Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  “Two orders of bacon and scrambled eggs,” Mary replied, making an effort to sound businesslike, then went directly to the coffeepot.

  “Yeah, two orders of bacon and eggs,” Pearl shot back sarcastically. “What’s he doin’ back in here? I bet it’s because you were blinkin’ your eyes at him the last time he was here.”

  “Why, Pearl Murray,” Mary replied, a mock look of offense upon her face. “I’m ashamed of you for even thinking such a thing. I guess he’s back in here because he’s hungry, and your breakfast didn’t kill him last time.”

  Serious then, Pearl warned her young friend, “I wouldn’t get too interested in that boy, honey. I don’t think he’ll be around for very long, especially if he’s takin’ to shootin’ Frank Drummond’s men.”

  Mary, herself serious at that point, said, “According to what Tom just told me, he shot two more of Drummond’s men last night.” She went on to relay Tom’s telling of the attack upon him and Bill Wilkes.

  “Damn,” Pearl exhaled. “Like I said, you’re battin’ your eyes at a dead man.” Then, her mischievous side never far away, she grinned. “Let me cook some breakfast for those two. I wanna make sure they’re still here when Oscar gets back. He’s been talkin’ about how he might throw Colt McCrae out if he showed his face in here again.”

  “I swear, you’re bad,” Mary said, shaking her head as she left the kitchen with two cups of coffee. Though she would never admit it to Pearl, she did find herself interested in the broad-shouldered brother of Vance McCrae. Pearl had reminded her several times that the quiet young man was an ex-convict, and she knew it unwise to even toy with thoughts toward him. Still, she told herself there was no harm in entertaining thoughts. She would never act upon them. It was just something to speculate on. There was no harm in that. “Here you go, gents,” she sang out cheerfully as she set the cups down on the table. “Pearl’s scrambling up some eggs right now.”

  Colt and Tom were just starting on their breakfast when Oscar returned from the store. Coming in the back door to the kitchen, he was met by Pearl, a wicked smile on her face. “Look who’s settin’ in the front booth, Oscar.”

  “Who?” he asked, and when Pearl didn’t answer, he walked over to the pass-through window. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He stood there, staring at the two men eating breakfast, for a long moment before suddenly turning around and retracing his steps toward the back door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he mumbled as he closed the door behind him.

  Pearl couldn’t suppress a devilish giggle. “He musta forgot he was aimin’ to toss him out.”

  Mary was not as amused as her friend. “Damn, Pearl, I’ll bet he’s gone to get the sheriff.” What appeared to be a joke to Pearl seemed likely to spell trouble for Colt. J.D. was already looking for him. Feeling she should at least warn Colt, Mary hurried back out to the booth.

  Tom Mosley was properly concerned when Mary told them that Oscar was probably going to fetch the sheriff. His bravado of a few minutes before rapidly dissipated. He looked at Colt anxiously, but the news appeared to have little effect on the calm exterior of Sam McCrae’s younger son. “Maybe we oughta finish up real quick and get the hell outta here,” Tom suggested.

  “I don’t get a good breakfast like this every day,” Colt replied while he casually buttered up a biscuit. “I don’t figure on rushin’ through it.” Then giving Tom an understanding glance, he said, “Maybe you should go, Tom. There’s no sense you gettin’ tangled up in my troubles.”

  “Colt,” Mary insisted, “he’ll throw you in jail.”

  “I haven’t done anything to go to jail for,” Colt said. He was thinking about the town that had railroaded him off to prison nine years before. He had no intention of submitting to J. D. Townsend, even if it resulted in a shoot-out. Maybe he was pushing his luck to show his face in town, but he was determined not to be intimidated by the town council again. He would deal with J. D. Townsend when it came to that. The war was already started. He had no intention of letting the sheriff get in his way. He glanced up again to catch Mary’s eye. “I could use another cup of that coffee,” he said calmly.

  “Me, too,” Tom announced in a show of renewed courage.

  Mary shook her head, perplexed by their stubbornness, and left to get the coffeepot. Before she had time to return with it, the front door opened, and in walked J. D. Townsend, followed a few paces behind by Oscar Anderson.

  Without hesitation, J.D. walked straight over to the booth. With his hand resting on the butt of his pistol, he addressed the placid man gazing back at him. “I’m placin’ you under arrest,” he blurted, albeit somewhat nervously. He glanced at the Winchester rifle propped in the corner of the booth opposite Colt, out of easy reach.

  “Is that a fact?” Colt’s response was calm and unhurried, his cold unblinking gaze locked on the sheriff’s eyes. “What’s the charge?”

  “Murder, for one thing,” the sheriff responded, “the murder of Lon Branch.” He stood nervously shifting from one foot to the other, his hand gripping and re-gripping the handle of the revolver in his holster. “Now get your hands up on the table where I can see them.”

  “Before you take a notion to pull that pistol, I’d better warn you that I’ve got a pistol layin’ in my lap. So I reckon I’ll keep my hands right where they are.” He nodded toward Mary Simmons standing paralyzed in the middle of the room, holding the coffeepot. “We were just about to have another cup of coffee. Why don’t you sit down and have a cup, and we’ll talk about this mistake you were about to make.”

  When J.D. hesitated, not sure what to do, Tom spoke up. “Dammit, J.D., Colt ain’t murdered nobody. You oughta be ridin’ out to the Rocking-D to arrest Frank Drummond. Two of his men jumped me and Bill Wilkes last night, and if Colt hadn’t come along, we’d both be dead.” He held his wounded foot up for J.D. to see.

  Clearly surprised by this new piece of news, J.D. nevertheless attempted to regain the air of authority he had borne when he first entered the room. “I don’t know nothin’ about that. Right now, I’m talkin’ about the murder of Lon Branch.”

  “You people have got a habit of arrestin’ folks for somethin’ they didn’t do. I killed Lon Branch, but it wasn’t murder,” Colt said, his voice still showing no sign of emotion. “He came to kill me in my camp on McCrae land. He was shot in self-defense, and no man has ever gone to jail in this territory for that. I’m not gonna be the first.”

  The sheriff took a step backward, and squared up his stance, making a show of his authority. “Mr. Drummond says you were on his range.” His hand tightened on his pistol handle.

  “Drummond’s a damn liar if he said that,” Colt replied. “And if he didn’t, then you’re a damn liar. Now I think we’re about finished with this little conversation. Tom and I are gonna get on our horses and ride outta town real peaceful. At least, that’s the way I want it. But if you draw that weapon, I’m gonna cut loose with this one under the table. I expect it’ll catch you right about your balls, since I can’t raise it any higher. You might be able to kill me, but you ain’t gonna be siring any calves for a helluva long time.”

  Oscar Anderson backed away from the sheriff until he bumped into the counter. “Move over!” Pearl whispered from the pass-through window behind him when Oscar’s body blocked her view.

  J.D. was stunned. He had not expected to be faced down with an open challenge, and the look in Colt’s eyes told him it was no bluff. He hesitated, reluctant to back down in front of witnesses, but also knowing he couldn’t get his gun out of the holster in time to avoid being shot. “All right,” he finally said, and removed his hand from the pistol. “There’s too many folks in here to risk somebody innocent gettin’ shot.” Trying to save what reputation he could, he turned to Tom. “Tom, you’re sayin’ this man was not on Rocking-D range when he shot Branch?”

  “He sure as hell weren’t,” Tom replied. “And it was Drummond’s men that started the shootin’.”

  “All right, then
,” J.D. said. “I’m gonna let you go now, but I’ll be lookin’ into all this to see who’s tellin’ the straight of things.” In a final attempt to assert his authority, he added, “Now I think you both better get mounted and get on outta town before I change my mind.”

  Although there was no change in the stoic expression on Colt’s face, he was greatly relieved by the sheriff’s decision. He had no use for J. D. Townsend, but he had no desire to gun down the sheriff or anyone else who was not involved in his personal war. Aside from that, he had nothing in his lap but a napkin. His pistol and holster were in his saddlebag. As the sheriff moved over to stand beside a dazed Mary Simmons, Colt waited a moment to let Tom get up first. Then he laid the napkin on the table and reached over to pick the Winchester up from the corner of the booth. As he rose from the booth, he cocked the rifle just in case. It was unnecessary as the sheriff blanched when he realized he wasn’t wearing a gun belt.

  Standing to face the mortified lawman, Colt reached in his pocket and put some money on the table. He smiled briefly at Mary and said, “I think there’s enough there to cover our bill. We’ll be goin’ now.” Backing all the way to the door, he followed Tom, who was already limping toward the horses.

  J.D. made no move to go after them, knowing it would only soil his reputation further. Oscar looked at the sheriff in disbelief, but decided to remain mute. Pearl, however, was never a person to stifle her cynical sense of humor. Striding through the kitchen door, she broke the stunned silence left in Colt’s wake. “Damn if that weren’t somethin’. For a minute there I thought we were gonna have us a real shoot-out.” Enjoying the scene, she looked at Mary. “Mary, you’d better clean off that table, and be careful of that napkin. It might go off in your hand.”

  “Shut your mouth, Pearl,” Oscar snapped, all too aware that he and the sheriff had both been exposed as lacking in backbone. Pearl looked at Mary with a wink and a smile.

  Chapter 6

  J. D. Townsend had been sheriff in Whiskey Hill for six years after serving as a deputy for five years prior to that. It had not been a hard job since the town had been cleaned up after the railroad crews moved out of Cheyenne. Almost all the bad elements had been eliminated thanks to Frank Drummond’s crew of gun-toting cowhands acting as a vigilance committee. Had he been inclined, the sheriff might have looked a little deeper into Drummond’s methods for handling troublemakers. Some in the town council had made comments in the past that most of the banished troublemakers had been competition to Drummond. Those members had short careers as council members. J.D. was well aware of Drummond’s control of the town, and knew his job was courtesy of the man. Back in his office after the encounter in the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, he sat and worried about his future as sheriff.

  It had been some time since J.D. had experienced the uncertainty—he was reluctant to call it fear—that had caused him to back down that morning. Up to now, his bulk and bluster had been sufficient to cower most of the two-bit saddle tramps that wandered through town from time to time. But this morning had been different. When he had looked into the eyes of Colt McCrae, he had seen a cool fury burning deep inside that told of a lack of fear and a sense of nothing to lose. It had been a bluff, but the man had not hesitated to bet his life on it. The thought of future confrontations with Colt McCrae troubled him, but there were other things that worried him. Frank Drummond would want to know the reason Colt was not in jail. The thought had no sooner left his mind than Stoney Yates walked in.

  “Just met Mr. Drummond and a couple of his boys comin’ in,” Stoney announced. “He said to tell you to come on over to Coolidge’s. He wants to talk to ya.”

  “Did he say what about?” J.D. asked, although he had a pretty good idea. He wondered if Drummond had seen McCrae riding out of town when he came in.

  “Nah, just said he wanted to talk to ya.”

  “All right,” J.D. sighed and rose to his feet. “I reckon I could use a drink this mornin’, anyway.”

  Although it was still over an hour before noon, Turk Coolidge’s saloon had been open for a couple of hours in order to feed the few patrons who were dependent upon a liquid breakfast. Turk nodded and offered a good morning to the sheriff when J.D. walked in. “Turk,” J.D. acknowledged and went directly to a table in the back where Frank Drummond sat nursing a cup of coffee. Two of his men flanked him on either side, each working on a glass of beer. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Drummond?”

  Drummond looked up from his coffee cup and forced a thin smile that quickly faded away. “Yeah, Sheriff,” he said and pulled a vacant chair back from the table. “Sit down and have something to drink—a glass of beer, or something stronger. I’m having coffee myself. I like to keep a clear head when I’m talking business.”

  J.D. glanced briefly at the two surly-looking men flanking Drummond. He had not seen them before, but it was not unusual for the owner of the Rocking-D to hire on new men during the time of year when most ranches were letting men go. “Thank you just the same,” J.D. said. “I don’t reckon I need anythin’ right now.” He sat down in the chair indicated.

  Drummond fixed a steady gaze upon the uncomfortable sheriff for a long moment before continuing. When he spoke, his tone was almost fatherly. “When me and the boys rode in a little while ago, I almost thought I caught sight of Colt McCrae riding out the other end of town.” He glanced at one of the men seated across from him and received an amused snort in reply. Drummond went on. “I told ’em that couldn’t be McCrae because McCrae was most likely cooling his heels in your jail.” He nailed J.D. with an intense gaze. “Now, tell me that ain’t so.” When the sheriff flushed and hesitated, Drummond continued. “’Cause I know that was what we agreed on. Wasn’t it, J.D.?”

  “Yessir,” J.D. stammered. “That was what I was aimin’ to do, all right, but there was some complications that come up.”

  “Complications?” Drummond responded, his voice still calm. “What complications could there be? The man’s a murderer. All you had to do was arrest him and throw him in jail. Then we would hang him, like we do with all murderers.”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff quickly replied, plainly flustered. “That’s exactly right. But he had a witness that said he was on his own land and shot in self-defense. ”

  “What witness?” Drummond fumed, beginning to lose control of his emotions.

  “Tom Mosley,” J.D. replied.

  “Tom Mosley?” Drummond roared. “Goddammit, Sheriff, that’s one of his own men. What did you expect the lying bastard to say? The only witness there was Brownie Brooks, and he’s lying up at my ranch with a gunshot wound.” He pounded the table with his fist, causing his two men to grab their beer glasses to avoid losing the contents. “Now, I’ll tell you something else. That murdering convict shot two more of my men last night! He’s got to be stopped.”

  J.D. looked stunned, at that moment realizing that he had failed to question Tom about how he got shot in the foot. He didn’t have to be told now why Drummond lost two more men. His rational mind told him that Drummond had sent them to jump Tom and Bill, but Colt must have come along in time to catch them in the act. Then if what Drummond just said was true, Tom Mosley might not have been witness to Lon Branch’s shooting. He should have questioned him more thoroughly. Deep down, he knew that Drummond was behind all the trouble with Colt McCrae, but he forced himself to think that he was acting for the good of the town. He had cast his lot with Drummond long ago, and he knew he was going to look the other way as usual. “Maybe I’d best ride over to Fort Russell and get some help from the army,” he finally suggested.

  “It’s past time for that,” Drummond quickly replied. The last thing he wanted was to involve soldiers from nearby Fort D.A. Russell. “I’ve got a better idea. We’ve always handled our own problems in this town. We don’t need the army coming in here telling us how to run things. You just stay close to town. Go over to the dining room and sit down with Roy Whitworth and the others. Drink your coffee and swap your tales about t
he old days. Leave the job of running down Colt McCrae to me and my boys. You can deputize Rafe and Slim, here, if it’ll make you feel better. Just stay outta our way.” He paused to watch J.D.’s reaction. When the sheriff just sat there looking dazed, Drummond softened his tone. “I’ll take care of our problem. The town will go back to being peaceful again, and your job will be a helluva lot easier. Ain’t that right, J.D.?”

  “Yessir,” the sheriff drawled obediently. “I reckon you know best.”

  “Good,” Drummond said and patted J.D. on the shoulder. “Now you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “I changed my mind,” J.D. said wearily, “I believe I will have that drink.” Drummond was correct in saying the town had handled crises in the past without the army’s help. Back in the winter of ’67, when J.D. was a deputy, it was so cold and icy that the Union Pacific had to stop construction of the railroad halfway up Sherman Hill after several attempts to lay the tracks over the top. Stymied by the weather, the railroad reluctantly told all the workers to go home and come back in the spring, which was hardly practical for most of the men. As a consequence, they had all descended upon the town of Cheyenne. It was a wild time. J.D. remembered it well. Over ten thousand souls poured into Cheyenne with a considerable number spilling over into Whiskey Hill, which was ill-equipped to handle the strain. There was no one to keep the peace but the sheriff and J.D., his single deputy. That was the time when Frank Drummond really came into power, when the vigilance committee was formed. Drummond already had a payroll of half a dozen, all hardened gun hands, and he was only too happy to volunteer their services. They soon became known as the Gunnysack Gang, and for the next six months they kept the peace in Whiskey Hill. It was the only period in Frank Drummond’s life when he had operated on the side of the law. Back then J.D., as well as Roy Whitworth and the town council, welcomed Drummond’s support in the taming-down of Whiskey Hill’s undesirables. The land-hungry cattle baron’s cold-blooded ways were accepted as good for the community. J.D. wasn’t really sure exactly when Drummond came to own such complete power over the little town, but it had happened almost without anyone taking particular notice until it was too late to do anything about it. J.D. wasn’t proud of the fact that he was afraid to question anything the ruthless owner of the Rocking-D did, but he felt helpless to stand up to him now.