Range War in Whiskey Hill

Intending to ride quietly into town, buy the ammunition and supplies he needed, and leave as quickly as possible, Colt pulled the buckboard to a stop by the hitching rail at Raymond Fletcher’s dry goods store. His uncle had volunteered to make the trip into town, but had to make a choice between that and riding over to Vance’s ranch to tend to his nephew’s stock. Several quiet days had passed since the shoot-outs at both ranches had occurred, and Vance was encouraged that maybe the trouble was over. Both Colt and Burt saw it differently, knowing that Drummond was not going to accept his apparent defeat. But since there was a lull in the action, Colt suggested that his uncle had better take advantage of it and make sure the stock was taken care of.

Taking but a moment to look up and down the empty street, Colt stepped up on the board walkway and entered the store. Eunice Fletcher glanced up from the counter where she was sorting some new material that had just come in. She immediately spun on her heel and retreated to the back room where her husband was busy repairing a shelf. “Raymond!” she gasped. “That murderer is out there in the store.”

Raymond dropped his hammer on the shelf and stepped down from the chair he had been using as a ladder. He, like his wife, had no desire to deal with the ex-convict. But unlike her, he was burdened with the role of man of the family. “I’ll see what he wants,” he told his wife.

“I’ll tend to it. You just stay back here until he’s gone.” Mighty damn easy for you to say, he thought, remembering the formidable image of the man just returned from prison.

Colt turned as Fletcher walked in from the back. Mindful of his wife’s instructions, the nervous store-keeper was hesitant to pass on her sentiments, but he was also reluctant to greet him with the courtesy usually accorded a regular customer. Consequently, he was left in a quandary, the result of which caused him to say not a word, but to gape openmouthed. Colt seemed not to notice, and handed him a scrap of paper with a list of items his uncle needed.

“All right,” Fletcher replied, relieved to have an explanation for his wife as to why he didn’t order Colt out of his store. The supplies were for Burt, and Burt was a valued customer. That made a difference. Gathering up the items on the list, Fletcher wasted little time in filling his customer’s order, and within minutes of his arrival, Colt was loading the supplies onto the buckboard.

Deputy Stoney Yates craned his neck to stare at the driver of the buckboard pulling away from Fletcher’s store. Certain then that it was who he thought it was, he turned around and went back inside the office. “Sheriff, you ain’t gonna believe who’s drivin’ a buckboard down the middle of the street.”

“Are you sure?” the sheriff questioned, and got up from his chair. Going to the window, he stared out. “Why, that son of a bitch . . .” was all he uttered at the moment. He had figured that he would hardly see the likes of Colt McCrae in Whiskey Hill again, and if he did, it would more than likely be on a slab at the undertaker’s. “I reckon I’d best have a word with him,” he said, feeling that he was called upon to do something.

It was not an easy decision for J.D. at this juncture. In spite of Frank Drummond’s efforts to keep the battle between him and the McCraes a private affair, some of the town’s citizens knew there was a range war going on. The mayor had asked J.D. point-blank why he was not taking action against one or both of the parties involved. J.D. had tried to sidestep the issue by insisting that it had been blown out of proportion, and besides that, it was not affecting the citizens of Whiskey Hill. It didn’t help matters when the bodies of three of Drummond’s men were found tied to the hitching rail in front of the jail. Roy Whitworth had suggested contacting the army, and J.D. had lied to the mayor when he said he had sent word to Fort Russell. I wish to hell Drummond would end this thing, he thought as he put his hat on and started for the door.

Colt drew back on the reins, pulling the horse to a stop. He picked up the Winchester behind the seat and propped it beside him—a move the sheriff did not fail to notice. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Maybe you can start by tellin’ me about them three dead men you left tied up in front of the jail the other day,” J.D. said in a tone as authoritative as he could manage.

“Maybe I found ’em outside of town and just dropped ’em off at the jail—figured you’d let Drummond know they were his men. How do you figure they got shot, Sheriff? I figured they musta been out huntin’ and surrounded a bunch of antelope, and wound up shootin’ each other.”

J.D. didn’t respond for a few moments while he absorbed Colt’s sarcasm. “Mister,” the sheriff finally warned, “you might think you can buffalo me, but you just might find yourself a guest in my jail.”

“For breakin’ what law?” Colt demanded. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t have to break a law to get locked up in Whiskey Hill.” He glared at the obviously irritated lawman for a moment. “Now, can I be on my way?”

Frustrated, but not to the point of challenging the steady hand resting on the rifle barrel, J.D. stepped back from the buckboard. “I think it’s best if you just ride on outta town now. You ain’t welcome in Whiskey Hill.”

Although his intention had been to do just that, the sheriff’s warning struck an irritating chord in Colt’s mind and he responded defiantly. “I expect I might fancy a cup of coffee before I make the trip back to Broken-M.” He popped the reins sharply across the horse’s back and left the sheriff standing in the street. He had no particular desire for coffee, but he was damn tired of people telling him to get out of town. When he came to the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, he had just about cooled his temper enough to forget the spiteful cup of coffee, but something changed his mind.

“Colt!” Someone called and he turned to see Mary Simmons standing in the doorway of the dining room. He pulled up before the door. She walked out to the edge of the board sidewalk, a broad smile across her face. “Well,” she said, “I see they haven’t run you out of the territory yet.”

“You must be as ornery as they all say. Pearl and I have been telling ’em you didn’t seem the kind to cut and run.” She didn’t mention the fact that Pearl also said he’d be a damn fool if he didn’t. It was an ill-kept secret that Frank Drummond wanted him gone, and J.D. was usually quick to do Drummond’s bidding.

“Is that a fact?” Colt replied. His decision made then, he guided the buckboard out of the street and climbed down. “I expect I could use a cup of that stuff you folks pass off as coffee.”

“Well, come on in,” she invited grandly. “I just made a fresh pot not more’n fifteen minutes ago.” She opened the door wide for him. “Pearl might even be persuaded to scramble some eggs for you.”

“That’s a fact,” Mary agreed while she filled a cup from the pot on the stove. Noticing a wide grin on Pearl’s face, accompanied by an impish nod toward the kitchen, Mary glanced in that direction in time to see the back door closing. She almost laughed, knowing Oscar had ducked out the back, heading for the sheriff’s office. To Colt she said, “We might be seeing J.D. any minute.”

Pearl walked over to stand directly in front of him while he sipped the hot coffee. “Colt, what in hell’s goin’ on out there? All they’ve been talkin’ about in the back room is some kinda range war goin’ on—dead men showin’ up at the sheriff’s office, one of Drummond’s men with a bullet in his leg, you bringin’ Tom Mosley in with a gunshot—and now I hear your brother, Vance, was shot. What the hell’s goin’ on? J.D. says it ain’t nothin’ that concerns Whiskey Hill.”

Colt took another long sip of coffee while he decided how to answer her question. “It’s kinda simple,” he said. “Somebody’s tryin’ to take land that belongs to other folks, and those folks ain’t inclined to let him have it.”

Whether or not it was explanation enough to suit her, it was obvious that it was all she was likely to receive, so she just shook her head and said, “It ain’t right. J.D. oughta do somethin’ about it.”

“I’d just as soon he didn’t,” Colt replied, " ’cause I know which side he’d be on.” He gulped the last of his coffee down. “I’d best be goin’. It’s already gonna be after dark by the time I get back. How much I owe you?” Pearl waved off his attempt to pay.

Pearl came from behind the counter and walked over to stand in the door with Mary. They watched him until he turned at the end of the street and disappeared from their view. “Honey,” Pearl warned, “you’re lookin’ to find yourself some trouble if you keep givin’ him those sheep eyes. That man attracts trouble like a horse turd attracts flies.”

Pearl was about to say more, but couldn’t help but giggle when they heard the sound of the back door closing. “Oscar’s back,” she whispered. “Came back to throw Colt out.” They both laughed at that.

He set the horse’s nose on the trail leading back toward the Broken-M and Bar-M ranges, thoughts of Mary Simmons filling his mind. The young woman had a way about her. He couldn’t decide if she was pretty or not—certainly attractive, with those dark eyes that so easily captured his attention—and hair as dark as her eyes. This ain’t the time to be thinking about a woman, he lectured himself. Get your mind back on the business at hand. But he found that was not so easily done. Already he had lingered in town longer than he had intended. I just hope this horse of Uncle Burt’s knows his way home in the dark, he thought. Had he been aware that Stoney Yates had ridden out of town on a fast horse while he was drinking coffee, he might have been more alert for trouble.

Stoney galloped in through the front gate of the Rocking-D Ranch and slid to a stop at the porch, his horse lathered and wheezing. Halfway up the steps, he heard someone call. Turning, he saw Drummond and two men coming from the barn. He immediately ran to meet them. When Drummond heard that Colt McCrae was driving a buckboard back from town, he knew he had been given an opportunity to settle with him once and for all. “Rafe,” he ordered, “you and Slim get mounted right away. If you hurry, you might catch McCrae before he gets to the other side of Pronghorn Canyon.” Knowing their mission well, they didn’t have to ask questions, and were off and running before many minutes had passed.

“I was gonna hire you to track McCrae and kill him. I don’t need you to track him when he’s riding down the road on a buckboard. My boys can take care of a simple bushwhacking job.”

Remembering then, Drummond reminded him, “We never shook on it. You ain’t lost nothin’, anyway. You got a hundred dollars just for taking a ride up from Denver.” Seeing the anger building up in the brutal face, Drummond decided it wise to offer a settlement. “I’ll give you an extra fifty for your trouble. It’s too late to start back tonight, so you’re welcome to stay here for supper—start back in the morning.”

Hardly appeased, Bone shrugged nonetheless, and without another word, turned and went to the bunkhouse. Drummond grinned, pleased that he had saved the cost of the notorious killer’s fee.

Pronghorn Canyon was not really a canyon at all. In reality, it was a shallow ravine almost a mile long that served as a buffer between Crooked Creek and the open range beyond. In fact, no one knew from whence the name had come. As far as anyone could remember, there had been no abundance of pronghorn there, either. Colt drove the buckboard along the center of the ravine, intending to veer off to the east at the end. To remain on a straight course would take him to the Rocking-D range.

He had traveled approximately halfway through Pronghorn Canyon when a big, almost full moon rose over the distant hills, bathing the ravine floor with moonlight. Uncle Burt will start to worry about me, he thought. He didn’t have time for other thoughts along that line, for in the next instance, a bullet gouged out a strip of wood from the floorboard, followed almost at once by the bark of a rifle.

His reaction was automatic. Lashing the horse with the reins, he crouched down in front of the seat, calling for all the speed the sorrel could give him. More shots rang out, sending lead slugs slithering through the frosty air all around him. A fist-sized chunk of wood flew over his shoulder, knocked out of the seat back. Suddenly he felt a solid blow against his side that caused him to sprawl sideways on the floor, losing the reins as he fell. In the next instance, the horse screamed as a bullet found fatal purchase, and the sorrel tumbled, throwing the buckboard upside down, spilling the contents, including the man. By miracle or instinct, he was able to hang on to his rifle as he sailed through the air, landing hard on the canyon floor.

Still with no idea of how many or from where, he lay on the ground trying to regain the breath that the fall had pounded from his lungs. The numbness in his side began to sting and he grabbed his side, only to pull it away again covered with blood. Off to one side, the buckboard lay smashed, the dead horse still in the traces. He had his rifle, but no extra cartridges. There were cartridges somewhere in the parcels that had been scattered, but he could not see them. After a few agonizing minutes, he regained his breath. Now, with nothing but the pain in his side, which seemed to be getting progressively worse, he struggled to get to his feet.

He had taken no more than a few steps when the riders charged down from the dark side of the ravine. Dropping to one knee, he opened fire with his rifle. With no time to aim properly, his shots failed to hit a target, but they served to halt the charge. He could see now that there were two of them. Taking advantage of their hesitation, he retreated as quickly as he could up the opposite slope. Soon bullets were whistling all around him, forcing him to seek cover in a shallow gully. Bolder now that their quarry was on the run, the two riders urged their horses up the slope after him. Taking time to aim, Colt cranked three shots into the foremost rider, knocking him off his horse. The remaining assailant wheeled his horse around at this and retreated to the ravine floor where he continued to spray the slope with rifle shot.

Certain that if he stayed put, he was bound to get hit again, Colt opened up with his rifle, causing the gunman to back even farther away. He pulled the trigger again, only to hear the dull click of the hammer against an empty chamber. With no other option, he forced himself to scramble up over the side of the ravine. Unknown to him, the rider he had left behind was not willing to follow him to finish the job, afraid that he would meet the same fate as his partner. While Colt made his painful way back in the direction of Crooked Creek, Rafe paused only long enough to throw Slim’s body over the saddle before hurrying back to the Rocking-D to report the results.

Supper being long since finished, Drummond got up from his chair beside the massive stone fireplace. Alice Flynn had cleaned up the kitchen and retired to her room although the evening was still young. Placing another log on the fire, he paused when he thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats outside. Hurrying to the front porch, he arrived in time to see Rafe slide to a stop from a full gallop. He was leading Slim’s horse with a body across the saddle.

Drummond’s first thought upon seeing the body was gratification that they had been quick enough to cut McCrae off. Slim was obviously dead, but Drummond was willing to lose a man in exchange for the elimination of his main source of irritation. Rafe’s report upon seeing his boss on the porch only served to send Drummond into a frustrated rage. “Damn you!” he roared. “You let him get away?”

“Couldn’t help it,” Rafe pleaded in his defense. “He’s too damn good with that rifle. We almost got him—killed his horse, and I’m pretty sure I hit him once. He’s on foot and wounded—oughta be dead by now.”

“Shit!” Drummond cut him off in disgust. Then in a moment of urgency, he ordered, “Go to the bunkhouse and get Bone.” Then he had a second thought. “Never mind, I’ll fetch him myself. You get rid of that body and get ready to take Bone to where you lost McCrae.”

Storming down the steps, he strode across the yard, at a furious pace, worried that the smug gunman might have decided to leave. Charging in the door of the bunkhouse, he was met by Brownie, who had also heard Rafe ride in. “Where is he?” Drummond demanded. “Bone, where is he?”

Brownie’s reply only served to deepen Drummond’s disgust with his cautious gunman. He started toward the back of the building. “Turn that lantern up,” he said. Approaching the sleeping man, he stopped several feet short. “Hell,” he snorted, surprised, “he’s awake.”

Drummond stared at the menacing figure, his back propped up, almost in a sitting position, his arms crossed before his chest with a pistol in each hand. “His eyes are open,” Drummond insisted.

“That’s the way he sleeps, with his eyes open,” Brownie said. As far as he was concerned, that alone was evidence enough that the dark gunman was in league with the devil.

Drummond looked from his obviously frightened ranch hand back to the sleeping man. Sure enough, Bone’s eyes were really only half open. The man was asleep. Not in the mood for any more frustration, Drummond began calling out Bone’s name. “Bone! Bone! Wake up, man!” Just to be safe, he took a couple of steps back.

Finally there was a flicker in the drooping eyelids. Then instead of the violent reaction they expected, he slowly rolled his eyes upward, his arms slowly unfolding to point the pistols in front of him. The awakening was mindful of a possum coming out of its defensive sleep, instead of a lion suddenly awakened. “What the hell do you want?” he growled, irritated to have been awakened.

Drummond hurriedly told him of the unsuccessful attempt on Colt’s life by his men, and the necessity to find him before he was able to escape. Bone listened with no sense of urgency. In fact, boredom was the more obvious reaction. When Drummond finished talking, Bone commented, “So now you want me to go after this jasper. Well, the price just went up a hundred dollars.”

“Whoa!” Drummond protested. “Why in hell would it? If anything, the job’s a helluva lot easier. Rafe says McCrae’s wounded, and he’s on foot. He oughta be easy enough to follow.”

“Then why didn’t he bring him back?” Bone replied. “Fact is, a wounded man can be more dangerous, like runnin’ down a wounded bear or elk. That’s why the price went up. And trackin’ a man on foot is harder than trackin’ a horse, especially at night.”

Drummond felt the pressure of time, so he couldn’t afford to dicker if he was to rid himself of Colt McCrae. “All right,” he conceded. “You’ll get your extra money, but you’ve got to get going before the trail gets colder than it already is. Rafe can take you to pick up his track. Brownie, you go with them.”