Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Lon didn’t reply at once, slow to get the meaning of his boss’ pointed remarks. After a moment, it hit him. “Oh, yes, sir,” he then quickly replied. “Ain’t no doubt about it, a man like that is damn sure ridin’ for a fall. Me and Brownie was thinkin’ that same thing yesterday. We took a little ride over towards McCrae’s range, thought we’d thin out his herd a little more.” He paused to give his boss a wink. When Drummond failed to respond, he quickly continued. “Anyway, we found a bunch of strays near the creek, but before we crossed over, we spotted Colt McCrae settin’ on his horse on the ridge above the creek. He saw us, too, so we didn’t do nothin’. A couple of the boys heard some shootin’ over that way yesterday mornin’. When they rode over to take a look, they saw him takin’ target practice with a rifle.”

  Confident that his wishes were known and would be carried out to his satisfaction, Drummond considered the problem solved. It was no more than a minor irritation, but an irritation nonetheless. He had felt certain that when he had eliminated Sam McCrae, the son, Vance, would crumple soon after. This latest development with the other son might serve to inspire Vance to stiffen his resistance just when Drummond figured he was close to breaking him.

  “All right, then,” Drummond said, ending the meeting. “Just be sure you take care of business so that it’s neat and tidy.” He stood on the porch for a few moments more, watching his hired hand ride off to do his bidding. Lon was a good man—had just enough rattlesnake in him to take care of jobs like this, and enough sense to keep his mouth shut. That’s why he and his partner, Brownie, were well paid.

  In Frank Drummond’s mind, there was no right or wrong when it came to his methods in building his cattle empire. It was simply business, and sometimes stringent methods were called for to eliminate problems that stood in the way of progress. He planned to own Whiskey Hill, and stubborn people like the McCraes were minor delays that, from a business viewpoint, had to be handled. Satisfied that this latest problem was as good as taken care of, he turned and went back inside.

  “Lookee comin’ yonder,” Tom Mosley said, tugging Bill Wilkes’ shirtsleeve.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Bill responded, grinning broadly. “It’s the ol’ wildcat hisself. I wondered when he was gonna come around.”

  The two old cowhands walked out of the barn to meet the rider on the buckskin horse, both men sporting grins on their faces. When he saw them, Colt couldn’t help but grin himself. He guided the horse up to them and climbed down. “I thought you two old coots would have dried up and blown away by now,” he teased.

  Bill Wilkes stepped back, pretending to be shocked, turned to Tom Mosley, and exclaimed, “Damn, Tom, I thought this young whippersnapper mighta learnt some manners in prison. We might oughta turn him over a knee and dust his britches.”

  Taking visual inventory of the rawhide-tough adult version of the skinny lad they had last seen, Tom replied, “Maybe you oughta do it. I ain’t sure I could get the job done.”

  Joking aside, they both descended upon Colt, shaking hands and back-slapping, all three grinning broadly. These two, Tom and Bill, had worked for Colt’s father since before his mother passed away. They had remained close to the boy even when he had shown his wild streak and got on the bad side of his father.

  “I figured I’d better come by in case Vance hadn’t told you I’m gonna be ridin’ Bar-M range,” Colt said. “I don’t want you takin’ a shot at me if you see me pokin’ around after dark.”

  “Yeah,” Bill said, “Vance told us he saw you yesterday, said you was plannin’ to do some scoutin’.”

  “I reckon it’s a good thing you came by,” Tom commented, “’cause I ain’t sure I woulda recognized you at a distance.”

  On a more serious note, Colt said, “Vance told me you and him were running the ranch by yourselves. I guess it’s been pretty tough over the past year.”

  “It has,” Tom said. “Drummond’s boys has scared everybody off but me and Bill. I reckon if we had any sense, we’da left, too, but, hell, we’re too damn old to go anywhere else.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Colt said. “At least, that’s my intention.”

  “We can sure as hell use the help,” Bill said. “We’re losin’ cattle every day to lead poisoning, if you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “Vance is doin’ the best he can, it’s just that he ain’t Sam McCrae.”

  Vance pulled the curtain aside and peered out the kitchen window. “That’s Colt out there talking to Tom and Bill. I oughta go out there.” He turned to look at his wife, who was stirring a pot on the stove. “Oughta invite him to eat supper with us,” he added.

  “You should not!” Susan hastily informed her husband as she moved closer to the window to stare out. “I don’t plan on feeding that ex-convict. I don’t want him around here, and I don’t want him around Sammy. I don’t know why they let him out of prison.”

  “He’s served his time,” Vance said in defense of his brother. “I talked to him yesterday, and I really believe he’s changed.”

  “Well, I doubt that. You can put a wolf in a pen for as long as you want, but when you let him out, he’s still a wolf.”

  “Well, I’m at least gonna go out and talk to him,” Vance said. “He’s willing to help, and we damn sure need him.”

  “I’m warning you, Vance, I’m not cooking for the likes of Colt McCrae.”

  It was a mystery to Vance why his wife seemed to have developed such a strong dislike for his brother. As far as he knew, Susan had never really had much exposure to Colt before he went to prison. And although there was never a close bond between the two brothers, Vance had never overly criticized Colt. To the contrary, he had seldom even spoken of him during the nine years he was away. He decided it was just simply a mother’s natural tendency to protect her son from what she considered a dangerous individual. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the window. “I guess if he needs to see me, he’ll come to the house,” he said, preferring to keep peace with his wife.

  Over at the barn, Tom Mosley asked Colt if he was going to the house to see Vance. Colt glanced in that direction and hesitated for a moment. “I reckon not,” he said. “I talked to Vance yesterday. I just came by to make sure you two old men didn’t accidentally take a shot at me.”

  “Huh,” Bill joked, “might take a shot, but it won’t be accidental.”

  Colt laughed. “I’ve got to get goin’, anyway. I figure to camp over on the north ridge tonight. Uncle Burt said he found a couple more dead cows over that way, and I wanna stop by the house to pick up a few things.”

  “You be careful, boy,” Tom said as Colt stepped up in the saddle. “That’s close to the Rocking-D.”

  “I aim to,” Colt replied and turned Buck’s head back toward the Broken-M.

  The two old cowhands stood watching the younger of the two McCrae sons as he rode away at a gentle lope. Still marveling over the transformation from boy to man, Bill Wilkes felt inspired to proclaim, “I got a feelin’ things is about to change in this valley.”

  “I know what you mean,” Tom said. “I’ve got the same feelin’.” He pushed his hat back and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Damn! Don’t he remind you a lot of his daddy when he was about that age?”

  “Come to think of it,” Bill agreed. The thought brought back memories of long ago when the four of them, Tom, Bill, and Sam and Burt McCrae, had first brought a small herd of cattle to the valley. And now everything they had helped Sam build was in jeopardy of being consumed by Frank Drummond. Bill and Tom were too old to be involved in a range war, but they both felt it was their place to try to help Sam McCrae’s sons hold on to the land. “Yessir, things is liable to get hot around here.”

  Letting his horse set its own pace, Colt rocked along easily in the saddle, thinking about the two old ranch hands he had just left. Tom Mosley’s question—if he was going to the house to see Vance—stuck in his mind for a moment, for it brought back troublesome thoughts of a time when he and his brother wer
e not so different. His mind drifted back to a summer day nine years before.

  Barely a week past his eighteenth birthday, he had gotten into an argument with his father because he had slipped off the day before to go hunting for antelope, leaving his chores unfinished. The argument was pretty heated, and being a hardheaded young rebel, he took off again in protest, instead of mucking out the barn as he was told to do. Since it was a rather warm day, he decided nothing could be better than a dip in the creek that ran along the north ridge and, at that time, divided his father’s range from that of Walter Sessions. The picture of that day came back to him clearly, for it was a day that would influence the rest of his life.

  The water was cool and deep, and he wasted no time shucking his clothes and plunging in, thoughts of stables and chores far from his mind as he splashed around in the dark water. He had not been in for a quarter of an hour when he was suddenly startled by a voice from the bank behind him. He turned to find Susan Sessions leaning against a cottonwood tree, watching him, a mischievous smile displayed across her face. She was holding his clothes in her hand.

  “Whoa!” he blurted. “What are you gonna do with my clothes?”

  “I’ve not decided yet,” she teased and made a motion as if to throw them in the creek. “Maybe I’ll just hold them and let you come get them.” She held them out toward him. “You want them? Come on out and get them.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he replied. “Just drop ’em by the tree there where you found them. Drop yours on top of ’em and come on in. We’ll both go swimmin’. ”

  “Why, Colt McCrae, you’ve got a sassy nerve to think I’d be found in the same creek with the likes of you.” She reared her head back, pretending to be shocked. “I’ve got a good mind to tell your father about your sassy mouth.”

  Colt laughed. “If you had a good mind, you’d shuck those clothes and jump in. It’s nice and cool.”

  She favored him with an impish smile. “If I did, you’d probably tell everybody in Whiskey Hill.”

  “Wouldn’t say a word—wouldn’t be nobody’s business but yours and mine.”

  “It is awfully warm,” she said, her eyes locked on his.

  Colt shook his head slowly, the cruel irony of that day so long ago having returned to his thoughts many times while he had languished in his prison cell in Kansas. They had made love on the grassy bank of the creek. Susan soon abandoned her veil of innocence and aggressively offered her body, demanding his most virile response to her hunger. When it was over, she climbed back in her clothes and assured him that if he breathed a word of what had just happened, she would denounce him as a liar. The cruelest stroke of irony, however, was the fact that while this illicit encounter was taking place, twelve miles away in Whiskey Hill a bank robbery was in progress, resulting in the death of a bank guard.

  “I was wonderin’ if you were gonna show up for supper,” Burt McCrae said when he walked out on the porch to watch Colt loop his reins around the post.

  “Tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought about it,” Colt replied. “I was just gonna pick up a few things I needed, but if you’re offerin’, I might take you up on it.”

  Burt looked surprised. “You ain’t plannin’ on stayin’ at the house?”

  “Nope. I don’t figure on bein’ much help to you and Vance if I’m stayin’ around here at night. If I’m gonna help you at all, it’s gonna be out scoutin’ the ridges where I can maybe see what’s goin’ on.” When Burt started to protest, Colt stopped him. “Let me do it my way. All I need from you is some grub from time to time, and cartridges for my rifle. Fair enough?”

  “Why, yeah,” Burt stammered, “fair enough. Now come on in the house. Rena’s got supper on the table.” Colt followed his uncle inside where Rena, his Indian cook, had loaded the table with food. While Colt filled his plate, Burt sat back and grinned. “It’s damn good eatin’, ain’t it?”

  Colt did not reply, instead looking up at the silent Cheyenne woman, and nodding in agreement. Pleased, she smiled in response. Rena had been his uncle’s cook for as long as Colt could remember. His aunt Vera had been dead since Colt was no more than a baby, and as far as he ever knew, there had never been any other woman in the house but the somber Rena.

  Thoughts of a wild young Colt McCrae returned to Burt’s mind as he watched the imposing figure of a man seated at his supper table. When he gave it a second thought, he was not surprised that Colt chose to sleep under the stars, rejecting a bed in the front room. The boy had always been more at home in the hills and the open prairie. Rena had always been partial to his nephew. She used to say that Colt may have been born to a white woman, but his heart was Cheyenne. It struck Burt then how cruel a penalty it was to lock this free soul away in a prison cell. Burt continued to study his nephew intensely, so intensely that Colt wondered if something else was on his uncle’s mind. “What is it, Uncle Burt?” he asked.

  Burt didn’t answer at once, still wrestling with the decision to broach the subject or not. Maybe it was best to let old wounds alone. It had been almost ten years. Maybe Colt preferred to let past sins and grievances lie in the past, but Burt thought he should at least let him know. Finally, he said what was on his mind. “I don’t know if you still care or not, but I was over to Cheyenne last week and I saw an old friend of yours.” Seeing Colt’s interest, he went on. “Ronnie Skinner—I saw him comin’ out of Bailey’s Saloon on the edge of town. I’da recognized him anywhere—still the sneaky little rat he was ten years ago, only a little older.”

  Colt didn’t say anything for a minute or two, his mind obviously going back to darker times. Finally, he asked, “Did you talk to him?”

  “Nah,” Burt replied. “He didn’t look like he even knew me. I didn’t have nothin’ to say to him, anyway.” Colt just nodded thoughtfully. Burt continued. “The bartender said Ronnie hangs around the saloon most of the time—when he ain’t in jail. Seems like he’s stayed in some kind of trouble around Cheyenne for the last several years. I don’t think he’s been back to Whiskey Hill since you and them other fellers were sent off to prison.”

  He continued to study Colt’s face closely, but his nephew gave no indication of his reaction to news of his boyhood friend. Behind the expressionless face, however, Colt’s mind brought back the image of the man guilty of the crime for which he had served time. “Well, I’ll be goin’ along,” was all Colt said. Then he got up from the table, nodding a thank-you to Rena as he went out the door.

  Chapter 4

  He followed the north ridge for a mile and a half, on the lookout for strays before reaching the little stream that marked the corner of his uncle’s ranch. He had always called it Crooked Branch when he was a boy because of the many turns it made at the bottom of the ridge, and it eventually flowed into Crooked Creek. He didn’t know the real name, if there was one. Maybe the Cheyenne Indians had a name for it. Beyond the stream was most likely Drummond land now, since there was very little range on this side of the railroad that didn’t belong to Drummond. He decided that Crooked Branch was as good a place as any to camp for the night.

  He pulled the saddle off his horse and hobbled the buckskin to graze while he looked for firewood among the cottonwood trees. Soon he had a fire going and coffee working up a boil. His uncle had supplied him with everything he would require, including .44 cartridges for the Winchester his father had left him. Thinking of the rifle, he propped the coffeepot on two smoldering sticks in the edge of the fire, and drew the weapon from the saddle sling to inspect it. It was a fine rifle, a Winchester ’73, and his uncle had told him how much his father admired it. I can see why, Colt thought as he turned the rifle over in his hands as if examining it for the first time. He ran his fingers over the wooden stock, remembering how smoothly the lever action had operated when he had taken target practice to become familiar with the weapon. Satisfied that he and the Winchester would work well together, he laid it across his saddle and returned his attention to the coffeepot in the embers.

&
nbsp; Finished with his coffee, supplemented by some cold biscuits Rena had given him, he washed the pot in the stream and packed it away. Alone, under a clear night sky, he felt at peace with himself, forgetting for the moment the bitterness that was never far beneath the surface of his mind. But those moments were few and short-lived for Colt McCrae, and soon replaced by memories of the years of silent angry brooding—of the soul-killing confinement of prison life when the frustration of his wrongful incarceration would drive him to the point where he would hammer his fists against the wall of his cell. It had been hard, but he had learned to deal with the harsh and unfair realities of his life. Looking back, he felt that he owed a lot to Bob Witcher’s interest in him for the patience he eventually acquired. When black thoughts of revenge had finally faded with time, they were replaced by dreams of leaving Kansas and Wyoming behind him. It would have been easy to climb in the saddle in the morning and ride away from a town that didn’t want him, but things had changed with the murder of his father. There were some things that needed fixing. So I reckon I’ll hang around until I get ’em fixed, he thought. Before long, it was fully dark and time to turn in.

  “I told you we’d find him near the corner of Rocking-D land,” Lon Branch said smugly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Look at him, all cozied up to the fire. It’s a damn shame to ruin his sleepin’, ain’t it?”

  Brownie Brooks snickered softly. “I reckon so. He’ll be wishin’ he was back in prison pretty soon.” Drummond’s two henchmen continued to lie there at the brow of the ridge for a few moments longer, both men savoring the fun about to begin. “We could just shoot the bastard from here. How far did Mr. Drummond say we was supposed to go with this jasper?”

  “He didn’t say,” Lon replied, his eyes never leaving the motionless form close by the fire. “He just said to take care of him.” He considered Brownie’s suggestion for a few moments before deciding. “Hell, shootin’ him wouldn’t be that much fun. Whaddaya say we tie his ass up, hook a rope behind his saddle, and let that big horse drag him all the way back to the Broken-M?”