Range War in Whiskey Hill

J. D. Townsend leaned back in his chair, using an open desk drawer for a footstool. Having just consumed a plate of fried potatoes and biscuits spiced with sawmill gravy from the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, he was resting his stomach, his head already nodding. His chin was almost ready to settle on his chest when the door was suddenly flung open. “Dammit, Stoney,” he started, thinking it was his deputy. But when he jerked his head up, it was to see Frank Drummond striding into his office, followed closely by Deputy Stoney Yates.

Almost asleep moments before, J.D. was wide-awake now. Barely avoiding catching his boot heel in the open drawer, the sheriff lurched to his feet. “Mr. Drummond,” he stammered, “what can I do for you, sir?” He aimed one quick glance in his deputy’s direction and received a helpless look in return.

“We’ve got a murdering renegade shooting and killing like a wild Injun,” he charged. The sheriff’s eyes grew large as saucers. Drummond continued. “My foreman just took one of my men to Dr. Taylor’s office with a gunshot wound. And Lon Branch is dead, shot down on my range by that murdering convict, Colt McCrae.”

“Damn!” J.D. exclaimed, at a loss for words. He glanced again at his deputy, who stared back with the same mystified expression. “We’ll certainly look into it,” he repeated. The sheriff knew what everybody else in town knew, that he held that office for only as long as Frank Drummond permitted. Drummond owned most of the town, and almost all the land surrounding it. The sheriff, the mayor, and the town council answered to Drummond.

“I want you to do more than look into it,” Drummond remarked. “I want you to ride out to McCrae’s ranch and arrest him. I’m a law-abiding man, so I’ve told my boys to let the law handle the murdering son of a bitch. But they’re gonna stay alert in case he tries to bushwhack somebody else. I will protect my property.”

Although his face was absent of expression, Drummond watched the uncertainty between sheriff and deputy with amused satisfaction. He felt he had successfully planted the image of Colt McCrae as a reckless killer, and as long as the law was actively looking to arrest McCrae, any action taken by his men would seem justified by the citizens of Whiskey Hill. Although ruthless in his drive to own the territory, Drummond was smart enough to know the importance of keeping a facade of legitimacy for the people to see. There was no value in owning a town if there were no people to run it.

There had been a modest swell of concern from the townsfolk when Sam McCrae had been killed, and word had gotten back to Drummond that some thought he might have had something to do with it. Drummond had felt it necessary to call on Mayor Roy Whitworth to assure the folks that he not only had nothing to do with the killing, but had sent his men out to hunt for the killer. After all, Drummond had suggested, Sam was his neighbor, and would be missed. Now, if his men did the job they were sent to do today, the thorny problem of Colt McCrae should be settled. Afterward, Drummond expected Vance McCrae to turn tail and run. That would leave only Burt McCrae to stand against him, and the old man would soon wilt under Drummond’s constant pressure, especially with no way to get to water. I couldn’t have planned it better, he thought as he left the sheriff’s office. If I’d known it was going to work out this well, I’d have shot Lon and Brownie myself. He walked down the street to see if the mayor was in his office.

Bill Wilkes sat up straight, listening. He motioned for Tom Mosley to keep quiet. Something, a sound or smell, had caused the horses to blow and snort. Bill put his coffee cup down beside the fire and got up to take a look. Peering out at the darkness surrounding the campfire, he said, “Somethin’s spooked the horses, maybe a coyote sniffin’ around. I think I’ll have a look.”

Tom nodded and remained where he was seated. He and Bill had ridden winter nighthawk for many years for Sam McCrae, and now for his son, Vance. There was always something prowling around out there in the darkness, but most of the time it wasn’t worth worrying about. He and Bill had rounded up eleven strays late that afternoon, and since they were close to Rocking-D range, Bill was probably worrying about the number of cattle that had been shot over this way. I’m getting too damn old for this, Tom thought. My bones are getting so they feel the cold more than they used to. He had no sooner had the thought than he heard a voice behind him.

“Well, lookee here, Lou, ain’t nobody guardin’ these cows but two old men.” Jack Teach walked into the circle of firelight, an insolent sneer upon his stubbled face. Tom tried to scramble to his feet, but was shoved firmly back down on his behind. “You just set there, old man, if you don’t want your head cracked open.” He called back over his shoulder, “Hey, Lou, where are you?”

His question was answered in the next moment when Lou George emerged from the darkness dragging the limp body of Bill Wilkes. “He fell and bumped his head on somethin’,” Lou said. “I think it was my gun butt.” His comment caused the two Rocking-D riders to roar with laughter while he dragged Bill over by the fire and dropped him.

“You two low-down skunks.” Tom sneered. “Get the hell offa Bar-M range.” He crawled over to his partner, whose head was split beside his eye and blood covered half his face. “What’s the matter?” he spat. “Couldn’t you find no cattle to shoot? Damn Rocking-D scum.”

“Shut your mouth, you old fart,” Lou snorted, “before I knock you in the head.” He turned to grin at his partner then. “Besides, I believe we found about a dozen right here.” He whirled around and started shooting blindly into the cows gathered in the small ravine, laughing at the resulting panic among the bawling cows. Tom tried to charge him, but was knocked down again by Jack Teach. When Lou had emptied his pistol, he turned back to Tom while he reloaded. “All right, old man, where’s Colt McCrae? We got some business with him.”

“Is that what you two snakes come ridin’ in here for?” Tom replied. “Well, he ain’t hereabouts, and I don’t know where he is.” For his answer, he received a sharp rap across his cheek with Lou’s pistol barrel.

“Wrong answer again,” Lou said. He aimed his pistol at Tom’s foot and pulled the trigger. Tom screamed in pain. Lou looked up at his partner and grinned. “I bet he starts rememberin’ pretty soon.”

While Tom writhed in pain, Jack Teach, his pistol drawn, stood over Bill Wilkes as the dazed old man began to show signs of consciousness. Aware of Tom’s groans, Bill started to get up on his hands and knees, only to feel the cold hard steel of Teach’s revolver barrel against his skull. “You just stay right there,” he was warned. With little choice, Bill was forced to do as he was told.

“I’m gonna lay it out plain and simple,” Lou said, his patience draining. “If one of you don’t tell me where we can find Colt McCrae, and pretty damn quick, then there ain’t no use in keepin’ you alive.” He reached down and grabbed a handful of Tom’s hair. Jerking his head back, he stuck his gun barrel up against the wounded man’s cheek. “Now, where is he?”

Lou nodded his agreement and released his hold on Tom. He stepped back in preparation to execute the witnesses, but suddenly staggered drunkenly when the sharp crack of a rifle rang out. Shot in the gut, Lou doubled over in pain and collapsed. Stunned by the sight of his partner sprawled upon the ground, Jack Teach stood motionless, his mouth agape, when a second shot smacked into his chest, backing him up a few steps before he fell to the ground beside the fire.

A ghostly figure astride a big buckskin horse slowly emerged from the darkness and slow-walked into the fire-lit circle, the only sound that of a Winchester cranking a new round into the chamber. His rifle ready, Colt watched the two bodies carefully as he dismounted. Before checking on his friends, he kicked the pistol away from Jack Teach. With the toe of his boot, he then rolled him over to confirm that he was dead. When he got to Lou George, the wounded man gasped painfully, “You gut-shot me, you son of a bitch.”

“I reckon so,” Colt replied calmly. “I’m still gettin’ used to this rifle. It shoots a mite low.” Anticipating Lou’s next move, he put a bullet into the belligerent bully’s forehead when he suddenly made a move for the pistol beside him. His grim work done, he then turned to help his friends.

“Boy, am I glad to see you!” Bill said. “We was as good as dead.” When Colt knelt down to look at him, he said, “I ain’t as bad as I look. Just a bump on the head. Tom needs lookin’ after. The son of a bitch shot him.”

Although he was seemingly calm and unhurried in his execution of Drummond’s two men, the tide of anger that had washed over Colt when he arrived at the brow of the ravine was slow in receding from his mind. When he saw Drummond’s paid gun hands preparing to murder the two innocent men, men who had worked for his father since Colt and Vance were boys, he was overcome with rage. There were no guilt feelings over the disposal of these two predators. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, Tom,” he said. “I was about a mile away when I heard the shots.”

“You got here,” Tom said, grunting as Colt removed his boot. “And you were the best sight these old eyes had ever seen. Me and Bill was about to go under, and that’s a fact. I ain’t worried about my foot. It ain’t that bad, just hurts like hell.”

“Maybe so,” Colt said, examining the bloody foot. “But it looks like you ain’t gonna be doin’ a lot of walkin’ for a spell. Looks like the bullet went clean through, but we’d best have the doctor tend to it.” Tom was about to protest that it wasn’t necessary, but Colt interrupted him. “I’ll take you into town. Bill, it might be a good idea if you went back to the house in case some more of Drummond’s men are snoopin’ about. Tell Vance to keep a sharp eye about him.”

It was still a good two hours before sunup when a lone rider, leading two horses behind him, walked his mount slowly past the garden fence and up to the wide front porch. Dismounting, the rider tied the reins of the two horses he had been leading to the hitching post. Stepping up in the saddle again, he turned and rode away at an unhurried lope, unnoticed by anyone in the sleeping bunkhouse and generating only casual interest from the horses milling around in the corral.

Dr. Henry Taylor pulled the curtain back to peer out his front window to see who was seeking his services at such an early hour. There were two riders. One he recognized as Tom Mosley; the other was a stranger. “I ain’t even had my coffee yet,” he complained to his wife. He pulled up his suspenders and went to the door. “Tom, what in the world have you gotten into?” he asked when he saw the rag wrapped around Tom’s foot. “You cut your foot or something?”

Dr. Taylor walked out on the short porch and stood watching while Colt helped Tom down. “Bring him on in here,” he directed. “Gunshot, you say? You shoot yourself in the foot?” He looked hard at the silent man helping Tom, wondering if he had anything to do with it.

“You don’t mean it,” the doctor exclaimed. “How’d it happen? He didn’t do it on purpose, did he?” Remaining a quiet observer, Colt let Tom do the talking. After Tom had told of the late night visit from two of Drummond’s men, Dr. Taylor shook his head and sighed, “I reckon I’d better get ready to patch up a few more crazy cowhands. You’re already the second gunshot I’ve seen this week. Frank Drummond sent one of his boys in yesterday.” He glanced up, his gaze focusing on Colt. “I don’t reckon you boys had anything to do with that?” When there was no response from either, he held the door to his examining room open and waited for Colt to help Tom inside. “Sit down on the table, there, Tom.” When Tom was settled, Dr. Taylor said, “Who’s your friend, here? I don’t recollect seeing him around town before.”

Tom quickly interceded on Colt’s behalf. “It ain’t Colt that started the shootin’. If it weren’t for him, I reckon me and Bill Wilkes would both be dead. Them Drummond coyotes jumped us in the middle of the night.”

“Well, yes, young fellow, I’m sorry about that. Still, we don’t need any more, and that’s a fact.” He looked at Tom again. “Have you told the sheriff about this? He might wanna go after them two that jumped you.”

Dr. Taylor shifted his gaze up to fix on Colt’s eyes. “Oh,” he said, getting Tom’s meaning. “I suppose I’m going to be busier than I thought.” Turning his attention back to the injured foot, he said, “Looks like a pretty clean wound to me. Went in the top and out the bottom. As long as it bled out pretty good, and it looks like it did, it oughta be all right. Hard to say if you broke any bones or not—be damn lucky if you didn’t. I’ll dress the wounds and you can see how it goes. You’ll be able to tell after a few days if the swelling doesn’t go down.”

“Limp,” Dr. Taylor replied. Then, after a long pause, with Tom looking obviously astonished, the doctor laughed. “I’ll take a look at it after a day or two. Then we’ll see. Now get on outta here. I ain’t even had my coffee yet.”

“Never mind, I’ll give Vance my bill.” He held the door open for them again, and as they passed him, he spoke to Colt. “You’d better be real careful, young fellow. You ain’t the most popular man around this town. I’m sorry about your father. Sam McCrae was a damn good man.” Colt nodded in reply.

Outside, Colt helped Tom up in the saddle, then stepped up on Buck and wheeled the big horse around. “Well, since the good doctor’s gonna save the bill for Vance, I figure I’ve got enough money to buy us a breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

For the second morning in a row, Frank Drummond was awakened by the sound of someone pounding on his front door. Already irritated, he listened for the sound of Alice Flynn’s unhurried footsteps in the front hall. After a few moments, he could hear some excited talk from one of his cowhands. Who it was or what he was saying was not discernible, but Drummond knew it was not good news. Feeling his bile rising, he threw back the heavy quilts he had been sleeping under and got up. Throwing a long robe over his nightshirt, he stormed out of the room to see what trouble awaited.

Clucking her disgust, Alice returned to her kitchen, leaving the men to their foolish business. She never questioned her employer’s methods of acquiring his many holdings, although she never disguised her disapproval. A woman of her status—a widow for more than twelve years and no family to fall back on—had little choice but to do whatever was necessary to survive. Keeping house and cooking for Frank Drummond was not difficult. He had no family, so there was just the two of them to clean up after, and he seemed indifferent to her perpetual frown and sharp tongue. The saddle trash Drummond hired soon learned to stay clear of the cranky old witch that ran the house. Alice preferred it that way.

Turning to direct his rage toward Tyler, Drummond demanded, “How in hell can someone just ride right in here and nobody see him?” Drummond didn’t have to be told that these stiffening corpses were the two men Pete had selected to take care of Colt McCrae.

“War!” Drummond roared. “If it’s war he wants, then by God, I’ll see he gets it!” His face a maelstrom of fury, he glowered at his foreman as if seeing right through the man. The image in his mind’s eye was that of the insolent face of Colt McCrae sitting on his horse where the two horses of his men now stood, a rifle aimed at his gut. In the ten years since he had come to this valley, he had never been openly challenged. His gang of ruthless gunmen, loosely called cowhands, ensured his acquisition of most of the open range in the wild young territory, and led to his dominance of the town itself. And now to be seemingly stalemated by one insolent man, a troublemaker the town had gotten rid of years ago, was more than Drummond intended to tolerate. His first thought was to call out his entire crew, now minus three dead, and hunt this menace down, and in the process, clean out the hangers-on at Bar-M and Broken-M.

On the verge of saying yes, Drummond checked himself with a calmer thought. Though ruthless, he was not a foolish man. His empire had been built under a guise of legitimacy. Even the vigilance committee that had rid the town of undesirables when the railroad was being built was heavily made up from Drummond’s men. In recent years, he had even given thought to the possibility of running for governor of the territory. A vigilante-like response to this one man might turn the town’s citizens against him. In control of his emotions now, he answered his foreman’s question. “No, not yet, I’ll talk to the men tonight. I’m going in to talk to the sheriff first.” With that, he dismissed Tyler to take care of the bodies.

At approximately the same time Drummond discovered the bodies of Lou George and Jack Teach parked at his front door, the man responsible walked into the Whiskey Hill Kitchen. In the kitchen, Mary Simmons turned to peer through the pass-through window behind the counter when she heard the door close. “Well, look who’s back,” she murmured, causing Pearl Murray to sidle over to have a look. So intense was their concentration upon Colt that they failed to notice Tom Mosley’s bandaged foot, covered only by his sock.

There had been a great deal of talk about the return of Colt McCrae during the last couple of days, a lot of discussion about what, if anything should be done about him. Waiting the table in the back room, Mary usually overheard most of what went on in town, and the talk the day before was of the shooting of two of Frank Drummond’s men—one of them, Lon Branch, was dead. In Mary’s mind, that wasn’t much of a loss to the world in general. The discussion at the table was whether it was a gunfight or a murder. J.D. sent Stoney Yates out to Burt McCrae’s ranch to bring Colt in, but Stoney came back without him. He said Burt told him that Colt didn’t stay at the ranch. Mary wondered what J.D. would do if he knew Colt McCrae had just walked into the dining room.

“Oscar’s full of hot air. He talks pretty big, but I’d like to see if he’s got the guts to tell him to get out when he comes back from the store.” She looked at Pearl and winked. “Besides, I still think he’s nice looking. I’ll wait on him.”

“Well, I see you came back to see us,” Mary greeted her two early customers cheerfully. Then, noticing Tom’s bloodstained sock, she asked, “What happened to your foot, Tom?” While he went into detail about the incident that resulted in his gunshot wound, her eyes remained fixed upon the dark brooding gaze of his younger companion, almost missing the point that there were two more dead. When it registered with her, she suddenly recoiled. Directing her question to Colt, she exclaimed, “You shot two more of Drummond’s men?”

Mary gave the remark only a sideways glance, her eyes still locked on Colt’s. “All the same, you’d better watch yourself.” She glanced around as if to see if anyone else could hear. “Why are you sitting in here? Don’t you know J.D. might come in here any minute?”

Tiring of the questions, although touched by her obvious concern, he favored her with a faint smile. “I’m sittin’ in here because I want some breakfast, and I haven’t done anything but defend myself and my friends. Now, do you think Pearl can fix me some more of those eggs?”

“Why, Pearl Murray,” Mary replied, a mock look of offense upon her face. “I’m ashamed of you for even thinking such a thing. I guess he’s back in here because he’s hungry, and your breakfast didn’t kill him last time.”

Serious then, Pearl warned her young friend, “I wouldn’t get too interested in that boy, honey. I don’t think he’ll be around for very long, especially if he’s takin’ to shootin’ Frank Drummond’s men.”

Mary, herself serious at that point, said, “According to what Tom just told me, he shot two more of Drummond’s men last night.” She went on to relay Tom’s telling of the attack upon him and Bill Wilkes.

“Damn,” Pearl exhaled. “Like I said, you’re battin’ your eyes at a dead man.” Then, her mischievous side never far away, she grinned. “Let me cook some breakfast for those two. I wanna make sure they’re still here when Oscar gets back. He’s been talkin’ about how he might throw Colt McCrae out if he showed his face in here again.”

“I swear, you’re bad,” Mary said, shaking her head as she left the kitchen with two cups of coffee. Though she would never admit it to Pearl, she did find herself interested in the broad-shouldered brother of Vance McCrae. Pearl had reminded her several times that the quiet young man was an ex-convict, and she knew it unwise to even toy with thoughts toward him. Still, she told herself there was no harm in entertaining thoughts. She would never act upon them. It was just something to speculate on. There was no harm in that. “Here you go, gents,” she sang out cheerfully as she set the cups down on the table. “Pearl’s scrambling up some eggs right now.”

Colt and Tom were just starting on their breakfast when Oscar returned from the store. Coming in the back door to the kitchen, he was met by Pearl, a wicked smile on her face. “Look who’s settin’ in the front booth, Oscar.”

“Who?” he asked, and when Pearl didn’t answer, he walked over to the pass-through window. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He stood there, staring at the two men eating breakfast, for a long moment before suddenly turning around and retracing his steps toward the back door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he mumbled as he closed the door behind him.

Mary was not as amused as her friend. “Damn, Pearl, I’ll bet he’s gone to get the sheriff.” What appeared to be a joke to Pearl seemed likely to spell trouble for Colt. J.D. was already looking for him. Feeling she should at least warn Colt, Mary hurried back out to the booth.

Tom Mosley was properly concerned when Mary told them that Oscar was probably going to fetch the sheriff. His bravado of a few minutes before rapidly dissipated. He looked at Colt anxiously, but the news appeared to have little effect on the calm exterior of Sam McCrae’s younger son. “Maybe we oughta finish up real quick and get the hell outta here,” Tom suggested.

“I don’t get a good breakfast like this every day,” Colt replied while he casually buttered up a biscuit. “I don’t figure on rushin’ through it.” Then giving Tom an understanding glance, he said, “Maybe you should go, Tom. There’s no sense you gettin’ tangled up in my troubles.”

“I haven’t done anything to go to jail for,” Colt said. He was thinking about the town that had railroaded him off to prison nine years before. He had no intention of submitting to J. D. Townsend, even if it resulted in a shoot-out. Maybe he was pushing his luck to show his face in town, but he was determined not to be intimidated by the town council again. He would deal with J. D. Townsend when it came to that. The war was already started. He had no intention of letting the sheriff get in his way. He glanced up again to catch Mary’s eye. “I could use another cup of that coffee,” he said calmly.

Mary shook her head, perplexed by their stubbornness, and left to get the coffeepot. Before she had time to return with it, the front door opened, and in walked J. D. Townsend, followed a few paces behind by Oscar Anderson.

Without hesitation, J.D. walked straight over to the booth. With his hand resting on the butt of his pistol, he addressed the placid man gazing back at him. “I’m placin’ you under arrest,” he blurted, albeit somewhat nervously. He glanced at the Winchester rifle propped in the corner of the booth opposite Colt, out of easy reach.

“Murder, for one thing,” the sheriff responded, “the murder of Lon Branch.” He stood nervously shifting from one foot to the other, his hand gripping and re-gripping the handle of the revolver in his holster. “Now get your hands up on the table where I can see them.”

“Before you take a notion to pull that pistol, I’d better warn you that I’ve got a pistol layin’ in my lap. So I reckon I’ll keep my hands right where they are.” He nodded toward Mary Simmons standing paralyzed in the middle of the room, holding the coffeepot. “We were just about to have another cup of coffee. Why don’t you sit down and have a cup, and we’ll talk about this mistake you were about to make.”

When J.D. hesitated, not sure what to do, Tom spoke up. “Dammit, J.D., Colt ain’t murdered nobody. You oughta be ridin’ out to the Rocking-D to arrest Frank Drummond. Two of his men jumped me and Bill Wilkes last night, and if Colt hadn’t come along, we’d both be dead.” He held his wounded foot up for J.D. to see.

Clearly surprised by this new piece of news, J.D. nevertheless attempted to regain the air of authority he had borne when he first entered the room. “I don’t know nothin’ about that. Right now, I’m talkin’ about the murder of Lon Branch.”

“You people have got a habit of arrestin’ folks for somethin’ they didn’t do. I killed Lon Branch, but it wasn’t murder,” Colt said, his voice still showing no sign of emotion. “He came to kill me in my camp on McCrae land. He was shot in self-defense, and no man has ever gone to jail in this territory for that. I’m not gonna be the first.”

“Drummond’s a damn liar if he said that,” Colt replied. “And if he didn’t, then you’re a damn liar. Now I think we’re about finished with this little conversation. Tom and I are gonna get on our horses and ride outta town real peaceful. At least, that’s the way I want it. But if you draw that weapon, I’m gonna cut loose with this one under the table. I expect it’ll catch you right about your balls, since I can’t raise it any higher. You might be able to kill me, but you ain’t gonna be siring any calves for a helluva long time.”

J.D. was stunned. He had not expected to be faced down with an open challenge, and the look in Colt’s eyes told him it was no bluff. He hesitated, reluctant to back down in front of witnesses, but also knowing he couldn’t get his gun out of the holster in time to avoid being shot. “All right,” he finally said, and removed his hand from the pistol. “There’s too many folks in here to risk somebody innocent gettin’ shot.” Trying to save what reputation he could, he turned to Tom. “Tom, you’re sayin’ this man was not on Rocking-D range when he shot Branch?”

“All right, then,” J.D. said. “I’m gonna let you go now, but I’ll be lookin’ into all this to see who’s tellin’ the straight of things.” In a final attempt to assert his authority, he added, “Now I think you both better get mounted and get on outta town before I change my mind.”

Although there was no change in the stoic expression on Colt’s face, he was greatly relieved by the sheriff’s decision. He had no use for J. D. Townsend, but he had no desire to gun down the sheriff or anyone else who was not involved in his personal war. Aside from that, he had nothing in his lap but a napkin. His pistol and holster were in his saddlebag. As the sheriff moved over to stand beside a dazed Mary Simmons, Colt waited a moment to let Tom get up first. Then he laid the napkin on the table and reached over to pick the Winchester up from the corner of the booth. As he rose from the booth, he cocked the rifle just in case. It was unnecessary as the sheriff blanched when he realized he wasn’t wearing a gun belt.

Standing to face the mortified lawman, Colt reached in his pocket and put some money on the table. He smiled briefly at Mary and said, “I think there’s enough there to cover our bill. We’ll be goin’ now.” Backing all the way to the door, he followed Tom, who was already limping toward the horses.

J.D. made no move to go after them, knowing it would only soil his reputation further. Oscar looked at the sheriff in disbelief, but decided to remain mute. Pearl, however, was never a person to stifle her cynical sense of humor. Striding through the kitchen door, she broke the stunned silence left in Colt’s wake. “Damn if that weren’t somethin’. For a minute there I thought we were gonna have us a real shoot-out.” Enjoying the scene, she looked at Mary. “Mary, you’d better clean off that table, and be careful of that napkin. It might go off in your hand.”