with a shocked silence that settled over the table like a sodden blanket. Drummond stood there, feet widespread, arms crossed before his chest, fully expectant that there would be no question and no debate. Charlie Ware’s sullen expression turned into a moronic grin. The idea seemed novel to him. It was a side of the law on which he had never trod.

  Roy Whitworth knew that this was his time to stand up for the best interests of Whiskey Hill. The purpose of the called meeting was to form a solid front to counter Frank Drummond’s bullying, enlisting all council members to stand together. With Drummond’s premature visit, there had been no time for a roll call of pledges. Roy glanced at Oscar Anderson for a sign of support, but Oscar hurriedly looked away. He received the same reaction from Raymond Fletcher. Only one, Barney Samuels, the blacksmith, met his gaze, and gave him a solemn nod.

  After an exaggerated period of silence with no spoken reaction, Drummond considered the matter settled. “First thing Sheriff Ware is gonna do,” he said, “is get up a posse and run Colt McCrae to ground.”

  Knowing he had no choice, Roy spoke up, trying to step as softly as possible. “Well, Mr. Drummond, we appreciate the suggestion, and I assure you we’ll certainly consider your candidate for sheriff. There’ll be some other candidates to consider, I’m sure, and we’ll try to do what’s best for the town.”

  Drummond’s eyes narrowed as his heavy eyebrows lowered into a deep frown. He could scarcely believe his ears. With his eyes locked on the mayor, he spoke slowly and distinctly, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t make suggestions,” he rasped. “What I said was, Charlie, here, is your new sheriff. Now, who don’t understand that?” He glared directly at Oscar Anderson.

  Wilting under the intensity of Drummond’s stare, Oscar’s face was drained of color. “I don’t reckon there’s any objection to that,” he stammered. “Mr. Ware’s probably a good man.” He glanced apologetically at Roy Whitworth, then looked quickly away.

  “All right, then,” Drummond blustered, “we’re just wastin’ time here. The sooner we hunt McCrae down, the faster things are gonna get back to normal here.”

  Showing an obvious look of despair, the mayor started to speak, but the words would not come forth. With the town apparently falling back into its former position as the personal pawn of Frank Drummond, Barney Samuels looked to Roy to voice some opposition to the self-elected tyrant. When the mayor failed to speak, Barney accepted the challenge. “Now, wait a minute, here, folks. Things can’t be decided just like that. The town council has to discuss the problem of replacin’ J.D. with a new sheriff, and we have to vote on it. Then the council has to offer the job to whoever we decide is best qualified.”

  The silence that followed Barney’s blatant statement was deafening. Outside the door, the two women who had inched up close to eavesdrop on the meeting backed away as if expecting the room to explode. Inside, it was as if time had stopped. No one dared move as all eyes at the table shifted toward Frank Drummond.

  Drummond directed his icy stare at Barney, his dark eyes challenging. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm, his tone low and hoarse. “Samuels, ain’t it? I wanna make sure I remember your name.” He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “Anybody else hard of hearin’? I said the matter of sheriff is settled. The next order of business is to raise a posse.”

  Barney’s face drained of color, his courage fading away as he realized he had been marked as a result of his comment. He swallowed nervously when a grinning Charlie Ware stepped over close to the table to smirk at him. Roy Whitworth attempted to support Barney’s statement, hoping it would generate a united front with the others joining in. “Barney meant no offense, Mr. Drummond. We’re just trying to do things accordin’ to the rules, you understand, so they’ll be legal.”

  Drummond had reached his limit of patience with the irritating town council. “I’m done talkin’,” he said. “I want the key to that padlock on the jailhouse door. Who’s got it?” The cowered eyes that instantly turned to Roy Whitworth told him that the mayor was in possession of the key. Drummond turned back to glare down at Whitworth, his hand extended, waiting for the key.

  “This ain’t accordin’ to Parliamentary Procedure,” the mayor meekly protested as he reached into his vest pocket and produced the key.

  Drummond took the key and handed it to Charlie Ware. “Here, Sheriff, go on over to the jail and get yourself a badge. Then go down to the saloon and round up a posse. Tell ’em there’ll be a cash reward for the man who shoots Colt McCrae.”

  With his malignant grin spread wide across his face, Charlie took the key, and with a condemning wink at Barney Samuels, turned to leave the room. Outside the door, Mary and Pearl scurried out of his way as the intimidating gunman tromped toward the front door.

  Inside the back room, Drummond returned his attention to the men seated at the table. “I don’t like what I saw here today,” he said, his tone threatening. “Let me make myself clear, I’ll burn this damn town to the ground if you people get in my way. I don’t wanna hear about any more of these town meetings. I’m rememberin’ ever’ one of you men settin’ around this table. You think about that.” He stood glaring down at them for a few moments more, then turned and left the room.

  The meeting a shambles, the participants slowly scraped their chairs back and got to their feet, feeling like schoolboys caught in a naughty scheme. Roy looked balefully at Barney Samuels, who shook his head in defeat. They both then turned to stare at Oscar Anderson and Raymond Fletcher, who had failed to support their show of unity.

  “We didn’t really have a helluva lotta choice,” Oscar said i
n defense of his lack of backbone. “We need a sheriff, and we didn’t really have a man for the job.”

  “That ain’t the point, Oscar,” the mayor said. “We need to get Frank Drummond’s bloody fingers off of our necks. If we don’t do somethin’ to stop him, he’s gonna soon make Whiskey Hill his own little town.”

  “Hell,” Barney interjected, “it’s damn near been that way already for the past two or three years.”

  “Barney’s right,” Roy said. “It was bad enough when J.D. was sheriff. At least he was one of us. Now look at what we’ve got—Charlie whatever-his-name-was, nothin’ but a hired gun hand. It’s time we stood up together to take our town back. It’s time to revive the vigilance committee, only this time without Frank Drummond’s gunmen.”

  “That’s easy enough to say,” Raymond Fletcher replied. “But we’re talking about going up against Drummond’s professional killers, and I, for one, think we’re outmatched in that department.”

  “Dammit, Fletcher,” Barney spoke out, “we’ve all got to stick together on this.” His concern was possibly greater than the others’ since he had been singled out by Drummond. “We need to talk to Turk Coolidge and Judge Blake to make sure we have their support.” He stopped to think about what he had just said, then added, “You know, the judge might be the one to tell Drummond that he’s the one supposed to appoint a new sheriff.”

  Oscar quickly jumped on the comment. “I think you’re right. Judge Blake oughta be the one settin’ Drummond straight on that. It ain’t up to us.”

  “Hell, Oscar, the judge is gettin’ too damn old to tell anybody what to do. Drummond don’t understand talk, anyway. We need to fight fire with fire.” The mayor shifted his gaze around to fall on each man there. It was not a reassuring sight. The reality of their situation struck him forcefully then. Drummond was too strong for these peaceful men.