Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  “What about Colt McCrae?” a voice from the doorway asked. They turned to see Pearl Murray standing there.

  “What about Colt McCrae?” Roy Whitworth countered.

  “Pearl, you and Mary get on back to the kitchen,” Oscar quickly chimed in. “This ain’t no concern for womenfolk.”

  Ignoring Oscar’s chiding, Pearl replied, “He’s the only one I’ve seen around here man enough to stand up to Frank Drummond. If you stay outta his way long enough, he might take care of your problem for you. Hell, you outta make him sheriff.”

  No one seemed to take her suggestion seriously until Barney spoke up. “You know, that ain’t a bad idea. Hell, him and Drummond are already at war with each other, and from the way Drummond’s been losin’ men, Colt looks to be gettin’ the best of him.”

  “Maybe that’s the way things were goin’,” Roy said, “till Drummond hired that man, Bone, to take care of McCrae. Besides, we can’t have an ex-convict for a sheriff.”

  “Well, we got a damn outlaw for one now,” Barney replied. “At least Colt’s done his time and paid for his crimes.” From the expressions on the faces of the others, he could see that his idea was still met with a great deal of skepticism.

  “I still think we’re going to have to form a vigilance committee to confront Drummond,” Roy said. “I’ll talk to Turk Coolidge and see where he stands.”

  The owner of the Plainsman Saloon seemed properly astonished to hear of the mayor’s proposal to reform the vigilantes. “Why in hell would I wanna do that?” he exclaimed. “Frank Drummond accounts for over half of my business—him and his cowhands. Just what are you figurin’ on doin’ to him, anyway? Take my advice and just let things go their natural way, and everything will be all right.”

  “Have you met the new sheriff?” Roy asked.

  “Yeah, he was in here lookin’ for men to ride in a posse to go after Colt McCrae. He’s a rough-lookin’ son of a bitch, I’ll say that for him—gonna be a helluva change from ol’ J.D.”

  “Did he get up a posse?”

  “Yeah. Well, five men signed up. They were all drunk with no money to buy any more whiskey. Maybe they’ll be sober enough to see straight in the mornin’ when they’re supposed to strike out for the Broken-M, but I doubt there’s a steady hand among ’em.”

  Roy left the saloon burdened with further disappointment. He had counted on Turk’s support. There was nothing to do but try again to persuade Oscar Anderson and Raymond Fletcher to have the courage to take their town back from Frank Drummond.

  It was late that night when Frank Drummond returned to the Rocking-D. Stepping down from the Appaloosa gelding he rode, he handed the reins to Rafe Wilson. “Evenin’, Mr. Drummond,” Rafe said. “What happened to Charlie?”

  “He got himself a new job,” Drummond replied. “He’ll be stayin’ in town.” That was all the explanation he offered as he climbed up the steps to the porch. About to enter the house, he stopped short when he saw what appeared to be a small critter of some kind on the door. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, and waited a moment to see if whatever it was would flee. When it remained there, he pulled out a match and struck it on his boot. Holding the match up to the door, he was baffled at first until he recognized what he was looking at—a long greasy length of hair with an eagle feather intertwined. He felt a stifling rage building inside him as he realized the message—Bone was dead.

  He turned back to Rafe, who was already leading his horse to the barn. “Damn you!” he bellowed. “How does somebody ride right up to my front door and nobody sees him?”

  “Who?” Rafe asked.

  “Colt McCrae, dammit, that’s who!” Drummond roared, then threw the offending ponytail at Rafe. The anger inside him was threatening to explode as he formed a picture in his mind of Colt McCrae blatantly riding onto his property—walking right up to his front door, stealing around the house, looking in his windows, searching for him. This was the second time McCrae had ridden into his stronghold like a ghost nobody sees. The first time was when he left the bodies of Jack Teach and Lou George, their horses tied to his front porch. “That son of a bitch,” he growled. “Rafe, as soon as you put my horse away, saddle yours. I want you to ride into Whiskey Hill and tell Charlie to meet me at the south end of Pronghorn Canyon at sunup in the mornin’.”

  Staring stupidly at the dark object his boss had thrown at his feet, Rafe looked up then. It was lucky for him that it was too dark for Drummond to see the scowl on his face. A long ride into town at this hour of the night meant he would be going without sleep. “Yessir,” he replied dutifully. “Where do I go to find Charlie?”

  “In the sheriff’s office,” Drummond answered. “Tell him to bring that posse with him. We’re gonna clean out a hornets’ nest once and for all.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” Rafe replied respectfully, “I’ll tell ’im.” He was not quite clear why Charlie would be in the sheriff’s office, or exactly what Drummond had in mind, but he knew better than to question him.

  What Drummond had in mind was the annihilation of the McCrae clan and all who worked for them. He was weary of waiting for his hired guns to handle the problem. He would lead the slaughter himself to make sure the job was done right.

  Chapter 16

  It had been a good two hours past dark when Colt had slow-walked Buck past the tall gateposts of the Rocking-D. There had been no one about the corrals or barnyard, and no sound other than the soft padding of the buckskin’s hooves on the bare ground. There had been a lantern lit in the bunkhouse, and Colt held his Winchester ready to answer any challenge from that quarter. There was none, however, and he had silently continued on his way to the house of the man who murdered his father.

  His intent on this night had been to extract payment for the sin against his father, a simple elimination of a deadly predator. There were no thoughts of a duel, merely the execution of a mad dog. Consequently, he had no intention of giving Drummond any opportunity to defend himself.

  Walking as softly as he could manage, he had cautiously climbed the steps to the porch. Very slowly, he had tried the door handle and found it unlocked. Pushing the door open, he had peered inside the dark hallway. There was no sound and no light. He continued past the great room, carefully placing one foot after the other until he reached an open door to a bedroom that was obviously that of the master. There was no one there. He continued walking to the end of the hall to the kitchen where he had stopped upon hearing a noise—snoring—and it had come from behind a closed door at the back of the kitchen. Moving silently to the door, he eased it open and stood ready with his rifle, only to find Drummond’s housekeeper, Alice Flynn, snoring away peacefully. He backed carefully out of the room.

  His plans had been thwarted. Drummond was not there, but Colt knew that the meeting would come in time. He would find Drummond, or Drummond would find him. Either way, it made no difference to Colt as long as his father’s death was avenged. He left the house as he had come in, taking less care to avoid noise. After closing the front door, he took his knife and cut a splinter in the door, and hung Bone’s ponytail on it as a notice to Drummond that he could get to him anywhere. As he rode past the bunkhouse again, the thought had occurred to him that he would have set fire to the house if the old woman had not been sleeping in the back room.

  Vance McCrae painfully made his way to the kitchen table and sank heavily into a chair held for him by his wife. “Look who’s strong enough to eat at the table this morning,” Susan said to Rena. The Cheyenne woman smiled and nodded. It was the first time Vance had been able to stand without help since he had been shot.

  “He oughta be about ready to go back to work in a day or two,” Burt said, joking, as he walked in from outside.

  “I feel like I oughta do somethin’ around here to help out,” Vance said.

  “We’re doin’ all right,” Burt quickly reassured him. “We’ve got cattle—yours and mine—scattered all over hell’s half acre, but it don’t matter a helluva lot. Drumm
ond’s short of help, and the men he’s got are spending most of their time watchin’ us instead of worryin’ about stealin’ cattle.” He paused. “Although Tom says there ain’t nobody up on the ridge this mornin’.”

  “I need to get back to take care of my place,” Vance said.

  “You’d best stay here,” Burt assured him. “We’re a lot better off together, and Drummond knows it. I figure it’s the only thing that’s kept him from makin’ his move. With you and me, and your two men, we can match him in numbers. If we split up, he’s got the advantage.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Vance said, “but I still ain’t much use to us.”

  Burt smiled. “Well, we still got Rena.” He looked at the Cheyenne woman and winked. She nodded emphatically, returning his smile, causing Burt to chuckle when he recalled the somber Indian woman’s confrontation with Drummond’s foreman, Tyler.

  While Burt and Vance had breakfast, two groups of riders met in a grassy coulee near the south end of Pronghorn Canyon. Rafe Wilson and Charlie Ware had ridden in from town with five men who had volunteered to join the posse. Waiting for them, Frank Drummond sat impatiently on his Appaloosa gelding, his remaining gunman, Fred Singleton, beside him. Drummond urged his horse forward and rode out to meet the posse.

  Feeling it important to make sure every man knew the purpose of their mission, Drummond prepared to address the group. Judging from the appearance of the five men Charlie signed up, they were a sorry-looking lot, all obviously hungover from the prior night’s drinking. They had guns, however, and he figured they would better his odds.

  “All right,” Drummond started as they pulled up around him. “Sheriff Ware has probably told you we’re goin’ after Colt McCrae, and that’s the main thing. But to get to him, we’re gonna have to go through the rest of the McCraes. And that’s what you’re gettin’ two dollars a day for. We’re gonna wipe out the whole lot of those murderin’ coyotes and burn their damn nest to the ground.” He paused to judge the reaction from the five volunteers.

  One of the volunteers, Ronnie Skinner, spoke up. “The sheriff said there’s extra bonus money for the shot that takes Colt McCrae, but he didn’t say how much.”

  “That’s a fact,” Drummond replied, pleased that none of the volunteers showed a reluctance to continue. “Fifty dollars to the man who gets him.” His response brought a smile to Ronnie’s face. “Colt is the most important one to kill,” Drummond went on to emphasize, “but for the good of the town, the whole bunch of low-down murderers have to be wiped out, men, women, children. It ain’t no different than wipin’ out a nest of scorpions.” Again, he waited. When there were still no negative protests, he prodded the Appaloosa and led out to the south. “Come on, then, we’ve got work to do.”

  Burt McCrae looked up to see Bill Wilkes flailing his horse’s flanks as he charged down the east ridge at breakneck speed. Laying aside the bridle he had been in the process of mending, he stepped out of the barn and went to meet him. In the corral, Tom Mosley climbed over the top rail and ran to join Burt.

  “They’re comin’!” Bill yelled before he had passed the well at the edge of the yard. “Drummond!” he blurted as he pulled his horse to a sliding stop before them. Breathless with excitement, he gasped, “Drummond and a gang of riders are headin’ this way, and they look like they mean business!”

  “The ol’ son of a bitch himself,” Burt muttered. “How many?”

  “I counted nine of ’em,” Bill said.

  Burt considered that, but just for a second. “Nine, huh? Drummond musta hired some extra guns.” There wasn’t time to wonder where he managed to get them on such short notice. “How far?”

  “On the other side of the ridge, following the creek.”

  “Well, that don’t give us much time, does it?” Burt replied calmly. The fact that Drummond was leading the bunch told Burt that this was a serious strike against his family. Drummond was usually careful not to be part of the raids he had instigated before. “All right, let’s get back to the house,” Burt said. “Bill, turn your horse in the corral and we’ll stand ’em off from the house.” With nine to defend against, Burt feared the siege might last for a long time. “Tom,” he said, “grab a couple of buckets from the barn and fill ’em with water. We may need it if this is what it looks like.”

  “I don’t reckon they’re comin’ to apologize,” Tom said facetiously. “We might need more’n two buckets.”

  Inside the house, Burt hurriedly organized the defense of his home. The house had not been built to defend against Indian attacks like some older houses in the territory, but there were not many windows, and all but two of these were on two sides of the structure. Consequently, it was easy to decide where to place each rifle. Burt chose the one window in front near the door for himself. He stationed Tom on one side, with Susan to help load for him. Bill and Vance manned the other side, Vance insisting that he was strong enough to handle a rifle. Rena, with her rifle ready, took a station by the kitchen door. There was no shortage of weapons or ammunition, courtesy of the unsuccessful prior raids on Burt’s ranch. With everyone in position, Burt took a final check to make sure everyone was ready. Then he took his derby off a peg by the door and situated it carefully on his head. As they quietly waited for the siege to begin, Burt cracked the front door ajar, and stood by to receive his visitors, expecting Drummond to first demand that he turn Colt over to him.

  Contrary to Burt’s thinking, Drummond planned to waste no time talking. He had come to destroy the last obstacle in his quest to own all the land between Lodgepole Creek and Whiskey Hill. When his force of nine men crested the ridge east of the Broken-M, he signaled a halt while he surveyed the house and outbuildings below. No one was seen moving about. He guessed that they had been spotted, so he turned his gaze to focus on the house. “They’re holed up in there,” he said to no one in particular, “waitin’ for us.”

  Moving forward again, he led his men halfway down the ridge to within two hundred yards before halting again. “Charlie, since you’re the sheriff, I’ll let you show ’em we mean business.” Charlie moved up beside him. “See that door opened a crack? Let’s see if you can put a bullet through that crack.” Charlie grinned obligingly and raised his rifle and took aim.

  “Hadn’t we oughta tell ’em why we’re here, and give Colt a chance to surrender?” This question came from one of the posse volunteers who had sobered up enough to question the legality of their actions.

  Drummond jerked his head around to seek out the source of the question. Focusing his scowling gaze upon the man, he demanded, “Didn’t you hear me back there when I said they’re all murderers and thieves? We didn’t come here to talk. We came here to kill scavengers.” Turning to the sheriff, he said, “Shoot, Charlie.”

  Charlie was not accurate enough to put a bullet through the small opening in the door, but it splintered the frame beside it, causing Burt to jump back, startled by the shot. Susan released an involuntary squeal when she heard the report of the rifle. “Damn!” Tom Mosley exclaimed. “They ain’t wastin’ no time on talkin’.”

  “Damn you, Drummond!” Burt yelled. “There’s women and a child in here. If you’ve come for Colt, he ain’t here.”

  “Send everybody outside,” Drummond called back. “I’ve got the new sheriff here, and we’ll search the house and see for ourselves. Everybody outside.”

  There was a silent pause inside for a few seconds. “Hell,” Burt said after a moment’s consideration, “he’s come on a killin’ spree.” Inching back close to the crack in the door, he yelled out, “You go to hell!”

  The response was what Drummond had hoped for, providing what he considered justification for what he had come to do. “All right, boys,” he announced, “you heard him. I gave him a chance to come out and he wants a fight. Well, we’ll give it to him. We’ll shoot that place to pieces.” Sizing up his target, he decided it best to concentrate his fire on the sides of the house where the windows were located. Looking to hi
s own men to lead the assault, he gave his orders. “Charlie, you take three men with you and find you some cover on yonder side of the house—maybe in the barn— wherever you can get a clear shot. Rafe, take the other three and find you a spot on the other side. And, boys, don’t spare the ammunition.” He held back while his men rode off down the slope to take up their positions. As soon as the shooting started, he turned his horse and rode along the ridge until he came to a narrow break with a clump of pines. This, he decided, was a good place to watch the assault while safe from direct fire.

  Once the shooting started, there was no letup. Drummond’s crew of outlaws and drunks were soon caught up in the conscienceless sport of target practice with little risk to themselves. Empty cartridges gathered on the ground like hailstones and rifle barrels grew hot from rapid firing as round after round smashed windows and tore chunks from the siding.

  Inside, Burt and the others did their best to answer while trying to stay behind what protection they could find. Caught in a storm of flying glass and deadly lead hornets, they hugged the floor amid the constant hammering of bullets against the sides of the house. Risking random shots from the windows at uncertain targets, they were forced to shoot quickly before diving back to the floor for protection. Crawling from one side of the house to the other, Burt tried to help out where he could, offering encouragement while knowing they were caught in a hopeless situation. But he also knew to surrender was certain death. There were no choices.

  The siege had carried on for more than an hour with no way of telling what damage they had inflicted. Charlie Ware was sure that there was a decrease in the return fire from the house, but he could not be sure anyone had been hit. He started to tell the man next to him, one of the volunteers, to move around more to the front of the house, when the man suddenly reared up and cried out in pain. Charlie was astonished to see the man clutching his chest as he fell back on the ground. “I’ve been shot!” were Ronnie Skinner’s last words.