Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  He had taken no more than a few steps when the riders charged down from the dark side of the ravine. Dropping to one knee, he opened fire with his rifle. With no time to aim properly, his shots failed to hit a target, but they served to halt the charge. He could see now that there were two of them. Taking advantage of their hesitation, he retreated as quickly as he could up the opposite slope. Soon bullets were whistling all around him, forcing him to seek cover in a shallow gully. Bolder now that their quarry was on the run, the two riders urged their horses up the slope after him. Taking time to aim, Colt cranked three shots into the foremost rider, knocking him off his horse. The remaining assailant wheeled his horse around at this and retreated to the ravine floor where he continued to spray the slope with rifle shot.

  Certain that if he stayed put, he was bound to get hit again, Colt opened up with his rifle, causing the gunman to back even farther away. He pulled the trigger again, only to hear the dull click of the hammer against an empty chamber. With no other option, he forced himself to scramble up over the side of the ravine. Unknown to him, the rider he had left behind was not willing to follow him to finish the job, afraid that he would meet the same fate as his partner. While Colt made his painful way back in the direction of Crooked Creek, Rafe paused only long enough to throw Slim’s body over the saddle before hurrying back to the Rocking-D to report the results.

  Supper being long since finished, Drummond got up from his chair beside the massive stone fireplace. Alice Flynn had cleaned up the kitchen and retired to her room although the evening was still young. Placing another log on the fire, he paused when he thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats outside. Hurrying to the front porch, he arrived in time to see Rafe slide to a stop from a full gallop. He was leading Slim’s horse with a body across the saddle.

  Drummond’s first thought upon seeing the body was gratification that they had been quick enough to cut McCrae off. Slim was obviously dead, but Drummond was willing to lose a man in exchange for the elimination of his main source of irritation. Rafe’s report upon seeing his boss on the porch only served to send Drummond into a frustrated rage. “Damn you!” he roared. “You let him get away?”

  “Couldn’t help it,” Rafe pleaded in his defense. “He’s too damn good with that rifle. We almost got him—killed his horse, and I’m pretty sure I hit him once. He’s on foot and wounded—oughta be dead by now.”

  “Why in hell didn’t you follow him to make sure?” Drummond stormed. “I told you to make sure he was dead.”

  “Well, sir,” Rafe fumbled, “it was dark and he had the high ground up on that ridge, and him and that rifle—”

  “Shit!” Drummond cut him off in disgust. Then in a moment of urgency, he ordered, “Go to the bunkhouse and get Bone.” Then he had a second thought. “Never mind, I’ll fetch him myself. You get rid of that body and get ready to take Bone to where you lost McCrae.”

  Storming down the steps, he strode across the yard, at a furious pace, worried that the smug gunman might have decided to leave. Charging in the door of the bunkhouse, he was met by Brownie, who had also heard Rafe ride in. “Where is he?” Drummond demanded. “Bone, where is he?”

  “Yonder,” Brownie answered and pointed to the back corner of the bunkhouse. “He’s asleep.”

  “Well, wake him up,” Drummond said.

  Brownie cast a quick nervous glance in Bone’s direction. “We pretty much been lettin’ him be. He said anybody that woke him up was liable to get shot.”

  Brownie’s reply only served to deepen Drummond’s disgust with his cautious gunman. He started toward the back of the building. “Turn that lantern up,” he said. Approaching the sleeping man, he stopped several feet short. “Hell,” he snorted, surprised, “he’s awake.”

  “No, sir,” Brownie countered. “He’s asleep.”

  Drummond stared at the menacing figure, his back propped up, almost in a sitting position, his arms crossed before his chest with a pistol in each hand. “His eyes are open,” Drummond insisted.

  “That’s the way he sleeps, with his eyes open,” Brownie said. As far as he was concerned, that alone was evidence enough that the dark gunman was in league with the devil.

  Drummond looked from his obviously frightened ranch hand back to the sleeping man. Sure enough, Bone’s eyes were really only half open. The man was asleep. Not in the mood for any more frustration, Drummond began calling out Bone’s name. “Bone! Bone! Wake up, man!” Just to be safe, he took a couple of steps back.

  Finally there was a flicker in the drooping eyelids. Then instead of the violent reaction they expected, he slowly rolled his eyes upward, his arms slowly unfolding to point the pistols in front of him. The awakening was mindful of a possum coming out of its defensive sleep, instead of a lion suddenly awakened. “What the hell do you want?” he growled, irritated to have been awakened.

  Drummond hurriedly told him of the unsuccessful attempt on Colt’s life by his men, and the necessity to find him before he was able to escape. Bone listened with no sense of urgency. In fact, boredom was the more obvious reaction. When Drummond finished talking, Bone commented, “So now you want me to go after this jasper. Well, the price just went up a hundred dollars.”

  “Whoa!” Drummond protested. “Why in hell would it? If anything, the job’s a helluva lot easier. Rafe says McCrae’s wounded, and he’s on foot. He oughta be easy enough to follow.”

  “Then why didn’t he bring him back?” Bone replied. “Fact is, a wounded man can be more dangerous, like runnin’ down a wounded bear or elk. That’s why the price went up. And trackin’ a man on foot is harder than trackin’ a horse, especially at night.”

  Drummond felt the pressure of time, so he couldn’t afford to dicker if he was to rid himself of Colt McCrae. “All right,” he conceded. “You’ll get your extra money, but you’ve got to get going before the trail gets colder than it already is. Rafe can take you to pick up his track. Brownie, you go with them.”

  Chapter 10

  Colt’s eyes flickered open and he awakened, blinking several times to focus, alarmed that he had been asleep. It was still dark. He had stopped to rest for a few moments, not intending to sleep. He could not guess how long he had been out, but the moon was still high, so it could not have been long. He started to roll over on his side, but stopped short when the pain in his ribs caused him to reconsider. In a rush of confusion, his memory returned to alert him, and he listened for sounds of pursuit. Surely they knew he had been hit, so they wouldn’t quit until they found him. Where the hell am I? he thought. He wasn’t sure— somewhere on the east side of Crooked Creek, he guessed. He couldn’t have gotten far from Pronghorn Canyon. Can’t stay here, he thought, and struggled to get on his feet, one hand clutching his bloody side. He realized then that his rifle was gone. He must have lost it somewhere before he blacked out.

  Pausing a moment to steady himself, he was trying to remember which way he had come when suddenly he heard the sound of horses splashing across the shallow creek some thirty or forty yards behind him. With no hope of finding the rifle now, he took the first likely avenue of escape. Forcing himself to ignore the pain that screamed out at him with each step he took, he plunged into the head-high brush that rimmed the crest of a deep gully. Straining to remain on his feet, he pushed through the branches that snatched at him and caught in his clothing until finally he lost his footing on the steep slope and tumbled head over heels to the bottom.

  Unable to move for a moment, he lay there and listened. Within seconds, he heard them above him. With his empty rifle far behind him on the ridge and no chance of outrunning their horses, he could only lie there and wait, hoping the darkness hid his trail down the side of the gully. They were now so close above him that he could hear them talking.

  “He can’t be far ahead of us. Hell, he’s bleedin’ like a stuck hog,” one voice said. “Judging by the blood all over that rock back yonder, I’d say he can’t get much farther.”

  Another voice commented,
“The son of a bitch has likely just crawled off and died. We’re most likely followin’ a dead man—might as well go on back.”

  “The hell we will,” a third voice said. “I’m gettin’ paid to drag his dead ass back to your boss. We’ll keep followin’ this ridge. He’s bound to be along here somewhere. The man’s bleedin’ out. He won’t last much longer.”

  Thinking the same thing, the wounded man below them breathed a sigh of relief, albeit temporary, when he heard them move off along the ridge. Reaching once again for strength in a well that was rapidly running dry, Colt forced himself to his feet. Following what appeared to be a small game trail, he made his way painfully down the gully, carefully placing each foot in the darkness.

  Nearing the mouth of the gully, he began to stagger drunkenly. He knew he had little strength left and was making his way on determination alone. Soon his mind began to reel and his head began to swirl, and he thought for a moment he heard angels singing. Strange, he thought just before everything went black. Angels singing.

  “Some of you fellers give me a hand,” Dewey Jenkins exclaimed as he burst through the door of the tiny church by the creek. “There’s a man out here hurt bad—or dead. I ain’t sure which.”

  His sudden interruption effectively stopped the singing, and the small congregation turned as one. There were only five men in the church, but all five immediately responded to Dewey’s call for help. Pearl Murray placed her hymnal on the bench beside her and turned to talk to the other women while their menfolk followed Dewey out the door.

  Outside, Dewey led the other men back beyond the buckboards and wagons to the narrow wagon trace that led up from the creek. “I dang near run over him,” Dewey said when they reached the prone body in the road. “If my horse hadn’ta drawed back, I reckon I would have.”

  “Is he dead?” John Tasker wondered aloud.

  “He’s still breathin’,” Dewey declared as he knelt beside the man, “but he’s awful bloody.”

  “Who is it?” one of the others asked.

  “Don’t know,” Dewey replied. “Let’s get him inside where we can see.” Responding to Dewey’s suggestion, they picked up the wounded man and carried him inside the church amid a flurry of whispered comments from the women. “Lay him on the bench, there,” Dewey directed. Turning to his wife, he said, “Bring that lantern over here so we can see what’s what.”

  “Looks to me like he’s been shot,” John Tasker said. His comment caused a wave of concern among the others as they crowded in closer in an effort to see for themselves.

  “He’s running from somebody,” someone said. “Probably the law,” someone else suggested. “Maybe we’d better send somebody to town to fetch the sheriff, ” still another said. “He might be an outlaw.”

  “Get outta the way, Dewey,” Pearl Murray said as she shouldered a couple of the men aside and bent close over the victim. “That’s Colt McCrae,” she stated. The name meant nothing to these simple settlers, whose contact with Whiskey Hill consisted of infrequent visits to town for supplies.

  Before there was time to question, someone by the door announced, “There’s riders comin’.”

  “Maybe the sheriff,” Tasker speculated, “huntin’ this feller. I thought he might be an outlaw.”

  “He ain’t no outlaw,” Pearl said emphatically, “and most likely them’s Drummond’s hired killers you hear out there. We’ve got to help him.”

  Bone reined his horse up to a halt and stopped to listen when he came to the creek. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “Church meetin’,” Brownie answered. “There’s a church down the road a piece.”

  “A church!” Bone snorted, exhibiting his contempt for all churches. “Well, he’s got to have come this way somewhere, so let’s go have a look in that church.”

  In the midst of the second verse of “Jordan’s Golden Shore,” the small congregation fell suddenly silent as the church door was flung open and slammed noisily against the wall. Fearful faces turned to meet their rough visitors as Drummond’s gunmen swaggered into the church. Led by the menacing figure of Bone, they stood inside the door, leering at the handful of worshippers who stared wide-eyed at the intruders.

  “Come on in and join us, brother,” Dewey Jenkins nervously greeted Bone.

  Bone did not reply at once, but stood smirking as he scanned the small group of settlers. When he spoke, it was with a sneer of contempt. “You the preacher?” He directed the question toward Dewey, who was standing up front.

  “No, sir,” Dewey replied. “We don’t have a regular preacher. I’m just leadin’ the singin’. You and your friends are welcome to join in our worshippin’ service.”

  Ignoring the invitation, Bone said, “We’re lookin’ for somebody. He’s got a bullet hole in him and he mighta come this way.”

  “Well, we ain’t seen nobody,” Dewey answered.

  Bone continued to glare at Dewey for a long moment, the smile of contempt prominently in place upon his narrow features. He was thinking the man seemed considerably nervous in spite of his efforts to appear hospitable. Maybe he was hiding something, he thought. Maybe not. Bone was aware that he was usually met with nervous precaution. “You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me, now, would you, preacher?” His lips parted slightly to form a suspicious smile. Before Dewey could answer, Bone suddenly whirled around to confront a frail little woman near the front bench. “What about you, sweet pea? Have you seen a wounded man come in here?” The woman, too frightened to answer, simply drew away terrified. “Well?” Bone demanded, thrusting his face inches from hers.

  “Get your sorry ass outta here!” Startled, Bone looked up to find Pearl Murray standing and pointing a threatening finger at him. “There ain’t nobody here you’re lookin’ for. We’re tryin’ to hold a prayer meetin’. So get on outta here and let us get on with it. I’d like to get home sometime tonight. I got to go to work in the mornin’, and I ain’t got time to waste on your foolishness.”

  Lying helpless under her bench, Colt strained to remain still, knowing that he was bound to be discovered if they decided to search the pews. Bone remained silent for a few moments while he fixed the gutsy woman with a sarcastic grin. Amused by her bluster, he failed to notice a slight nervous waver as she stole a quick glance down at the thin trickle of blood on the plank floor, slowly making its way toward the front of the room.

  After a long pause while all parties stood uneasy, watching each other, Bone spoke. “You’re a mouthy bitch, ain’t you?” He hesitated a moment more, then decided. “All right, go on back to your caterwauling. Let’s go, boys.”

  Not one of the modest gathering moved a muscle until the sound of horses reached their ears. When it was evident that their visitors had indeed departed, a general sigh of relief filled the small building, and people began to stir again.

  “Somebody help me get him out from under my feet,” Pearl said. “We’ll put him in my buggy.”

  “What are you aimin’ to do?” Dewey asked. “Take him to Dr. Taylor’s?”

  Pearl hesitated, considering that option. “I reckon that’s what he needs, all right,” she replied. “But that would be the same as handin’ him over to Drummond’s gang of outlaws.”

  The prayer meeting effectively over, the congregation scattered to return to their homes. Pearl drove her buggy with the wounded man back toward town to the simple cabin her husband had built two years before he died. Henry Murray had built a stout cabin that was intended to be a temporary home until he could clear the land around it, hoping to someday have a prosperous farm and a bigger house. It was not to be. The Good Lord called Henry home six years ago with a case of pneumonia. Pearl had some relatives back East, but no desire to return there, so she remained in the little cabin Henry had built and supported herself by cooking for the patrons of the Whiskey Hill Kitchen. A woman of lesser fortitude and determination might have succumbed to the temptation to seek refuge with kin back East, or at the least, sought out another husband. As Pearl e
xplained to Mary Simmons, “I’ve had one man in my life, Henry Murray. He sure as hell wasn’t perfect, but I doubt I could find one as good as he was. He wasn’t gettin’ a ravin’ beauty when we got married, and I always appreciated him for that. He was a good man, worked hard, and I don’t care to fool with breakin’ in another one.

  “I guess Drummond’s wolves finally caught up with you,” she said as she helped him from the buggy. “What happened?” Grimacing with the pain that seared his side like a hot branding iron, he explained that he was bushwhacked on his way back from town. “How bad are you hurt?” she asked. When he replied that he wasn’t sure, she said, “Well, we’ll see if we can patch you up. I’d take you to see Dr. Taylor, but that might not be the best thing for you. As soon as J.D. found out, you’d most likely get a visit from that trash that came in the church lookin’ for you. That one that did all the talkin’ is a new face to me. I ain’t ever seen him before. He looks like a mean one. I think Drummond musta bought himself a professional killer.”

  Inside the cabin, she helped him in on the bed, where he lay back and breathed an exhausted sigh of relief. Looking up into her eyes as she spread a blanket over him, he gave her his thanks. “I appreciate what you’re doin’ for me. I just need a little time to get my strength back. Then I’ll move on. I don’t wanna bring any bad luck down on you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Don’t nobody know where you are. Those folks at the church ain’t gonna say nothin’, so you just rest up and get yourself well. The first thing we’re gonna have to do is clean you up a little and then maybe we can see how bad you’re wounded.”