Range War in Whiskey Hill

Frank Drummond scowled at the three men left to run his ranch as they stood nervously waiting for his orders. He had not slept well during the night just past. Thoughts of frustration had kept his mind churning with the anguish of seeing his once invincible gang of men reduced to these three sorry specimens standing before him. For a man accustomed to the conqueror’s role, it was excruciating to admit defeat so far in this contest with the McCraes.

What troubled him most at this moment was the question of whether Burt’s nephew, Colt, was alive or dead. Rafe was halfway convinced that McCrae had been mortally wounded in the ambush on his buckboard. Bone had not returned to collect his money, and Drummond was determined not to pay him a cent without positive proof of Colt’s demise. Where in the hell was the notorious killer? Drummond wondered with the dawn of a new day and Bone still not returned.

Drummond was anxious to move on Burt McCrae. Young Vance’s ranch had been abandoned, according to his lookouts, and it appeared that both families were holed up on the Broken-M. Had Drummond not lost so many men, he would already have sent in a half dozen guns to claim the Bar-M. But with only three, he could not spare any of them when he moved against Burt McCrae. It had to be a complete victory, with no one left to talk about it—man, woman, or child. Still, he would prefer to know for certain that Colt McCrae was not out there somewhere waiting. He decided to wait one more day for news from Bone.

“Rafe,” he ordered, “ride on out to Broken-M and relieve Brownie. He’s probably bellyachin’ already about bein’ out there all night. And, Rafe, take some grub, ’cause you’re gonna be there all night. You keep a sharp eye. I wanna know who’s comin’ and goin’, ’cause tomorrow I’m gonna make him an offer he ain’t gonna turn down this time.”

“Whaddaya want us to do about the stock, Mr. Drummond?” Charlie Ware asked. “We got cattle strayin’ all over hell and then some.” During the past week, Rocking-D cattle were finding their way onto Bar-M and Broken-M land. It had become more than Drummond’s skeleton crew could control.

His mind was racing to weigh the decision he was about to make, after Brownie Brooks’ startling revelation. Colt would never have suspected that Frank Drummond was the man who actually pulled the trigger that killed his father. He figured Drummond to be a man who never dirtied his hands, preferring to hire gun hands to take care of things of that nature. When he first heard, he was ready to forget all other issues. The most important reason he had returned to Whiskey Hill was to settle with the man who had killed his father. He immediately turned his horse toward the Rocking-D.

The farther he rode, however, the more other things crowded into his thoughts. Mary Simmons and her grandmother came to the forefront of his conscience, and the lethal shadow that was bearing down on that peaceful village preyed upon his sense of duty. Red Moon and Walking Woman were not prepared for a poisonous snake like Bone to slither into their quiet camp. He tried to tell himself that the Cheyenne men of that village could easily handle one gunman. They could certainly take responsibility for their own protection. Even as he thought it, he knew it was not the case. Red Moon and his people were no longer warriors. They rode the warpath too many years ago. The young men had left the small band of old people long before this time. No, he, Colt McCrae, must be the warrior to face Bone. Frank Drummond would have to wait. With these thoughts weighing heavily upon his mind, he turned Buck’s head toward Bear Basin and the inevitable showdown with Bone.

It was late afternoon when Bone’s horse topped the last ridge between the basin and Willow Creek. He pulled the horse to a stop and sat looking down for a while on the tiny Cheyenne village on the opposite side of the creek. There was very little activity other than a few cook fires started before several of the tipis. A few old women trod back and forth to the water. A group of four men sat talking before one of the fires. There was no sign of a white man. There was still the question of how badly McCrae was shot. If his wounds were minor, Bone might have spotted him outside one of the lodges—more serious, he could still be inside one of the lodges. Bone meant to find out which.

With a kick of his heels, he started down the slope, angling across the ridge toward the camp at a fast walk. He had approached to within one hundred yards before one of the men in the circle of four stood up and pointed toward him, alerting the others. Bone continued his steady approach, crossing the creek at a shallow ford, then climbing the bank, his rifle cradled in his arms. The entire village was alert to his arrival by this time, and began to slowly converge on the four men by the fire.

Red Moon raised his right arm and answered, “Come, then. If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Red Moon and his friends watched the white man dismount. A curious man, he carried the look of a dark spirit, and Red Moon wondered if this was the man Little Star had fled the village to avoid. “What brings you to our humble village?” he asked.

“I come to find a man,” Bone replied, “a bad white man. I heard that he was in your village. He is wounded, and I have come to get him.” Holding his rifle with his right hand on the trigger guard and the barrel resting across his left forearm, Bone stood ready in case his peaceful ploy failed.

“Is that a fact?” Bone responded skeptically in English. Then in Cheyenne, he said, “This is a bad man, and the soldiers sent me to find him. He will do bad things to your people. I fear he is hiding in one of your tipis, and is threatening your people. I’ll look in your tipis to make sure he is not here.” He watched Red Moon’s face closely to see if the chief was buying his story, but there was no change in the old man’s expression. There was, however, a general restless stirring among the people gathered around them that immediately put Bone on guard.

Red Moon held up his hand to quiet his people. This man was not sent by the soldiers, of that he was sure, but some of his people would surely be killed if they determined to deny him. “I say to you, there is no white man in our camp, but you may look for yourself if it pleases you.”

Bone stood looking into the chief’s eyes for a few moments. Then he shifted his gaze to scan the passive faces of the people gathered around Red Moon. He ain’t here, he thought, disappointed. There was no need to search the tipis. “All right,” he said. “I believe what you say. But he was here. Where is he now?”

Bone studied Red Moon’s face intently. He could not be sure if the old chief was sincere, or just an accomplished liar. He looked around him at the other old men standing by, their faces as devoid of expression as their chief’s. He knew he was wasting his time. “Which way did he go?” he asked. Red Moon pointed toward the way from which Bone had just come. Making no attempt to hide his disgust, Bone stepped up in the saddle and took his leave. It was useless to think about scouting around the camp to try to pick up McCrae’s trail. There were too many tracks coming and going, and he wasn’t familiar with the horse’s tracks he wanted to follow, anyway. Added to that was the scarcity of daylight. It was already late in the day, and he was not familiar enough with the trail to find his way in the dark. He decided to head back toward Whiskey Hill and ride until darkness caught up with him. If McCrae was still alive, he would pick up his trail somewhere. It was just a matter of time before he tracked him down. Bone was confident in the knowledge that he was the best. He was a born tracker and he had never failed to bring his prey to ground.

A heavy layer of low-lying clouds crept steadily over the foothills, borne on a northwest wind as Bone departed the Indian camp, and darkness descended upon him at the southern end of Bear Basin. If his memory served him, he estimated the notch that led him to Bitter Branch was probably no more than half an hour’s ride. Figuring another half an hour to pass through the notch, that worked out to about an hour to a campsite with water. Bone could do without water, but his horse couldn’t, so he pushed on into the night. After a little more than the hour he had figured, he made camp on the bank of Bitter Branch. With fingers stiff with the cold, he fashioned a bed of tinder to receive the spark from his flint and steel. In five minutes’ time, he had a small flame fighting for its life. He carefully fed it twigs and small limbs to sustain it until it breathed full life. With nothing to eat but a handful of dried jerky, and needing nothing more, the hunter of men settled in to wait for daylight.

Separated by a distance of less than a quarter mile, on the opposite side of the ridge, another camper replicated many of the same motions as those just made by Bone. On his way to Red Moon’s village, Colt McCrae made his camp upstream on Bitter Branch. A cold wind freshened as he built his fire in a shallow dry wash, after hobbling Buck. Looking up at the clouds, he guessed it likely that he might wake up to a blanket of snow.

The night passed peacefully. It was still a while before sunup when Colt was awakened by a soft dusting of snow. He took some of the limbs he had gathered the night before and rebuilt his fire. It was still not light enough to get started, but he figured by the time he made some coffee and cooked a little bacon over the fire, it would be. He was satisfied to see that the snow had not amounted to much. The wind was still up, so it was probably responsible for moving the snow clouds along. Unbeknownst to him, the wind took on the responsibility for another task, one more threatening than the movement of snow clouds.

On the opposite side of the ridge, Bone’s eyes flickered open, and he lay there listening. Like a hungry timber wolf, he sensed something, but there was no sound other than the patient labor of the stream. He rose on one elbow and sniffed the morning air, realizing at once what had alerted his senses. He smelled smoke. He got to his feet at once, sniffing like a predator on the prowl. His curiosity aroused, he looked to the tops of the pines to determine the wind direction. He could see no smoke, but the wind was coming from the west, causing a downdraft after it crossed the ridge, and there was no doubt in his mind that the scent of a campfire was being carried on that wind.

Could be Indians, he thought, or a hunting party maybe. I’d best take a look on the other side of that ridge. Taking only enough time to saddle his horse, he picked his way carefully up the dark slope to within a few dozen yards of the top before dismounting and leaving the horse; then he crawled the rest of the way. Settling on his stomach, he looked down the slope. Unable to spot the source of the smoke, he scanned the shadowy banks of the stream on both sides, straining to see in the predawn light. Convinced that there was someone below him, he determined to wait out the sunrise to see who it was.

The light of a new day gradually began to empty the gullies and switches of their dark shadows, although it would still be a while before the sun climbed high enough to illuminate the cloudy sky. Colt reached for the coffeepot now boiling busily on the fire. It suddenly jumped as if alive a split second before his hand touched the handle, and clattered nosily against the side of the dry wash, a bullet hole drilled neatly through its middle. Colt dived away from the fire, rolling over against the edge of the gully as the sound of the rifle rang out over his head. Two more shots followed in quick succession, digging chunks of clay and rock out of the bank.

While cursing himself for being careless, he crawled over to retrieve the rifle he had left beside his saddle. Two more shots closer to the fire told him that his assailant could probably not see him, but was just hoping for a lucky shot. He quickly moved farther down the dry wash to take a position behind a brace of young pines. Then with eyes straining to search the slope above him, he watched for some movement in the shadows or a muzzle flash. With no clue as to where the shots had come from, there was nothing he could do but wait.

Dammit! Bone berated himself for missing with his first shot. The son of a bitch moved. I had him dead in my sights. Unsure of the identity of the man camped below him, he had hesitated, watching as Colt tended his fire. As the predawn light brightened, he caught a glimpse of the horse a few yards away. It was a buckskin. He had been told that Colt McCrae rode a buckskin. That was confirmation enough for him, and he quickly leveled his rifle and fired, but his man had moved by that time. Furious with himself for not firing when he had a better shot, he was now frustrated by the fact that he could no longer see his prey, and he wasn’t sure if one of his shots had found the target or not. Wasting no time speculating, he scrambled over the top of the ridge and made his way from one spot of cover to the next, descending the slope as fast as he possibly could. His main concern at this point was to prevent his prey’s attempt to escape. He reached a point halfway down the hill in time to get a glimpse of the buckskin horse disappearing under the bank of the stream. He’s running! he thought, and made a dash for a rock formation overhanging the water.

Forty yards downstream from the spot where Bone had taken cover, Colt dropped down behind a grassy hummock on the bank. With his horse safely under the cover of the stream bank, he scouted the slope above him. He saw nothing for a few seconds. Then there was a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and he jerked his head around in time to see his assailant a step or two away from an outcropping of rock near the bank. He raised his rifle and fired, but there was no time to take dead aim.

Breathing hard from his flight down the hill, Bone ducked low behind the rocks when a slug ricocheted overhead. Realizing then that the man he hunted was not in frightened retreat, he reconsidered his first impulse to charge after him. He then remembered Drummond’s warning that Colt McCrae was a different breed. The thought drew a thin smile across Bone’s face. He might be a different breed of cat, he thought, but I’ve skinned every breed there is. He drew confidence in the knowledge that no man had ever bested him when the stakes were life and death.

There was no doubt in Colt’s mind that the gunman stalking him was the man called Bone. He showed no sign of retreating after his first attempt to bushwhack him failed, unlike the typical riffraff Drummond hired. Consequently, Colt decided he had better show the notorious killer some respect. He looked around him at the spot in which he had landed. It would not have been his first choice for a defensive position. The stream widened out at that point before converging again to take a sharp turn around a stand of willow trees some thirty yards behind him. If Bone decided to work back up the slope a ways, he might very easily pin Colt down against the bank.

He had no sooner given birth to the thought than it apparently occurred to Bone as well. Suddenly, there he was, but only for a second as he dashed from the rocks and dived into a clump of pines a few yards up the slope. Colt got off a shot, but it kicked up dirt harmlessly behind Bone’s boot heel. Trying to guess what his adversary was up to, he followed the belt of thick pines with his eyes. There was a narrow ledge about three-quarters of the way up the slope just beyond the pines. I can’t stay here, he thought. If he gets up on that ledge above me, I won’t be able to hide or run. He considered his options as he hastily saddled Buck. If he made a run for it downstream, he would present his back as a broad target for thirty or forty yards before reaching the cover of the willows where the stream made a turn. The only option left was to ride hell-for-leather back upstream to the rock formation Bone had just vacated, and gamble on the notion that Bone was still moving along toward the ledge. It was impossible to know for sure because of the solid screen of pine trees that led up to the ledge. One thing for certain, the closer Bone got to that ledge, the more the angle improved to give him a clear shot at anything in the streambed.

Working furiously, he finished saddling his horse and jumped on his back. The buckskin bounded into a full gallop. With Colt lying low on the horse’s neck, they raced away up the shallow stream toward the rock formation. The quick retreat must have taken Bone by surprise, for no shots rang out after them. So far, so good, Colt thought. Then another thought crossed his mind. Bone’s horse has to be on the other side of this ridge. If he could beat him back to his horse, he would have his adversary on foot.

Calling for everything the faithful gelding had in reserve, Colt gained the cover of the rocks just as bullets started flying around him—Bone having realized Colt’s sudden flight. Once he found cover, Colt pulled his horse to a stop while he studied the slope before him. In the morning sunlight now, he could see Bone’s tracks where he had descended the hill. He nudged Buck, and the big horse responded.

Back in the pine thicket, Bone was caught in the middle of reloading when Colt broke from the rocks. At first he thought that his man was running again; then he thought of his horse left near the top of the slope. “I’ll be damned,” he uttered defiantly, realizing what Colt had in mind. He started back up the hill as fast as he could manage. Since he was farther up the slope to begin with, he was just able to win the race with the man on the horse. He whistled twice and his horse obediently trotted to him. With his horse safely out of harm’s way, he dropped to one knee and prepared to fire as soon as Colt appeared over the crest of the hill.

Damn, I hadn’t counted on that, Colt thought as he reached the top in time to see the blue roan trotting away across the brow of the ridge. He didn’t wait. Throwing caution to the wind, he went after the roan at a gallop, hoping to get a shot at Bone. He charged over the top of the ridge to discover he had ridden headlong into an ambush.

It happened in an instant, Colt saw Bone kneeling, waiting, his rifle aimed at him, and he knew he had but one option. He didn’t take time to think about it. Rolling off his horse as the startled buckskin skidded to a stop, he heard Bone’s rifle shot snap over his head while he was in midair.

Landing hard on his side, he grunted with pain as his still tender ribs protested the rough landing on the hillside. Struggling to get to his hands and knees, he found he could not breathe. The fall had knocked the wind out of his lungs, but in spite of the pain, he forced himself to scramble back below the rim of the ridge. The impact with the ground had also almost caused him to lose his rifle, but he had somehow managed to hold on to it, knowing it determined whether he lived or died. The pain in his chest was excruciating, but he didn’t know what he could do to restore his breathing. Once when he was a boy, he had come off a horse and landed on his back. The same thing had happened then. But that time his uncle Burt had moved his legs up and down until his lungs relaxed and he could breathe again. Remembering that, he tried to work his legs, but there was no relief. The one thing he knew he must do at the moment was to find cover. Feeling as though he might black out at any moment, he collapsed behind a low evergreen shrub. It offered no real protection other than a visual screen, but he had no time for anything better. Gradually, after a few more seconds, he felt his chest relax, and his lungs began to take in air again, and he crawled over to the edge of the shrubs. Bone was bound to come over the top of the ridge after him, so he trained his rifle on the spot he figured him to show.

When his target came off the horse, Bone wasn’t sure if his bullet had hit him or not. If Colt was shot, Bone was anxious to finish him off before he had a chance to drag himself off somewhere to hide. Far too smart to charge recklessly over the top of the hill, however, Bone proceeded to work his way along the ridge to his right, taking care not to expose his body above the brow. The anticipation of a kill swelled in his mind, and his senses told him it would be soon now.

Colt crowded even closer to the edge of the pine shrubs in an effort to broaden his field of fire, his gaze still focusing upon the spot where he thought Bone would show. When there was no sign of the hired killer for a few minutes, Colt decided that Bone might be trying to flank him. A few seconds after that thought, movement off to his left caused him to shift suddenly, set to pull the trigger, only to discover he was about to shoot his horse. In less than an instant, he shifted back again when Bone rose to shoot. Both rifles fired at the same time. Bone’s bullet passed so close to Colt’s ear that the snapping sound made Colt’s ear ring, but otherwise caused no damage. Colt reacted in time to see his bullet strike Bone in the arm, spinning the surprised gunman around.

Stunned, Bone retreated a few yards down the slope. He dropped to one knee to examine the wound in his arm. Just below the shoulder, it was beginning to bleed. He could feel the blood spreading on his shirtsleeve although he could not see it beneath the long black coat he wore. Almost staggered by the fact that he had been shot, he was caught in an emotional whirlwind between astonishment and anger. There was no time to shuck the coat and determine the seriousness of the wound before McCrae might appear on top of the hill. He tested the movement in his arm, and while there was now pain involved, the limb seemed to be functioning. With some relief then, he cursed. “I’ll cut you up in little pieces for that, you son of a bitch!” Realizing he was not in a good spot to defend, he ran back to retrieve his horse.

Colt cautiously inched his way up the slope, expecting to be met at any second with a bullet. He knew he had hit Bone with one of his shots, but he was reasonably certain it had not been a fatal wound. He dropped to the ground before exposing himself above the brow of the ridge, and crawled the rest of the way on hands and knees. Peering carefully over the top, he was surprised to see Bone on horseback, galloping away. Springing up on one knee, he attempted to get off a shot, but there were too many trees in between. He wasted a cartridge anyway. He knew very little about the man who hunted him, but his instincts told him that Bone had not quit the fight, so Colt hurried to catch his horse and give pursuit. The hunted was now the hunter.

His features twisted in a furious scowl, Bone bent low over his horse’s neck as he sped recklessly down the slope toward Bitter Branch, glancing over his shoulder frequently to see the buckskin hard on his trail. The blood dripping from his fingertips told him that he needed to tend to the wound before he lost too much of it. Finding cover to give him a chance to stop the bleeding, and maybe set up an ambush, was his main concern at the moment. When he reached the bottom of the slope, he pressed the blue roan harder, splashing across the stream, and heading for the hills beyond. With each stride the roan took, Bone’s anger burned hotter and hotter. This was not a role he was accustomed to, being chased, and his very soul screamed for vengeance.

Colt bent low in the saddle as Buck gave chase. There was no need to press the horse for speed. The buckskin understood the game, and Colt knew he would force himself to falter before he willingly gave up the race. Bone was obviously looking for a place to hide, probably intent upon reversing the roles to become once again the stalker. One thing Bone did not know, however, was that Colt had spent much of his boyhood roaming these foothills of the Laramie Mountains.

Both horses began to tire as Bone galloped down a grassy draw toward a line of low hills to the west. In a short time, Colt thought, feeling Buck strain to lengthen his stride, this race will be at a slow walk. At the base of the first in the line of hills, there was a narrow gulch that divided it from the second hill. Colt knew the place. When he was a boy, he had followed a deer into the gulch. He figured Bone would seek cover there. It appeared to be a perfect bastion to hold off an attack, but Colt knew there was a back door to that gulch, for he had lost the deer many years ago. With horses now tiring to the point of faltering, Bone did just as Colt figured.

Veering sharply to the west, Bone drove into the gulch, coming out of the saddle before his horse had pulled to a full stop. Crouching beside the entrance, he laid down a series of rifle shots, causing Colt to veer off to the north and press Buck for one more burst of speed. It was just about all the weary horse had left, and Colt dismounted as soon as he reached the cover of the trees at the base of the hill.

Both men were on foot now, for the horses were spent for the time being. Wasting no time, Colt grabbed some extra cartridges from his saddlebags and started up the hill on the run. The gulch that Bone had taken refuge in looked for all the world to be a box canyon, but Colt knew there was a narrow passage between the rocks that required a sharp eye to discover. If he was quick enough, he should be able to get in behind his adversary before Bone knew what he was up to.

Climbing up the side of the slope, in some places so steep that he had to use his hands, Colt made his way through the rocks toward a thick clump of pine trees wedged between two huge boulders. The trees were considerably larger than when he had lost the deer many years before—concealing the opening even more—but he was certain this was the passage. If his memory served him, once through the trees, he would find himself on a short ledge above the gulch.

Pushing up to the trees, he struggled to keep from sliding on the loose gravel before the gap in the boulders. Finally reaching a point where he could grasp one of the trunks with his free hand, he pulled himself up on the ledge and into the trees. Moving quickly between the tightly crowded pines, he emerged onto an open shelf at the top of the gulch to suddenly discover that his adversary had been scouting it from the other side. The two found themselves face-to-face at the top of the gulch. Though it was for only an instant, both men were stunned motionless, before both raised their weapons to fire.

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.