Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Colt covered the distance between his uncle’s ranch and Cheyenne in less than half a day without pushing the buckskin excessively. He knew that it might be a waste of his time, but he was bound to make the effort for the sake of justice if nothing else. Bailey’s Saloon was not hard to find—a run-down building that was little more than a one-room shack, on the north edge of town. Colt paused at the door to look the place over before entering a room lit only by the flame from the fireplace. Glancing at the bar, he saw a short balding man with an eye patch. At the one table in a back corner of the room, three men were playing cards. Colt walked in.

  Rufus Bailey looked up when Colt approached the bar. He placed the knife he had been cleaning his fingernails with on the bar and regarded the stranger with a bored expression. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  Colt gave the bartender a brief glance before shifting his gaze to the men at the table. “I could use a glass of beer,” he said without looking back at Bailey. One of the men playing cards looked a lot like the man he had come to find. “I heard Ronnie Skinner hangs around here,” Colt said, turning back to the bartender then.

  “Yeah, that’s him back there at the table,” Bailey replied. “Are you a lawman?” he asked. Not waiting for a reply, he went on. “I hope to hell you are. That damn no-account drunk hangs around here damn near all day, panhandling for drinks.”

  Colt considered that for a moment before commenting, “Looks like he’s got enough money to play cards.”

  “He ain’t got a cent to his name,” Bailey scoffed. “They’re usin’ chips. If he’s losin’, he’ll run out on ’em before they try to collect their winnings. Hell, if he had any money, he’d be drinkin’.”

  Colt finished his beer, nodded to the bartender, then walked back to the table to stand opposite Skinner. All three players looked up to appraise the somber stranger. “Lookin’ to play some cards?” one of them asked.

  “Nope,” Colt replied, locking his gaze upon his former friend. “I just stopped by to say hello to Ronnie.”

  Ronnie returned the steely gaze with one dulled by excessive use of alcohol. Failing to recognize the stranger at first, he squinted his eyes, straining to see when something about the face suddenly sparked his memory. “Colt?” he asked, unsure. Then realizing it was him, indeed, he exclaimed, “Colt!” He jumped to his feet, almost upsetting the table. Ignoring his playing partners’ protests, he rushed around the table. “Gawdamn, Colt, you’re a sight for sore eyes. When did you get out? Gawdamn, I really felt bad about them haulin’ you off to prison for that damn robbery. Hell, I wanted to tell ’em you didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, but you know, hell, I couldn’t hardly tell ’em it was me. I’da been a damn fool to do that, wouldn’t I?” He grabbed Colt by the hand, shaking it wildly. “Damn, this calls for a drink. I’m a little short right now, but if you’ll buy, I’ll pay you back later.” Colt stood passively studying his former friend as he rambled through his wild discourse. His cool response caused Ronnie to hesitate. “They ain’t no hard feelin’s, is there? I mean, there weren’t nothin’ I could do to help you. Hell, you gotta figure you was lucky they didn’t hang you, like they did ol’ Tucker. Right?”

  A jumble of thoughts were swirling around inside Colt’s mind as he witnessed the foolish ramblings of the obviously worried man. It was apparent that Ronnie wasn’t sure what Colt’s frame of mind was, and he was doing his best to talk him out of thoughts of revenge for letting him take the rap. Seeing the sorry state Ronnie had progressed to, he wasn’t sure he cared enough after all the years to think about vengeance. At the same time, he figured that Ronnie should receive some form of punishment for his part in the robbery and killing. Finally, he acted. “Nah, no hard feelin’s,” he said, then planted a right fist flush on Ronnie’s nose, putting his shoulder and upper body behind it. Ronnie was driven back against the wall, where he slid down to the floor and fell over on his side, out cold.

  It was scant compensation for over nine years in prison, but it gave him some satisfaction. He turned and left the saloon, stopping at the bar on his way out. “Here,” he said, slapping some money on the counter, “buy him a drink when he comes to.”

  Satisfied that the law would not interfere, Drummond was now ready to launch his war against Colt McCrae. Like a commanding general, he formed his plans to not only rid the town of the ex-convict, but to finally capture the land that separated his vast range from the water he desperately wanted. He had exhausted his patience waiting for Burt and Vance McCrae to accept his offers to buy their land. It was now time to take the land. If they stood and fought, their deaths would simply be an unfortunate tragedy caused by their interference with a deputized posse in the process of capturing a murderer. Since his men had been deputized by the sheriff, none in the town council should question the killings that were bound to happen.

  Back at his ranch, Drummond called his army of thugs together to give them their marching orders. Colt had reduced their number to ten gun hands, counting Brownie, who was still limping around with a bullet wound. In Drummond’s opinion, this was ample strength to effectively do the job. “Now you’re gonna get the chance to earn the money I’ve been paying you,” he told them. He singled out three men. “You three are gonna ride over to the Bar-M.” He parted out three more. “You three, Broken-M,” he said. “Me and the other three are gonna scout the creek that runs between the two. That son of a bitch is hiding out somewhere on that creek.”

  “Whaddaya want me to do, Mr. Drummond?” Brownie Brooks spoke up.

  Drummond cocked his head to glare at the wounded man. “I want you to sit here on your ass in case that jailbird shows up here again. If you’d done the job I sent you to do, we wouldn’t have to go after Colt McCrae, would we?” Properly contrite, Brownie limped back to a corner of the bunkhouse. Drummond continued his instructions. “Make no mistake, the McCraes will fight, and I don’t want a one of them left standing. Do your job and you’ll all get a fifty-dollar bonus, and the man whose bullet stops Colt McCrae gets an extra two hundred dollars.” He paused to let that soak in, gratified by the nodding and grins of his soldiers. “Sunup tomorrow,” he said.

  Vance McCrae was a man with a troubled mind as he drove his buckboard along the rutted road between his ranch and his uncle’s. Sitting stiffly beside him, Susan remained sternly silent, having already spoken her piece about the meeting at Burt McCrae’s house. She had at first refused to accompany him, but Vance insisted, saying it was too dangerous to leave her and their son at home, even with Tom and Bill keeping an eye on the place.

  Things had been bad before, but now there was bound to be real trouble. His world had been effectively turned upside down since the return of his brother. Colt had killed three of Drummond’s men in the span of two nights. Drummond would never stand for that. They were all in danger now. Maybe Susan was right to damn Colt for igniting a range war. Vance wished with all his heart that the bloodshed could have been avoided. Now, facing the certain prospect of more, he wasn’t sure he had the stomach to stand up to Drummond’s gang of outlaws. Thinking back, he remembered his father warning that one day Drummond would make a move to overrun him and Uncle Burt. Then, by God, we’ll have to stand and fight for what’s ours, he had said. Two short weeks after making that statement, Sam McCrae was cut down by a bushwhacker’s bullet. Vance still bore the heavy guilt for not avenging his father’s murder.

  Breaking her silence, Susan asked, “Will he be there?”

  “Colt?” Vance replied. “Why, I expect so. Nobody’s more involved in this than him.”

  “I just don’t see that this trouble has anything to do with us,” she said sharply. “He shot those men. This business should be between him and the sheriff.”

  Even though he wished they were not involved, Vance could not understand his wife’s refusal to see the right and wrong of the recent trouble. “Lon Branch tried to kill him, honey. You can’t much blame him for protecting himself. And Tom and Bill were jumped by Drummond’s men
. If Colt hadn’t come along when he did, they both might be dead.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted, “but maybe they might have just been meaning to scare them.”

  “I doubt that,” Vance said, shaking his head in frustration. “Bill said they were just gettin’ ready to shoot both of them when Colt cut them down.”

  “I still think your uncle should go over and talk to Frank Drummond and straighten this whole mess out, instead of letting an ex-convict ride around like a wild Indian, shooting everybody.”

  “Uncle Burt’s already tried to talk to him, and you know I’ve tried to talk to Drummond. After Daddy died, I went over there. There’s no talkin’ to that man. Colt’s doin’ what I oughta be doin’.” He paused to think about what he had just said, then added, “I ain’t sure Colt was in on that bank guard shootin’ they sent him to prison for.” Susan did not comment, returning to her silence of before.

  It was a somber gathering that greeted Colt when he walked into the front room of his uncle’s house that evening, effectively causing a pause in the conversation. Standing in the doorway, he looked around the room, nodding to each face he saw. Everyone there had known Colt to be an untamed boy before he was sent away. His transformation into the imposing figure that now filled the doorway was something some were not sure boded them good or evil. The silence was broken when Burt stood and pulled an empty chair over next to him. “Come on in, Colt. We was just gettin’ started.”

  Rena came in from the kitchen and handed Colt a cup of coffee, never bothering to ask if he wanted one. He smiled at the ever-silent woman and nodded his thanks. Never changing her expression from the stone face she always wore, she returned to her kitchen. Aware of the eyes fixed upon him, he sat down next to Burt and cautiously sipped the scalding black liquid. He knew from recent experience that Rena kept the coffeepot to a near-boil on the stove until it was empty.

  It was a small gathering, he noted, as he scanned the faces: his uncle, Vance, Susan, little Sammy, his uncle’s two hired hands, known only to him as Jesse and Tuck, and Tom Mosley and Bill Wilkes. It was an unimpressive army to fight a range war against Drummond’s hired killers. As he shifted his gaze, it lingered upon the face of Susan Sessions McCrae, now his sister-in-law. She did not meet his gaze, her eyes concentrating on the coffee cup held in her lap. Though she was an older, mature woman now, he could still picture her as a young girl, precocious and sassy—until she glanced up from her lap. Her expression was hard and defiant, but also exhibited a hint of fear. It was natural under such circumstances, he decided.

  As expected, the topic of discussion, and the purpose of the meeting, was what steps they should take to defend their homes and livestock. The talk didn’t go far before someone voiced the obvious. “Look at us,” Tuck blurted, “a few old men against them gunmen that ride for Drummond. Sure, Vance and Colt are young enough, but they ain’t but two, and they’re gonna be after Colt for sure.” He glanced apologetically in Colt’s direction. “No hard feelings, but you’re the one that started this war, and your life ain’t worth much more than a plugged nickel.” Like Jesse, Tuck was not convinced that there would be such a serious situation were it not for the ex-convict’s aggression. He and Tuck were too old to be fighting range wars. They had worked for Burt McCrae for many years, and they both felt they had hired on to tend cattle, not to fight bushwhackers.

  “Now, hold on a minute, Tuck,” Burt protested. “Let’s get one thing straight. Colt never started anything. This trouble was brewing long before he came back. Let’s not forget my brother was shot in the back. Colt’s here because I asked him to come back and help. We all know what the cause of this is, Drummond’s plan to run us out of our homes. The question we have to decide is what we’re gonna do about it.”

  “Burt’s right,” Tom Mosley said. “Them two that jumped me and Bill was meanin’ to kill us both. If Colt hadn’t come along when he did, there’d be two less of us here tonight.”

  Colt chose not to defend his actions, preferring to remain a silent nonparticipant in the meeting. The discussion that filled the next hour and a half hinged mainly upon whether they should all concentrate their defenses in one spot. This would mean abandoning either Vance’s house or Burt’s, and neither party was inclined to do so. As the evening wore on, it became apparent that there was little they could do beyond what they were already doing. Burt and Vance would each try to defend their homes as best they could with the men they had, and hope for the best. They agreed that Colt was best used on horseback, helping wherever he could. Someone suggested taking their problem to the sheriff, but the suggestion was not given much consideration, since J.D. was owned lock, stock, and barrel by Drummond. It was late in the evening when Vance carried a sleeping Sammy to the buckboard and headed back to the Bar-M, flanked by his two hired hands. Seated beside her husband, Susan turned to watch the dark figure of her brother-in-law as it faded into the blackness of the night toward the north ridge.

  Like a troop of cavalry, the gang of hired killers filed out of the Rocking-D gate, led by the imposing figure of their captain. Frank Drummond sat erect in the saddle, his spine as straight as a flagpole. There was no sound save that of the creaking of leather saddles and the soft occasional snort of the horses. The first rays of the morning sun crept over the line of rolling hills to the east, illuminating the frosty breath of horses and riders, creating a ghostly procession.

  Riding directly into the rising sun, Drummond led his column of bushwhackers for a distance of four miles to the junction of two small streams. Holding his horse back, he dispatched his men to their assigned targets, and watched for a few moments as the two groups of three disappeared over the ridge to the south. Satisfied, he kicked his horse again, and headed toward the creek that ran between Bar-M and Broken-M range. It was a day that had been too long in coming.

  Drummond had given his foreman the job of calling on Burt McCrae’s ranch because, in Drummond’s mind, that was the most likely place to find Colt. Pete Tyler was a capable man. He had been with Drummond from the early days and had never questioned an order, regardless of the nature. Drummond was confident that Pete would run McCrae to ground, and take care of his uncle in the process. Although Drummond had taken three of the men with him to search the creek, supposedly to find Colt’s camp, he felt certain that Colt would be found at the ranch. It couldn’t hurt to be somewhere else when the troublesome ex-convict was killed, just in case there was some talk about it in town.

  “What about them two that work for McCrae?” Jake White asked as the three men approached the Broken-M ranch house.

  “Those two old coots?” Tyler replied. “I ain’t worried about them. You just do what I tell you. Those two ain’t gonna cause no trouble. We’ll just ride right in like we was the law.”

  “I don’t see that big buckskin he’s been ridin’,” Jake replied. “It don’t look like he’s here.”

  “Maybe not,” Tyler said. “We’ll have us a look-see, anyway.” There was a hint of disappointment in Tyler’s tone. He badly wanted to be the one who found Colt McCrae. “You two take a look in the barn— see if those two old buzzards are in there. Check the bunkhouse, too. I’m goin’ to the house, and I don’t want them sneakin’ up my back.”

  Jake and his partner, a man named Blanton, peeled off and headed for the barn. Had they known, they could have saved themselves the trouble. Jesse and Tuck, after talking it over the night before, decided it was not worth risking their lives to stand up to Drummond. They had ridden out before dawn that morning, heading for Laramie.

  Burt McCrae paused when he heard someone calling his name. He had been splitting firewood since coming out that morning to find that his help had fled. Still holding his ax in one hand, he walked around the house to find Frank Drummond’s foreman sitting on his horse at the edge of his front porch. He silently cursed himself for not having his rifle with him. “What do you want, Tyler?” he demanded.

  Seeing the defiant old man holding nothing more than an
ax, Tyler permitted a crooked smile to play across his ruthless features. “I’ve come for that murderin’ son of a bitch, Colt McCrae,” he spat. “Where is he, old man?”

  “You got your damn nerve, ridin’ in here like that. Sorry to disappoint you, but Colt ain’t here. Now get your sorry ass off my property.”

  At that moment, Jake and Blanton rode up behind Tyler. “Ain’t nobody down there, Pete, and from the looks of it, it looks like they lit out for good. Ain’t nothin’ in the bunkhouse.”

  Tyler’s grin returned as he shifted his gaze back to Burt. “Is that right, old man? Did your help light out on you? Maybe they’ve got more sense than you have.” He threw a leg over and stepped down. “Now we’ll have a look inside to make sure Colt ain’t hidin’ under the bed or somewhere.”

  “The hell you will,” Burt replied evenly.

  Tyler chuckled, enjoying the confrontation. “You aimin’ to stop me with that ax? We’ll cut you down before you get close enough to swing it.”

  “You’ll be next,” a voice from the door announced.

  Tyler jerked his head around to discover a rifle barrel protruding through the partially opened door. It was aimed right at his belly with Rena’s steady hand on the trigger. “What the . . . ?” he blurted, too surprised to finish, his hand automatically dropping to the pistol he wore.

  “I wouldn’t if I was you,” Rena warned, her tone dead serious enough to make Tyler hesitate. He played with the notion of pulling the weapon, but only for a moment, as Rena pushed the door open wider so as not to encumber her aim.