Range War in Whiskey Hill

Frank Drummond was furious. His troop of ten self-proclaimed gunfighters had been thoroughly defeated at every attempt to wipe out a puny force of five, three of whom were old men. The most infuriating aspect of the defeat was that those ten had been pared down to five. He had never before been so defeated, and the anger in him threatened to burst the blood vessels in his neck as he berated the remnants of his gang. He might have enlisted the services of J. D. Townsend and his deputies to go after Colt McCrae, but he was concerned that the sheriff might send word of the war to Fort Russell. He couldn’t afford to involve the army in his private conquest. There might be too many questions asked.

Drummond was totally convinced that the one catalyst that had put backbone into Burt and Vance McCrae was the return of Colt McCrae. The thought of the broad-shouldered man with his rifle cradled casually in his arms so infuriated him that he picked up a lamp from a side table and smashed it against the wall. It did not serve to vent the rage that was eating him up inside. His five remaining men cowered before his wrath. Even Alice Flynn, his ill-tempered housekeeper, and usually the only person with backbone enough to stand up to him, made no remark as she looked at the broken lamp and the puddle of kerosene on the floor. Without a word, she turned and left the room to fetch some rags.

Drummond paused in his tirade for a few moments, perhaps calmed by the sight of the acid-tongued woman dutifully mopping up the spilled kerosene. He stood looking out the window, his mind on a man he had heard about from Pete Tyler, his recently departed foreman. Maybe it was time he met the man. After a long moment, he turned to the five seated there. “Brownie, I’m sending you to Denver to find a man for me,” he said.

Drummond only knew the man by one name, Bone. Tyler had said that was all anybody knew him by, but every outlaw in Colorado Territory knew of him. He worked out of Denver because he wasn’t wanted for anything there. Tyler had described Bone as a hunter and tracker, a killer as deadly as a rattlesnake. It had been rumored that Bone had once taken a contract to track down and kill his own brother. Pete had said he had no reason to doubt the validity of it. It galled Drummond to have to resort to calling in a killer like Bone, but Colt McCrae had proven to be a dangerous man to trap. Tyler had said that the only way to contact Bone was to leave a message for him at the Palace Saloon on Cherry Creek.

“What if he don’t wanna come?” Brownie asked, not really enthusiastic about riding south to Denver, especially since there had been some talk of a few recent isolated raids by a band of renegade Cheyenne warriors.

“You think I’m a damn fool?” Drummond came back. “I’m not about to send your worthless ass off with a hundred dollars.” Brownie cringed under the verbal assault. “You just deliver my message. Tell him Pete Tyler recommended him. He’ll come.”

It was a little more than a good day’s ride to Denver, but it took Brownie more than half of the following day to find the Palace Saloon. When he did, it was somewhat of a disappointment. Hardly a palace, it turned out to be a small log structure with no sign to identify it, built on an old mining claim by the creek. There was a smaller shack behind it with a lean-to attached. He would not have found it at all had it not been for the directions given him by a local miner.

With a slight limp, favoring his wounded leg, Brownie pushed the door of the saloon open and peered into the dark interior. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the poor light. When objects began to take definite shape, he could see only a single table near a door in the rear, and a roughly built bar facing him. Behind the bar, a huge man with a full beard and a bald head stood staring at him in stoic unconcern.

Gratified to see the change in the big man’s attitude, Brownie responded immediately. “I sure do. Me and Pete’s been ridin’ for Mr. Drummond for more’n a few years. Sorry thing, though, Pete’s dead, shot by a no-good ex-convict. That’s why Mr. Drummond sent me to find Bone.”

“Well, I’ll be . . .” the barkeep drawled. “Pete Tyler dead—that’s bad news sure enough.” He shook his head slowly as he thought about it. “Bone ain’t hereabouts right now, but he said he’d most likely be back tomorrow.”

“Not a’tall,” the bartender said. “Here, let’s have another drink on the house to ol’ Pete Tyler. He was a good’un.” He took the bottle from the bar and replaced it with another. Had Brownie been a man of average intelligence, he might have surmised that he was no longer drinking watered-down whiskey.

It didn’t take long for the full-strength spirits to addle Brownie’s brains, and after a couple of free drinks, he spent what money he had to continue into the evening. Dead broke, and barely able to stand on his feet, he managed to build a fire in the lean-to before wrapping his blanket around him and passing out.

Gradually aware of his pounding head, Brownie was reluctant to open his eyes, praying earnestly that he would go back to sleep and wake up again without the feeling that he was going to throw up. He knew the chances were not good. He was going to be sick, just like every other time he’d had too much to drink, and he uttered a low moan as he felt the familiar churning in the pit of his stomach. To add to his discomfort, his face felt hot, and it seemed to get hotter by the second until it actually felt like it was burning. Unable to tolerate it any longer, he opened his eyes. Startled, he recoiled. His face was barely inches from the fire. Had he somehow crawled up to it while still asleep? He was dumbfounded. To further confuse him, the flames were building higher and higher. Then he jerked back in a panic when a sizable stick of wood fell on the roaring fire, sending sparks and ashes flying.

Struggling to clear his groggy brain from his alcohol-induced sleep, he became aware of a pair of boots on the opposite side of the fire. His gaze immediately drifted up from the boots to a black coat, open to reveal a gun belt with two pistols, butts forward. Quickly tracing upward, his focus settled on a pair of piercing eyes, glowering out from under bushy black eyebrows like two dark orbs set in a pitiless countenance of weathered rawhide. Certain that he was gazing upon Lucifer himself, Brownie cringed before the frightening apparition, fearful that he may have awakened to find himself in hell.

Totally sober now, Brownie experienced an irresistible urge to empty his bladder, but he was too nervous to move. Trying his best to disguise his stunned reaction to his frightful awakening, he said, “Mr. Drummond sent me to fetch you. He’s got a job for you.”

Grimacing as his need to urinate became more and more intense, Brownie explained as quickly as he could relate the problems that Drummond wanted eliminated. “The main job he wants for you is to take care of one man, Colt McCrae,” Brownie strained, his condition now becoming excruciating, so much so that Bone finally took notice.

The ride back to Whiskey Hill was an uncomfortable one for Brownie Brooks. The man called Bone did not ride beside him, preferring to follow along behind. Brownie could feel the man’s piercing gaze upon his back. With his long black coat and his dark hair in a long greasy ponytail, adorned with one eagle feather, hanging from a wide-brimmed leather hat—Bone bore the perfect image for one of Satan’s lieutenants. He never seemed to have thirst or hunger, and might not have stopped all the way back had it not been necessary to rest the horses. He uttered no more than a handful of words, only those absolutely necessary. Brownie likened it to riding with a corpse. He had ridden with quite a few bad men in his life. Pete Tyler, Lou George, and Jack Teach came to mind. Buck and Jack were not only bad—they were crazy-bad. But none compared to the eerie manner of Bone. Brownie was damn glad to see the front gate of the Rocking-D when they crested the final ridge before riding down into the valley.

Brownie, as was customary among the hired hands, dismounted, walked to the edge of the front porch, and knocked respectfully on the porch floor. Casting a curious glance in his direction, Bone walked up the steps and headed straight for the door. It opened before he reached it, and Frank Drummond came forward to meet him. “You’ll be Mr. Bone, I presume,” Drummond said, looking the reputed tracker up and down.

“Right. Well, Bone, looks like you got here just in time for supper. Come on in the house and we can discuss some business while we eat.” He gave Brownie a dismissal glance. “Alice just took some chuck down to the bunkhouse. You’d best hurry if you want to eat. And take care of Bone’s horse for him.” He turned, held the door open, and indicated for Bone to enter.

Drummond saw at once that he was dealing with a man accustomed to having the upper hand. He didn’t like it. When he gave an order, he expected an immediate yes, sir. He started to tell him that he would decide when he got paid, but something about those cold, lifeless eyes told him that this was a man who cowered to no one. They stood gazing eye to eye for several moments, a lion trying to stare down a cobra, before Drummond decided to give in. “Fine,” he finally muttered, “let’s go inside and I’ll get your money out of the safe.” Bone nodded and followed him inside.

Without being told, Alice Flynn set another place at the huge table, then stood back and waited while Bone stood in the dining room door, counting the hundred dollars. “Supper’s gettin’ cold,” she said, and graced him with a disapproving scowl when he sat down, never bothering to remove the leather hat he wore. Wearing a look of disgust, she returned to her kitchen. Of all the villains, killers, and saddle bums she had seen pass through the Rocking-D, this new face possessed the most potential for raw-cut evil. She hoped Drummond’s business with him would not take long.

Drummond glanced toward the door to make sure Alice was not within earshot before answering. The cantankerous woman was not that naive. She most likely knew why Bone had been sent for, but Drummond saw no reason to have witnesses to the conversation. “Colt McCrae,” he replied. “I want him dead.”

Drummond explained. “I’ve lost eight men trying to kill that son of a bitch. He’s a little more wildcat than you expect, and he doesn’t stay in one place long enough for anybody to get to him. That’s why I need somebody who’s a tracker. By God, I’m running out of men.”

“That’s a helluva lot of money for killing one man.” Drummond hesitated, but he knew it was worth it to get rid of the main key to his problems. Without Colt, he anticipated the resistance would crumble. “All right, we’ve got a deal.” He extended his hand.

“Don’t worry about the law. I’ll take care of that. The sheriff won’t get in your way. As long as you don’t do anything in town to upset the citizens of Whiskey Hill, the sheriff doesn’t care what happens out on the range.”