Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  “Did Pa leave the ranch to Vance?” Colt asked.

  “He left it to both of you,” Burt replied, “and that’s one of the reasons I sent for you. Your daddy wrote his will, leaving the ranch to you and Vance, and the house to Vance and Susan about a year ago. I wrote one, too, when the cattle rustlin’ started. We put both wills in the bank for safekeepin’.”

  Colt didn’t reply right away while he thought that over. Landowner—one thought he had not considered over these past years. He had no desire to be a rancher. The one driving thought that had dominated his mind since being incarcerated was to be free, free of all things restricting, free to wander wherever he chose. “What does Vance think about that?” he finally asked. “He probably expected to get everything, and maybe he should have. He’s got a wife and child, and I don’t give a damn about workin’ a ranch.”

  A look of disappointment immediately flashed across Burt’s face. He had obviously hoped that Colt would return to help manage both the Bar-M and his spread, the Broken-M. “That ranch is rightfully half yours,” he insisted, “and if somebody don’t stop Drummond, you and your brother are gonna lose it.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Colt said. “I aim to put a stop to the cattle rustlin’, and I aim to find the man that shot my pa. All I want from you and Vance is a horse and saddle, a good rifle, and supplies and ammunition, and I’ll help you keep the land.”

  Burt smiled. “I knew I could count on you.” He was about to say more, but was interrupted by the sight of J. D. Townsend approaching the booth. “Here comes the sheriff to welcome you back,” he said facetiously.

  “Burt,” J.D. acknowledged briefly before directing his attention toward Colt. “I heard you was gettin’ out, McCrae. I was surprised you’d show up in Whiskey Hill again. You just passin’ through?”

  Colt didn’t answer at once, taking his time to study the heavyset lawman. He remembered J.D., but only as the young bully he had been as a deputy. “So you stuck around long enough to be sheriff. I expected you to be gone by now.”

  Bristling just a bit, J.D. responded, “Yeah, I’m the sheriff here, and it’s my job to keep the peace. This town has got rid of most of your kind, and I wanna make sure you understand that I don’t stand for any jailbirds makin’ trouble in Whiskey Hill.”

  “There ain’t no call for that kind of talk, J.D.,” Burt said. “Colt’s served his time.”

  “Yeah, well, there ain’t no welcome here for him. The best thing for him is to get on outta town while he’s got a chance.”

  Colt’s gaze held steady on the sheriff’s face during his exchange with Burt. When J.D. returned his attention to Colt, he asked, “What have you done about findin’ the man that shot my father?”

  “That’s over and done,” J.D. replied. “His killer is long gone. Figure it was a drifter—no way I coulda caught him.”

  “What are you doin’ about cattle rustlin’ off of Bar-M and Broken-M spreads?” Colt asked, his words soft and even.

  Showing his irritation at being questioned, J.D. blurted, “I ain’t but one man with one deputy. I’m more worried about the likes of you comin’ back to cause trouble in town.”

  “How many cattle has Frank Drummond lost?” Colt asked, his words still calm and measured.

  J.D. took an angry step backward. “I don’t think I like your attitude.”

  “Is that the next charge you and the fine citizens of Whiskey Hill are figurin’ to send me to prison for?”

  The sheriff pointed his finger directly at Colt. “You’ve been warned. You’d better watch your ass around here, jailbird, or I’ll be on you like a chicken on a June bug.” He promptly spun on his heel and returned to the back room.

  “Well, I reckon you’ve been officially welcomed home,” Burt said after the sheriff had gone. “You’d best watch yourself around J.D. Everybody knows Frank Drummond owns him.” He paused to make sure Colt was paying attention. “I expect we’d best get started if we’re gonna get back to the ranch before dark. I drove the wagon in since I figured I might as well pick up a few things at the dry goods store.”

  “You go along,” Colt said. “I’ll catch up with you at the store. I just want to pay for my food.”

  “You need some money?” Burt asked, but Colt shook his head.

  Burt hurried out to his wagon while Colt walked over to the kitchen door. The two women turned to look at him when he stuck his head inside. “I need to settle up,” he said. Then, nodding to the plump little woman standing by the stove, he added, “Thanks for the eggs, Pearl. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

  Quite surprised by his polite comment, she couldn’t think of a reply at once. After a moment, she remarked, “If it’d been any trouble, I wouldn’ta done it.”

  Mary walked him to the front counter and took his money. “Will we be seeing you again?” she inquired as casually as she could affect, for she had overheard the confrontation between him and the sheriff.

  “Most likely,” he replied.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Eunice Fletcher asked when Colt walked into the store. “No, ma’am,” Colt replied. “I’m with him.” He walked over to stand beside his uncle. Burt made no introduction, both men aware of the irony of the moment. The eyewitness who identified Colt from more than one hundred yards away failed to recognize him when ten feet from him. “Here, let me get that for you,” Colt said and stepped forward to lift the heavy flour sack that Mrs. Fletcher was dragging from behind the counter. “I’ll throw this in the wagon, Uncle Burt,” he said.

  Burt nodded as Colt hefted the fifty-pound sack up on his shoulder. Eunice Fletcher smiled at him as he turned and left the store. Burt paid her, gathered up the other few articles he had bought, and followed Colt out the door. “Well, there’s the judge’s eyewitness, ” Burt remarked as he climbed up in the wagon seat.

  An hour later, Raymond Fletcher returned to his store and was greeted by his wife. “Burt McCrae was just in, had a nice-looking young man with him.”

  “Eunice!” Raymond replied in alarm. “That was Colt McCrae.”

  “My stars!” Eunice gasped, clutching her throat. “He coulda killed me!”

  Chapter 3

  Vance McCrae stood on the lip of a deep gully, staring down in frustration at the rotting carcasses of two cows. At ten or twelve feet below him, he couldn’t see the brands clearly. This point on the east range was close to his uncle’s property, so the carcasses could be either Broken-M or Bar-M. They looked to be three- or four-year-olds, and should have been part of the herd driven over to the railroad holding pens a few weeks past. There was no need to climb down to the bottom of the gully to verify the cause of death to be from bullet wounds. This was not an unusual discovery during the past year. It had gotten to the point where circling buzzards were a daily occurrence on his grazing land. There was also little doubt who was responsible, but he felt helpless to do anything about it. He had no way of proving Frank Drummond responsible, and he could not ignore the fact that his father had been shot in the back after making accusations against the town’s wealthiest landowner.

  Vance had faced Frank Drummond with the problem back in the early fall during roundup. He didn’t know what to expect when he rode over to the Rocking-D to confront Drummond, but he knew he had to do it. As he had expected, his complaints were met with smug indifference on Drummond’s part and the suggestion that maybe the McCraes were just an unlucky family. He offered to take Vance’s problems off his hands with a ridiculously low offer for his ranch. With no evidence to support it, Vance could not openly accuse Drummond as the source of the trouble, so he had no choice but to shamefully retreat, much to the amusement of two of Drummond’s henchmen, Lon Branch and Brownie Brooks. The thought now of the two sneering miscreants made his blood boil as he stared down at the carcasses.

  Turning to go back to his horse, he hesitated when he heard the sound of another horse approaching. Standing by his mount, his hand on the butt of his rifle, he peered over the saddle
at a rider approaching from his uncle’s spread. Thinking it to be one of his uncle’s hands, he relaxed his grip on the rifle, and waited. As the rider drew near, however, something very familiar about the way he sat the saddle struck Vance. It had been a while since he had seen anyone move with a horse quite like that, as if a part of the horse instead of merely aboard it. “Well, I’ll be damned . . .” he finally muttered.

  He stood there staring at the man approaching. As Colt drew near, Vance made note of the obvious physical changes in his brother. Remembering the chasm between the two before Colt was sent to prison, he could only wonder what damage the years of incarceration had wrought.

  “I heard you were back,” Vance offered in greeting. He made no move to step forward and extend a hand as Colt pulled up and dismounted.

  “Hello, Vance,” Colt said. “How’ve you been?”

  “All right, I guess,” Vance answered guardedly, not knowing what to expect from his brother after so much had happened. “You’ve changed a helluva lot.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Colt replied. Then the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You look like you picked up a few gray hairs—married life, I reckon.”

  Vance grinned. “Maybe so.”

  “How long has it been now? Seven years?”

  “Six,” Vance said, correcting him.

  “Six,” Colt repeated, “and you’ve got a young’un, a boy, I heard.”

  “That’s right. Sammy’s five this month.”

  Colt nodded, then remarked, “Damn, you didn’t waste much time, did you?” There followed an awkward moment of silence while both brothers searched for conversation. Finally, Colt broke the casual impasse. “Susan Sessions, I heard. Always figured you two would tie the knot.”

  “Yeah,” Vance said, changing the subject. He nodded toward the big buckskin Colt had selected. “I see you picked out a good horse. Uncle Burt always liked Buck. Looks a lot like that horse you used to ride before. I reckon that’s why Uncle Burt named this one Buck, too . . .” His words trailed off. Changing the subject again, he nodded toward the saddle sling. “You got Pa’s Winchester?”

  “Yeah. Uncle Burt said it was all right with you. Is it?”

  “Sure. I’ve got my own rifle. I don’t need two.”

  With both brothers feeling the strain of making casual conversation, Colt finally got down to business. After Vance showed him the carcasses at the bottom of the gully, Colt told him of the arrangement he had made with their uncle. “I guess that’s going to be my job, to try to cut out some of this business. I’m going to be ranging over both spreads, yours and Uncle Burt’s, so you need to tell your men they might be seein’ me when they’re ridin’ winter range. How many have you got?”

  “There aren’t but two that’s stayin’ this winter,” Vance answered. “You know them—Bill Wilkes and Tom Mosley. They worked for Pa.” Colt nodded, and then Vance asked, “You stayin’ with Uncle Burt?”

  “Well, yes and no. I don’t plan to stay at the house. I’ll be campin’ most of the time, so I can cover more ground. I’ll just be checkin’ in with Uncle Burt every now and then.”

  “The weather’s kinda cold to be livin’ outdoors all the time. Course, I remember you never minded the cold much. Looks like you haven’t changed in that way.”

  Colt laughed. “I suppose. Anyway, when you’ve been locked up as long as I have, the open spaces feel kinda good.”

  Vance smiled in response. “I reckon you’re right. You know, Pa left the ranch to both of us. You’ve got as much right as I have to live there.”

  “Yeah,” Colt said. “Uncle Burt told me, but I’m not figurin’ on workin’ this ranch. It’s yours as far as I’m concerned. You’re the one who’s been takin’ care of it. I’ve got a few things to take care of. Then I’ll most likely be movin’ on.”

  The somewhat cautious reunion between brothers over, they climbed back in the saddle and started in opposite directions. As an afterthought, Vance called back over his shoulder, “You’re welcome to come by the house and meet my family.” Even as he said it, he knew Susan would raise hell with him for extending the invitation.

  “Thanks, maybe I will sometime,” Colt answered.

  He reined the buckskin to a halt on a ridge overlooking the wide shallow valley that served as the Rocking-D headquarters. The last time he had ridden through this part of the hills, the valley was an endless sea of grass. Now he gazed at the huge white house with its expansive porches and the barns and outbuildings beyond. It was an empire, all right, with three separate corrals. “You’d think this would be enough for one man,” he remarked to his horse. “No explainin’ some folks, I reckon.” He nudged Buck with his heels, and proceeded down the gentle slope.

  Although he saw only one or two hands over near the barn, he drew his Winchester from the saddle sling. Holding it with one hand, the butt resting on his thigh with the barrel straight up, he approached the house at a slow walk. No one seemed to notice him, except one man repairing a fence around the garden, who paused to stare at the stranger for a moment before resuming his work.

  Colt walked his horse up to the front porch. Remaining seated in the saddle, he called out, “Drummond! Frank Drummond!” There was no answer, so he called out again, still with no response from anyone inside. He considered the fact that no one was home, but decided that they simply could not hear within the massive house. So he raised his rifle and fired it in the air. He got a response within a few seconds.

  Frank Drummond, along with two of his men, both armed, came storming out on the porch, only to be stopped short by the sight of the stolid horseman calmly awaiting them. Colt, his rifle resting upon his thigh again, registered no emotion, except for a slight shifting of his eyes as he considered the men on either side of the commanding presence of Drummond.

  “Who the hell are you?” Drummond demanded.

  “Colt McCrae.”

  Drummond paused a moment, scowling. “Oh, the jailbird,” he said with a sneer. “I heard you were out of prison.” He walked over to the edge of the porch and pointed a finger at Colt. “Let me tell you something, jailbird, it ain’t healthy to come into my home shooting off a rifle.” His rage was building, accelerated by the obvious cool disregard shown for his threats by his visitor. “Something like that could get a man killed. If I want you to set foot on my land, by God, I’ll send for you. Now turn that horse around and get the hell off my range.”

  Colt shifted his gaze momentarily to the man standing to the right of Drummond. “Are you nervous?” The man did not reply, but moved his hand away from the pistol he wore. Looking back at Drummond again, Colt said his piece, speaking in a calm, unemotional voice. “I came to tell you somethin’. Bar-M and Broken-M cattle are no longer gonna be used for target practice. Any more cows I find with bullet holes in them, I will automatically figure were shot by your men, and they will be dealt with. Any missing Bar-M or Broken-M cattle found on Rocking-D land will be assumed stolen—”

  Furious, Drummond interrupted. “Why, you insolent son of a bitch! You come riding into my home, talking to me like that. You don’t know who you’re messing with. I own this country! I’ll have you sent back to prison.” He paused for emphasis. “That is, if you get off my land without getting shot for trespassing.”

  Already having considered that risk, Colt lowered the rifle barrel slightly in the irate man’s direction. “That could happen, I guess, but you can be sure of one thing. It better be a damn good shot because the next one is gonna get you.” He leveled the rifle, aiming it directly at Drummond’s gut. “Now you’ve been warned.” Pulling the reins with his free hand, he backed his horse slowly away from the porch. Drummond’s two men watched nervously, undecided on what to do until Drummond told them to let him go. Though still enraged, he was not brazen enough to kill a man right in his front yard. Colt backed up until clear of the garden fence before turning his horse and galloping away.

  “He’s had his little show,” Drummond said,
“and all it did was dig his grave.”

  Lon Branch rode up to the wide porch that wrapped around three sides of Frank Drummond’s white frame house and dismounted. After looping the reins over the hitching post, he stepped over to the porch and knocked on the plank flooring, then stood respectfully waiting for Alice, Drummond’s housekeeper, to come to the door. Lon, like the other ranch hands on the Rocking-D, would not walk up on the porch and knock on the front door. He had never been told not to. It just seemed to be disrespectful to do so.

  After he’d knocked three more times, Alice finally heard him and came to the door, properly gracing him with the scornful look she reserved for all Drummond’s hired hands. Lon respectfully told her that Drummond had sent for him, so she told him to wait. After approximately ten minutes, Drummond appeared in the doorway. He stepped out on the porch. “I got a little business I want you to take care of, Lon,” he said.

  “Yessir,” Lon replied.

  “I had a little visit today from another one of those McCraes, the ex-convict. And I don’t like brass-balled jailbirds ridin’ right up to my house and threatening me.” Drummond was trying to hold his temper as he spoke, but Lon could see that his boss was clearly irritated. “A man like that could very well have an accident, maybe his horse might throw him, or he might wind up gettin’ shot like his old man.”