Range War in Whiskey Hill

by Charles G. West

  Bad luck, Charlie thought, lucky shot. He reciprocated by throwing three shots in rapid succession through the front window from where he guessed the shot had come. He turned to warn Fred Singleton to keep behind cover. His words had not formed in his mouth when Fred dropped his rifle and fell face-first on the ground. “Gawdamn!” Charlie exclaimed. “We’re in a bad place.” He looked over to one of the volunteers, who had taken cover behind a wagon. “Let’s get to better cover!” Not waiting for his response, Charlie retreated to the barn behind him. Once safely inside, he looked back to see the volunteer crumple to the ground as soon as he stepped out from behind the wagon.

  Far from being an intelligent man, Charlie nevertheless had the brains to conclude that the killing shots were coming from someplace other than the house. Struck motionless in a moment of indecision, he wasn’t sure what he should do. Finally, he deemed it in his best interest to go out the back of the barn and try to circle around the rear of the house. Moving cautiously, he went past the empty stalls to the back door. Outside, he was surprised to see a buckskin horse standing saddled among the cottonwoods by the creek. While waiting for his sluggish mind to digest the significance of this, he heard a soft voice behind him. “Hey.” He whirled around to confront the solemn countenance of Colt McCrae. It was not close enough to be considered a gunfight. Charlie was cut down before he raised his rifle past his leg.

  Inside the embattled house, Tom Mosley called out, “Hey, they’ve quit shootin’ on this side.”

  With bullets still flying from the other side, Burt crawled over to Tom’s side. He paused a few seconds before agreeing. “Damn, you’re right.” He waited a few moments more, then eased up to the windowsill to hazard a peek. “There’s a dead man layin’ by the wagon,” he said. “I can’t see nobody else. You musta hit him.”

  “I don’t see how,” Tom replied. “I don’t have time to aim at anything.”

  “Well, he’s sure as hell dead. Keep your eyes peeled. Maybe they’re up to somethin’.” He crawled back to the other windows to help out where he could.

  Moving at a trot, Colt returned to the trees by the creek to retrieve his horse. In the saddle again, he guided the buckskin through the cottonwoods, across the creek, and taking cover behind a long rise, rode toward the west ridge on the other side of the house. When he reached a line of gullies that led back to the creek, he dismounted and left Buck while he continued on foot.

  Rafe Wilson paused when he suddenly realized that the firing from the other side had stopped. He was not sure what it meant. He glanced down the line of volunteers that were still firing away blissfully from the cover of a hogback between the house and the ridge. If there was some cause for the end of the shots from Charlie Ware’s side, they, too, were unaware. He crawled up out of the gully to see if he could get a better look. The bullet that struck him in the shoulder spun him around, staggering him. Trying to return fire, he pulled the trigger before he could recover his balance, the shot glancing off the brow of the hogback where the three volunteers had taken cover. Startled, the man closest to him turned to discover Rafe stumbling drunkenly with blood spreading on his coat. Rafe tried to call out a warning, but Colt’s second bullet smashed into his breastbone, dropping him to the ground.

  The bloody sight of Rafe’s demise was enough to dishearten the man who was almost hit by Rafe’s errant shot. He stopped shooting at the house, and paused to look around him, trying desperately to see where the fatal shot had come from. As he knelt there, another bullet zipped past his head and embedded in the side of the hogback. Fearful for his life, he crawled over the top and scrambled away through the brush. Seeing their partner fleeing for his life, the other two volunteers didn’t wait to find out why, and all three were in full flight back to their horses. By the time Colt emerged from the gullies, they were effectively out of range and galloping away.

  Stunned, Frank Drummond could not at first believe what he was seeing. Perplexed by the sudden cessation of rifle fire from Charlie Ware’s men, he strained to see what had caused it. Unable to tell from his position in the pine trees, he could only wait to see what developed. It seemed like little more than moments later when he saw Rafe go down, followed by the rout of the posse members. To his horror, he then saw Burt, Tom, and Bill filing out of the house and running to the barn. He realized at that moment that he alone remained. Reasonably sure that they couldn’t see him, he considered making a hasty retreat, but as he was about to do so, he saw Colt McCrae step up on the hogback that had shielded Rafe and the three members of the posse. The sight infuriated him. He raised his rifle and fired at the man he hated with such passion. The shot missed, kicking up dirt near Colt’s feet.

  Not sure where the shot had come from, Colt turned unhurriedly, almost as if he were invulnerable to bullets. The deliberate manner in which he stood, searching the ridge, fearlessly scanning the cuts and hogbacks, struck a sudden fear in Frank Drummond’s soul. In a panic then, he recklessly fired at Colt again, missing by a foot or more, but Colt saw the muzzle flash in the pine thicket. He dropped to one knee and fired at the spot. Colt’s shot clipped a pine branch barely inches from Drummond’s face. Wanting no part of a duel with the prison-hardened young rifleman, Drummond almost stumbled over his own feet in his haste to escape. Stepping up in the saddle, he whipped the Appaloosa mercilessly as he galloped out the other side of the thicket. Colt ran back to his horse, and was soon in the saddle after him.

  Fear, cold choking fear, gripped Frank Drummond’s throat as he thrashed his horse for more speed. Caught in a position he had never experienced before— alone with no one to do his evil bidding—he was unable to decide what to do. He rejected his first instinct—to flee to his ranch—because of the thought of having to face alone the relentless killing machine that had decimated his band of outlaws in such workmanlike fashion. Daring to look behind him, he glimpsed the buckskin climbing up out of the series of gullies. It was enough to make him decide to head for town. There was enough of the bully’s confidence left in him to believe he could find safety among the men of the town council.

  Hard on his adversary’s trail, Colt let Buck dictate the pace. The buckskin sensed the race to be a serious one and needed no encouragement, but found the Appaloosa to be a worthy match. Consequently, Colt could gain no advantage, but neither could the Appaloosa increase the interval between the two horses. Racing down the length of Pronghorn Canyon, stride for stride, past the spot where Colt had been ambushed, Drummond held the horse to the demanding pace. Buck stayed doggedly on the Appaloosa’s tail until both horses, tiring rapidly, threatened to founder. With no other choice, Drummond took advantage of an outcropping of rocks within a couple of miles of the town.

  Pulling the weary horse to a stop, he jumped down from the saddle and led the Appaloosa up behind the largest of a group of boulders. With his rifle in hand, he scrambled up near the top of the boulder and waited for Colt. Colt, however, saw him disappear behind the rocks and guessed he had an ambush in mind. He picked a spot some two hundred yards from the boulder at the base of a low hill where Buck could rest safely. He had no sooner dismounted than shots from Drummond kicked up dirt on the top of the hill.

  Working his way around the brush that covered most of the hill, Colt found a dry wash that afforded a good firing position. Lying on his belly, he inched up close to the top and watched for Drummond’s rifle barrel to appear on the boulder. When it did, he fired two shots in rapid succession, chipping rock on either side of the rifle. Drummond immediately scampered down to find a new position. Drummond was not through running—Colt was sure of that. Knowing how tired Buck was, Colt figured Drummond had no choice but to stop. His only thought now was to keep him at bay, but Colt had other ideas. Spotting a stand of pines off to his right, he made a dash for them as soon as Drummond’s rifle had disappeared from the top of the boulder.

  Reaching the safety of the pines, Colt found that he had a better angle. He could almost see the whole pocket formed behind the boul
der, leaving Drummond exposed if he ventured too close to the outer edge. Drummond, unaware that Colt was no longer behind the hill, edged over closer to the side. He was met with a bullet so close to his head that the resulting chips of rock stung his face, leaving a series of tiny cuts. In a panic, he jumped back, crowding his huge body into the corner of the rocky angle. Colt could no longer see him, but he guessed that he could make it extremely hot for the big man in that tight pocket. Taking aim at the near wall, he methodically cranked shot after shot at the boulder.

  Pressing as tightly as he could into the corner where the two stone walls joined, Drummond was terrified as the bullets ricocheted from one side of his rocky tomb to the other, chipping off chunks of the walls while whining their deadly song—searching. Drummond feared that it was only a matter of time before one of the deadly hornets found him. Eyes wide with panic, he finally bolted from the boulders and scrambled back in the saddle. The Appaloosa was reluctant to run, but Drummond whipped the exhausted animal until it finally broke into a halfhearted gallop.

  Colt ran back to his horse, determined not to let Drummond escape. When he reached the weary buckskin, his better judgment overcame his desire for instant revenge. One look at Buck told him that his horse was spent. He turned to watch Drummond riding away, knowing that Buck would respond to his commands, even if it broke his wind—and Colt had no doubt that one more gallop would indeed cause the horse to founder. Taking the reins, he said, “Come on, boy,” and started toward town leading the horse.

  At the edge of town, after a walk of about thirty minutes, he came upon the Appaloosa standing rider-less by the blacksmith’s forge. Head down, the horse was done for, heaving as if trying to take double breaths, its wind broken.

  When his horse had refused to take another step, Drummond was forced to run from the edge of town. It was not something a man of his size was accustomed to, so it was a stark, red-faced man that burst into the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, searching the room with desperate eyes. “Where are they?” he panted, out of breath. “They’re always here. Where are they?”

  “Who?” Pearl asked. One look at the frantic owner of the Rocking-D Ranch was enough to discourage employment of her usual barbed remarks.

  “The goddamn town council!” Drummond roared impatiently as he stormed straight for the meeting room in back.

  “In the back room,” Pearl answered, “where they are every afternoon.” Never far away, her flippant tone returned as she figured surely everybody knew that.

  Having already heard him coming, all five members of the town council gaped at the door, surprised by the second unannounced visit by the dominating owner of the Rocking-D. This time, there was an obvious stressful condition displayed as Drummond burst into the room, rifle in hand. Struck silent by the frenzied look on the huge man’s face, no one said a word.

  “Get your guns ready!” Drummond commanded. “That murderer is on his way here. You’re all members of the sheriff’s posse now. When he comes in that door, we’re gonna shoot him down!”

  With everyone at the table properly stunned, only Roy Whitworth attempted to make a sound. “What . . . ?” was all he could manage at first. Never having seen the formidable Drummond in such a flustered state, Roy realized suddenly that it was fear he was seeing in the belligerent bully’s face. He didn’t know what to make of it. “Where’s the new sheriff and his posse?” he asked.

  “Dead!” Drummond exclaimed. “Dammit, that’s what I’ve been tellin’ you! He killed ’em all, and now we’ve got to stop him!” He waved his arms frantically toward the still-seated council members. “Get up, dammit, get a gun in your hand. We’ll meet him in the street.”

  “I don’t have a gun with me,” Raymond Fletcher offered weakly.

  “Me neither,” Oscar Anderson said.

  Backed against the wall, still holding the coffeepot in her hand, Mary Simmons watched horrified. She had just been in the process of filling the cups when Drummond charged in. Witnessing the rage building in his eyes at the lack of response from the men at the table, she feared, not only for them, but for Colt as well. She wanted to run from the room to warn him, but Drummond stood in the doorway.

  Always the one person less fearful than the others to speak up in Drummond’s presence, Barney Samuels said, “We ain’t members of no posse. I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but it ain’t up to the council to do anythin’ about it.”

  Anger, like lightning, flashed in Drummond’s eyes. He leveled his rifle at Barney. “You’re wearin’ a gun, and you’ll stand with me, or by God, I’ll shoot you down right here and now.” He motioned toward Turk Coolidge. “You’re wearin’ a sidearm, too, Coolidge. Get on your feet.” Using the barrel of his rifle to gesture, he motioned for them all to rise. Afraid not to, they all did as they were bade. Seeing their reluctance, he attempted to change his tone and appeal to their sense of community. “We’ll all stand together against this murderer before he destroys our homes and families.” He took a step back from the doorway. “Now let’s all go out in the street to face this convict and protect our town.”

  Like sheep, they all did as they were told, filing out of the room and walking to the front door. It was apparent to each one of them that they were seeing a vulnerability unseen in this tyrant before, but with his rifle leveled at them, no one wanted to be the one to object. To Barney Samuels, the prospect of being caught between Frank Drummond and Colt McCrae was a desperate place to be, a sentiment shared by the other four members of the council.

  “I know you’ve got guns in here, Anderson,” Drummond said, and stopped his reluctant squad at the door.

  Before Oscar could respond, Mary spoke up. “He’s got a shotgun and a pistol in the kitchen. I’ll get them.” She disappeared through the kitchen door. As quickly as she could, she ran past an astonished Pearl Murray and went to Oscar’s desk where he kept the weapons. Breaking the breech on his double-barrel shotgun, she pulled the shells out and closed it. Then she emptied the cartridges out of his revolver and hurried back to the front door where she handed a weapon to Oscar and Fletcher, receiving an incredulous look from Oscar. She stepped quickly back out of the way, bravely meeting the approving gaze of Frank Drummond. He, in turn, drew his revolver from the holster and gave it to Roy Whitworth, the only remaining member without a weapon.

  “Now we’ll show this bastard who owns this town,” he said and opened the door. “Just remember, I’m standin’ behind you with my rifle in case anybody gets rabbit’s feet,” he warned.

  Rounding the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, Colt stopped at the end of the street to discover a line of six armed men awaiting him in the street. In the middle, and slightly behind, Frank Drummond stood. He had evidently managed to organize another posse, this one with faces recognizable to Colt. The crowd that sent me to prison, was the thought that ran through his mind. It was a fitting ending to this drama that had cost him his father and ten years of his life. Once again, the odds were stacked against him. Well, so be it, he thought. I’ll damn sure get Drummond before I go down.

  Though fifty yards away, the line facing him looked less than committed. He immediately dismissed Fletcher and Anderson, as well as Roy Whitworth. When the shooting started, he counted on wild shots from all three of them, or none at all. At least, that’s what he hoped for. That left three to command most of his attention.

  His rifle in a ready position and cocked, he started walking toward the waiting firing squad, but stopped when he heard horses coming up behind him. Ready to defend himself from that quarter, he turned to see three riders coming toward him, the leader wearing a derby cocked to one side and held in place by a red bandanna tied under his chin.

  Suddenly experiencing a sick feeling deep in his stomach, Drummond realized the odds were no longer in his favor when Burt galloped into view, followed by Tom Mosley and Bill Wilkes. In a fit of panic, he shoved Roy Whitworth aside and took a wild shot at the man he had come to hate above all others. Reduced to total alarm, his relucta
nt posse bolted, all members running for their lives as Colt spun back, dropped to one knee, and returned fire.

  Drummond grunted with the impact of Colt’s rifle slug slamming deep into his chest, the force knocking him back a few steps. Looking down at the hole in his coat, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief, he lurched backward, looking around him for the support that had already deserted him. Overcome with fear when he saw Colt running toward him, he turned and staggered for safety inside the Whiskey Hill Kitchen.

  With vision already blurring and feeling his life draining from his body, he determined to take Colt McCrae with him. Stumbling drunkenly, he willed himself to remain on his feet long enough to hold on to the counter for support. Once behind the counter, he supported his rifle on it and aimed it at the door. Fighting to hold on to life long enough to complete this last evil deed, he waited for Colt to come through the door. As his shirt filled with blood, his sight became hazy, but he forced himself to focus on the door. He heard Colt’s footsteps on the boards of the porch, but in the next instant, everything went black and he crumpled to the floor. Behind him, Mary’s fingers vibrated from the impact of the heavy iron skillet against his skull.

  Frank Drummond never awakened from the blow that helped send him on his way to hell. Colt charged through the door seconds later to find a trembling young woman staring down at Drummond, terrified that he might get up again. Near the end of the counter, Pearl stood, a butcher knife in hand, eyes as wide as saucers. Colt quickly checked the body to make sure Drummond was dead, then turned to face the two women. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking at Mary. Still shaken, she nodded.

  “Yeah, we’re all right,” Pearl said, assuming he was concerned for them both. “Remind me to wash that damn skillet before we cook breakfast in the mornin’.”

  “He was going to shoot you when you came in the door,” Mary said, still trembling, her eyes wide in shock.