Range War in Whiskey Hill

Frank Drummond had reached the end of his patience, a quality he had precious little of to begin with. Where the hell was Bone? He was supposed to be a deadly tracker and killer, and yet Drummond had no clue as to the whereabouts of him or Colt McCrae. And what happened to Brownie? His hired hand, Rafe Wilson, thought it a strong possibility that McCrae was dead, but Drummond couldn’t count on that. The son of a bitch has a habit of showing up to kill a couple of my men, he thought.

Unaware that J. D. Townsend had fled the territory, he decided that it was time to ride into Whiskey Hill and order the sheriff to form a posse to hunt down Colt McCrae. Charlie Ware, one of Drummond’s three remaining men, was Drummond’s choice to accompany him. One of the last men Drummond had hired, Charlie came highly recommended as an obedient brain with a fast trigger on an indiscriminate gun. Drummond selected him to accompany him on this day primarily because Charlie was the only hand he had left who had not as yet failed him.

Upon arriving in town, Drummond was puzzled to find the sheriff’s office door padlocked. His anger flaring immediately, he figured the most likely place to find the bungling sheriff was in the local diner, so he headed for the Whiskey Hill Kitchen.

“What is it?” Mary asked, moving to the window beside her friend. Seeing then the cause of Pearl’s comment, she said, “Frank Drummond—better tell the meeting in the back room.” In the years that Mary had worked at the diner, Drummond had not crossed the threshold on more than two or three occasions. Seeing him headed this way now brought a feeling of deep foreboding.

Always one to enjoy seeing someone else’s behind in the fire, Pearl said, “Let’s not. Let’s let ’em find out for themselves.” She found it ironic that the mayor and the council members were at that moment in a meeting to discuss available action to break Frank Drummond’s choke hold on the town. “They oughta be tickled to have him come to the meeting,” she said with a chuckle.

Drummond strode forcefully through the door, followed by Charlie Ware, barely noticing the two women standing at the end of the counter. “Well, howdy there, Mr. Drummond,” Pearl sang out as the determined owner of the Rocking-D breezed past her. Ignoring her greeting, he headed straight for the room in back of the dining area. Pearl grinned and winked at Mary. The two women moved closer to the door of the back room.

Roy Whitworth abruptly stopped in midsentence when the imposing figure of Frank Drummond suddenly appeared in the doorway. In reaction, all attendees of the meeting turned to see what had interrupted the mayor. The room went silent as Drummond stood searching the faces of the men seated around the table. A group of the usual council members save one, J. D. Townsend, sat gaping back at him, wondering how he could have discovered the purpose of their meeting. “Where’s J.D.?” Drummond demanded.

The mayor glanced at the others seated around the table, seeking support and receiving only blank stares. “Well, we don’t rightly know,” he said. “He just decided to leave—it’s anybody’s guess where he went.”

“That’s a fact,” Barney Samuels spoke up, since everyone else seemed to have been struck tongue-tied. “J.D.’s lit out, and he ain’t likely to come back, so we’re left without no sheriff—since your man shot Stoney Yates.” Drummond frowned at the mention of Bone, causing Barney to stop short of revealing the main purpose of the meeting, which was to stand up to Drummond.

Drummond’s gaze shifted back and forth around the table as if he was judging every face in attendance. “Hell,” he finally stated, “I can end your meetin’ right quick.” He turned and gestured toward Charlie Ware, who had been standing bored and sullen during the exchange. “Charlie, here, is your new sheriff. He’s highly qualified and I give him my endorsement.”

The announcement was met with a shocked silence that settled over the table like a sodden blanket. Drummond stood there, feet widespread, arms crossed before his chest, fully expectant that there would be no question and no debate. Charlie Ware’s sullen expression turned into a moronic grin. The idea seemed novel to him. It was a side of the law on which he had never trod.

Roy Whitworth knew that this was his time to stand up for the best interests of Whiskey Hill. The purpose of the called meeting was to form a solid front to counter Frank Drummond’s bullying, enlisting all council members to stand together. With Drummond’s premature visit, there had been no time for a roll call of pledges. Roy glanced at Oscar Anderson for a sign of support, but Oscar hurriedly looked away. He received the same reaction from Raymond Fletcher. Only one, Barney Samuels, the blacksmith, met his gaze, and gave him a solemn nod.

After an exaggerated period of silence with no spoken reaction, Drummond considered the matter settled. “First thing Sheriff Ware is gonna do,” he said, “is get up a posse and run Colt McCrae to ground.”

Knowing he had no choice, Roy spoke up, trying to step as softly as possible. “Well, Mr. Drummond, we appreciate the suggestion, and I assure you we’ll certainly consider your candidate for sheriff. There’ll be some other candidates to consider, I’m sure, and we’ll try to do what’s best for the town.”

Drummond’s eyes narrowed as his heavy eyebrows lowered into a deep frown. He could scarcely believe his ears. With his eyes locked on the mayor, he spoke slowly and distinctly, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t make suggestions,” he rasped. “What I said was, Charlie, here, is your new sheriff. Now, who don’t understand that?” He glared directly at Oscar Anderson.

Wilting under the intensity of Drummond’s stare, Oscar’s face was drained of color. “I don’t reckon there’s any objection to that,” he stammered. “Mr. Ware’s probably a good man.” He glanced apologetically at Roy Whitworth, then looked quickly away.

“All right, then,” Drummond blustered, “we’re just wastin’ time here. The sooner we hunt McCrae down, the faster things are gonna get back to normal here.”

Showing an obvious look of despair, the mayor started to speak, but the words would not come forth. With the town apparently falling back into its former position as the personal pawn of Frank Drummond, Barney Samuels looked to Roy to voice some opposition to the self-elected tyrant. When the mayor failed to speak, Barney accepted the challenge. “Now, wait a minute, here, folks. Things can’t be decided just like that. The town council has to discuss the problem of replacin’ J.D. with a new sheriff, and we have to vote on it. Then the council has to offer the job to whoever we decide is best qualified.”

The silence that followed Barney’s blatant statement was deafening. Outside the door, the two women who had inched up close to eavesdrop on the meeting backed away as if expecting the room to explode. Inside, it was as if time had stopped. No one dared move as all eyes at the table shifted toward Frank Drummond.

Drummond directed his icy stare at Barney, his dark eyes challenging. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm, his tone low and hoarse. “Samuels, ain’t it? I wanna make sure I remember your name.” He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “Anybody else hard of hearin’? I said the matter of sheriff is settled. The next order of business is to raise a posse.”

Barney’s face drained of color, his courage fading away as he realized he had been marked as a result of his comment. He swallowed nervously when a grinning Charlie Ware stepped over close to the table to smirk at him. Roy Whitworth attempted to support Barney’s statement, hoping it would generate a united front with the others joining in. “Barney meant no offense, Mr. Drummond. We’re just trying to do things accordin’ to the rules, you understand, so they’ll be legal.”

Drummond had reached his limit of patience with the irritating town council. “I’m done talkin’,” he said. “I want the key to that padlock on the jailhouse door. Who’s got it?” The cowered eyes that instantly turned to Roy Whitworth told him that the mayor was in possession of the key. Drummond turned back to glare down at Whitworth, his hand extended, waiting for the key.

Drummond took the key and handed it to Charlie Ware. “Here, Sheriff, go on over to the jail and get yourself a badge. Then go down to the saloon and round up a posse. Tell ’em there’ll be a cash reward for the man who shoots Colt McCrae.”

With his malignant grin spread wide across his face, Charlie took the key, and with a condemning wink at Barney Samuels, turned to leave the room. Outside the door, Mary and Pearl scurried out of his way as the intimidating gunman tromped toward the front door.

Inside the back room, Drummond returned his attention to the men seated at the table. “I don’t like what I saw here today,” he said, his tone threatening. “Let me make myself clear, I’ll burn this damn town to the ground if you people get in my way. I don’t wanna hear about any more of these town meetings. I’m rememberin’ ever’ one of you men settin’ around this table. You think about that.” He stood glaring down at them for a few moments more, then turned and left the room.

The meeting a shambles, the participants slowly scraped their chairs back and got to their feet, feeling like schoolboys caught in a naughty scheme. Roy looked balefully at Barney Samuels, who shook his head in defeat. They both then turned to stare at Oscar Anderson and Raymond Fletcher, who had failed to support their show of unity.

“We didn’t really have a helluva lotta choice,” Oscar said in defense of his lack of backbone. “We need a sheriff, and we didn’t really have a man for the job.”

“That ain’t the point, Oscar,” the mayor said. “We need to get Frank Drummond’s bloody fingers off of our necks. If we don’t do somethin’ to stop him, he’s gonna soon make Whiskey Hill his own little town.”

“Barney’s right,” Roy said. “It was bad enough when J.D. was sheriff. At least he was one of us. Now look at what we’ve got—Charlie whatever-his-name-was, nothin’ but a hired gun hand. It’s time we stood up together to take our town back. It’s time to revive the vigilance committee, only this time without Frank Drummond’s gunmen.”

“That’s easy enough to say,” Raymond Fletcher replied. “But we’re talking about going up against Drummond’s professional killers, and I, for one, think we’re outmatched in that department.”

“Dammit, Fletcher,” Barney spoke out, “we’ve all got to stick together on this.” His concern was possibly greater than the others’ since he had been singled out by Drummond. “We need to talk to Turk Coolidge and Judge Blake to make sure we have their support.” He stopped to think about what he had just said, then added, “You know, the judge might be the one to tell Drummond that he’s the one supposed to appoint a new sheriff.”

Oscar quickly jumped on the comment. “I think you’re right. Judge Blake oughta be the one settin’ Drummond straight on that. It ain’t up to us.”

“Hell, Oscar, the judge is gettin’ too damn old to tell anybody what to do. Drummond don’t understand talk, anyway. We need to fight fire with fire.” The mayor shifted his gaze around to fall on each man there. It was not a reassuring sight. The reality of their situation struck him forcefully then. Drummond was too strong for these peaceful men.

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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.