Range War in Whiskey Hill Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Light Sleeper

  The two assailants inched toward the fire, closer to Colt’s sleeping form. Lon watched closely for signs of movement, waving Brownie on as they stalked their intended victim.

  When they were about fifteen feet away, Lon suddenly split the stillness of the night, yelling, “Git up from there, sleepyhead!” and pumping two shots from his pistol into their victim. Without giving time for a response, both men dived upon the body, only to find they had attacked a blanket wrapped around a saddle.

  “What the hell?” Lon uttered. The next sound he heard was that of a Winchester cranking a cartridge into the chamber.

  Whirling around at once, Lon tried to get a shot off. But he wasn’t fast enough to counter Colt’s .44 slug, which shattered his sternum and sent him over on his back.

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, July 2008

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2008

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  For Ronda

  Chapter 1

  Like two old bulls, they stood eyeing each other. Two big men, determined and defiant, the gray-streaked manes of each bearing testament to a life of tests and survival. In Frank Drummond’s mind, this confrontation was to be the final one. It was the third time he had made an offer to buy out Sam McCrae’s Bar-M Ranch, a section of range that he needed and intended to have. Peaceful buyout or otherwise, his patience was exhausted. He figured he had gone as far as he intended with the stubborn old son of a bitch, and it was time for a showdown. “Well?” he demanded.

  “How many different ways do you have to hear the word no before you get it through that thick skull that you ain’t gettin’ the Bar-M?” Sam McCrae replied defiantly. “You and that gang of outlaws that work for you have scared most of the smaller ranchers out of the territory. You even got to Sessions last year, but by God, you ain’t gettin’ the Bar-M or the Broken-M. Me and my brother were here before you ever saw this valley, and we, by God, plan to be here after you’re gone. You’ve had your say now, so you can climb back in that buckboard and get the hell off my land.”

  Frank Drummond stood fuming, his heavy eyebrows glowering like dark storm clouds as he glared at Sam McCrae. Barely able to control his rage, he nevertheless spoke quietly but clearly. “You’ve gotten my final offer, McCrae. Now we’ll see who stays in this valley and who doesn’t.” He turned away and climbed back in his buckboard.

  Sam stood on the top step of his porch, a deep scowl etched across his weathered face, watching until the buckboard disappeared behind the cottonwoods at the bend of the creek. I hope to hell he finally believes he ain’t running me off my land, he thought. Drummond already owned all the land from the north bank of Lodgepole Creek to the stream that formed the boundary at the beginning of McCrae range. That wasn’t enough for Drummond. He wanted to control all the land between Lodgepole Creek and Whiskey Hill, more than fifteen miles of open range.

  The price Drummond had offered was a fraction of the value of the land between his spread and the free-flowing water of Crooked Creek. Even if the offered price had been reasonable, Sam had no intention of selling. He and his brother, Burt, who owned a spread adjacent to his, had first come to settle here when the town of Cheyenne was known as Crow Creek Crossing. There was plenty of land north of Crow Creek Crossing for everyone then. Sam and Burt weren’t the only settlers who claimed portions of the vast prairie convenient to the proposed Union Pacific Railroad line. There were a good many more, enough to establish a small town called Whiskey Hill, a halfday’s ride from Crow Creek Crossing. Drummond moved in a couple of years later with a crew of men more at home on wanted posters than tending cattle. His intentions were soon apparent; he was building a cattle empire, and he went about acquiring all the land one way or another. The smaller ranchers fell one by one; some sold out to Drummond at desperation prices and some had unfortunate accidents, and before long only the McCrae brothers and Walter Sessions had remained to stand between Drummond and Crooked Creek. Now Sessions had also knuckled under after too many cattle had gone missing or been found shot.

  With the completion of the railroad in November 1867, Crow Creek Crossing was renamed Cheyenne, and had already earned a reputation as one of the wildest towns in Wyoming Territory. The little town of Whiskey Hill naturally inherited some of Cheyenne’s undesirables. When the Union Pacific moved on to Laramie City, the construction workers and many of the riffraff that had contributed to Cheyenne’s sinful ways followed along. “I wish to hell Frank Drummond and his crowd had moved on with them,” Sam mumbled as he stepped down from the porch and turned to go to the barn.

  Vance should be back from the so
uth ridge before supper-time, Sam thought as he saddled the sorrel mare. I’d best ride up as far as the north fork to make sure we ain’t losing any more strays. It bothered him that he had to tell Vance to check the south ridge. His oldest son should have learned by now to think of it himself. Sam shook his head, perplexed by the thought. Vance showed no evidence of ever being able to take over the management of the ranch. “He needs a little more of his brother’s grit in him.”

  His muttered comment brought a familiar moment of regret to the gray-haired patriarch of the Bar-M spread. Vance’s younger brother, Colt, the fiery young mustang, was as different from Vance as night is from day, and Sam blamed himself for the distance between father and son. In looking back to find a reason, he regretfully admitted that it was probably because Colt was clearly his mother’s favorite. When Martha was taken by pneumonia, it seemed to change the thirteen-year -old boy. He missed his mother, and Sam knew he should have been more patient in his expectations for the boy to become a man. Colt seemed to be mad at the world for the senseless death of his mother, and consequently exhibited a show of resistance to any form of authority.

  Sam often thought about Colt while the boy was away these long years. He was convinced that if Colt had been allowed to sew his wild oats, he would eventually have settled down to run the ranch. “If if was a tater, we’d have somethin’ to eat,” Sam said, and sighed sadly. For Sam’s young firebrand son had been shipped off to prison at the age of eighteen, for a crime Sam faithfully believed the boy did not commit. Colt said he didn’t have anything to do with it, and reckless and wild as he had been, Colt had never been a liar. “Damn, I miss that boy,” Sam whispered as he guided the mare toward a path that led up to the ridge.

  His thoughts returned once more to Drummond. I’d better go over and tell Burt that Drummond was here again, he thought. “We’ll probably start missin’ some stock again.” He had barely gotten the words out when the stillness of the late afternoon was suddenly shattered by the sharp crack of a single rifle shot. Sam McCrae stiffened, then, without so much as a grunt, slid to the ground, a .44 slug embedded between his shoulder blades.

  “McCrae, you’ve got a letter.”

  Colt McCrae looked up, surprised. The last letter he had received was two years before, when his father had taken the time to write. “Who’s it from?” he asked.

  “Burt McCrae, it says on the envelope,” Bob Witcher replied, handing the letter through the bars. “Is that your daddy?”

  “Nope,” Colt answered. “That’s my uncle Burt.” His curiosity aroused by the unexpected letter, he hurriedly tore it open, fearing it must hold bad news. Uncle Burt was not one to write letters unless it was a dire necessity.

  Bob Witcher watched with interest. Of all the guards in the prison, Bob was the only one who had taken a personal interest in the solemn young man from Wyoming Territory. He had watched the hostile, wild-eyed kid develop from a skinny, tough-talking hothead into a soft-spoken man of few words. Bob had seen a strain of decency in the young prisoner, and after knowing him for a few years became convinced that Colt really was innocent of the crimes with which he had been charged. He liked to think that he had been influential in Colt’s maturing into a man. Aware of the bitterness festering in Colt’s soul, Witcher had spent quite a few hours talking to Colt about the evil erosion of a man’s mind when consumed with thoughts of vengeance. Over the years, as Colt grew in maturity, Witcher witnessed the silent strength of that maturity. There was little doubt, however, that the penitentiary’s prisoner work program had to be given credit for Colt’s physical development, turning the skinny boy into a prison-hardened man.

  Colt read his uncle’s letter; then, without comment or even a change of expression, he placed the letter on his cot. Witcher sensed a feeling of trouble. “Bad news?” he asked.

  His face void of emotion, Colt looked up and replied, “They killed my pa. Shot him in the back.”

  “Damn, son,” Bob responded, “that is bad news. Do they know who shot him?”

  “Yeah, they know,” Colt replied, his words soft and measured. “Uncle Burt says nobody saw it happen, but there ain’t any doubt who was behind it. Maybe they don’t know who pulled the trigger, but they damn sure know who ordered it done.”

  Witcher shook his head solemnly. “That is sorrowful news, but don’t you go gettin’ all riled up and have the warden order you into solitary for a few days. You don’t wanna add no time on your sentence when you’re this close to gettin’ out.” Witcher had seen it happen before when a prisoner received bad news from home that prompted an attempt to escape. It was the warden’s policy to impose a cool-down period until he was convinced the inmate was no longer inclined to attempt some fool scheme to run. It would be a shame in Colt’s case since the young man had only six months to go. Witcher cocked his head to one side, giving Colt a hard glance. “It’s against the rules, but I won’t report this to the warden if you’ll promise me you ain’t gonna do somethin’ stupid.”

  Still with no show of emotion, Colt said, “I ain’t gonna cause no trouble, Bob. I aim to do my time and leave this place in six months.” He picked up the letter again and gave it a brief glance. “Uncle Burt wants me to come back to Whiskey Hill when my time’s up. Says he and Vance need my help. There’s a ticket in here from Omaha to Cheyenne, but I’d have to make it to Omaha on my own.” He paused again. “Maybe I’ll think on it.”

  Bob nodded. He knew that Colt had not intended to return to Whiskey Hill when he was released, having had his fill of the community that had stripped him of almost ten years of his life. Although he thought he had a limited window into the man’s mind, Witcher could not know the depth of sadness the report of Colt’s father’s murder caused. Colt had never been especially close to his father. He was closer to his uncle Burt. Maybe it was because Burt McCrae’s nature was closer to that of the wild young boy who felt more at home in the foothills and mountains than on a cattle ranch. A sad smile formed on Colt’s face as he pictured his uncle—husky and rugged, bigger than life. Like Colt, Burt had been the black sheep of the family, a stark contrast to Colt’s father, who was a man of few words and steady as a rock. Colt wondered how the years had changed his uncle. Then he reminded himself that nothing outside an act of God could change Burt McCrae—he with his prized possession, a derby hat bought in Omaha, cocked jauntily to one side as he rode herd on his ranch hands.

  The coolness between Colt and his father was cause now for regret on the son’s part, for he felt it was his fault, and now the opportunity to atone for it was lost. It would have been better if he had been more like his brother. Then the gulf between him and his father might not have been so wide. Like his father and his uncle, Colt and Vance were miles apart as young boys. That, too, was a shame. Maybe now it could be fixed. As he had said, he would think on returning and bide his time.

  Six months after receiving his uncle’s letter, Colt McCrae stood outside Kansas State Penitentiary’s eighty-foot walls, a free man after having first entered the prison nine years, two months, and thirteen days before. He took a few cautious steps away from the wall and turned to look back at the harsh masonry that had sealed him off from the world. Gazing beyond the guard tower at the sky above, he saw dark, gunmetal gray clouds hanging over the walls, threatening rain, and could not help but remember that it had looked the same on that sorrowful day in his young life. He looked at Bob Witcher and permitted a nervous smile to form on his rugged face. The prison guard, who had become a friend, answered with a broad grin.

  “You take care of yourself,” Witcher said, extending his hand.

  “I will,” Colt answered, and turned to leave. He paused, turned back, and said, “Thanks, Bob.” Witcher nodded, then watched as the solemn young man from Wyoming walked toward town.

  It was August 1868 when he had been brought in chains to the godforsaken prison in Leavenworth County, along with two of his accused accomplices, Billy Watts and Roy Barnes. The third, Joe Tucker, who had actually s
hot the bank guard, had been hanged in Whiskey Hill.

  A skinny eighteen-year-old at the time, Colt was guilty of nothing more than having the wrong circle of friends. Joe, Billy, and Roy were all older than Colt, but they tolerated him and another boy his age, Ronnie Skinner. Fascinated by the three hoodlums’ big talk, Colt and Ronnie would while away countless hours hanging around the Plainsman Saloon, listening to their talk of cattle rustling and bank robberies that never came to pass. There were many times during the past nine years when Colt had wished he had taken his father’s advice and sought his formal education elsewhere.

  Although a wild and reckless boy, Colt was not dishonest, and for that reason he carried a nagging sense of guilt for not warning the sheriff about a planned robbery of the Bank of Whiskey Hill. In his defense, he had not been certain that it was not just more of Joe Tucker’s big talk. Ronnie was not so skeptical, and asked to go along on the robbery. It was Ronnie that Eunice Fletcher got a glimpse of on that fateful day as he held the horses behind the bank. But it was Colt who she pointed out in the courtroom. They looked enough alike to be mistaken for each other at a distance. Colt never expected Ronnie to step forward and confess, but he felt that when he got his day in court Mrs. Fletcher’s identification might not stand up to a good lawyer’s questioning. Actually she had seen Ronnie holding the horses from the back door of her husband’s dry goods store, over a hundred yards from the bank.

  Unfortunately for Colt, times were not favorable for fair trials back then. It was a time of wild and lawless behavior with the influx of the railroad construction crews and the riffraff that followed them—the gamblers, the outlaws, the saloons. It was too much to handle for the sheriff and his deputy. As a result, a vigilance committee was formed that was swift on punishment and not prone to lengthy trials. The bank guard named Joe Tucker as his killer before he died, and the Gunnysack Gang, as the vigilance committee was called, swept down on the three robbers while they were still counting the money at Tucker’s shack that evening. The fourth member of the gang, who held the horses out back, was not at the shack when the posse struck, but it didn’t matter. They had an eyewitness. Colt McCrae was arrested the next morning.