Range War in Whiskey Hill Read online

  Now, over nine years later, Colt thought about that morning as he peered out the window of the train when it gently rocked around the long curve before the straight shot into Cheyenne. There had been no trial to speak of and no lawyer for the defense. The four prisoners were marched before Judge Blake, who listened to the sheriff’s account of the crime, then promptly passed sentence. Joe Tucker was hanged on the spot. The crowd who had gathered to witness the trial wanted the other three to hang as well, but Judge Blake did not submit to their lust for punishment. Billy and Roy were sentenced to twenty years while Colt got ten.

  Thinking about that day now, Colt could not suppress a bitter smile as the train slowed down, passing the stockyards on the east side of town. He had no desire to return to Cheyenne, but his curiosity prompted him to peer with interest at the houses and stores that were not there nine years ago. If he had a choice, he might have remained on the train and continued on west to the foothills of the Laramie Mountains, where he had often gone as a boy to escape the monotony of ranch work. With no horse and no money other than the few dollars in his pocket, however, he felt forced to respond to his uncle’s request for help. In return, his uncle could provide the horse and rifle he would need to find his father’s killer. During the long lonely nights in prison he had held on to the image of the hills and mountains only a good day’s ride from Whiskey Hill. It was a land of gently rolling hills with low grassy meadows and steep granite formations that led to the mountains farther west.

  Screeching in protest, the train wheels came to a stop, and he stared out at the town he had last seen when he was shipped away to prison. There were two other passengers bound for Cheyenne, and he waited until they had made their way to the exit. In no hurry, he got to his feet and followed them down the aisle, carrying his earthly possessions in a tiny bundle tied with string. It was a long walk from Cheyenne to Whiskey Hill, a half day’s ride on a horse. Walking would take considerably longer, but he had no other means of transportation. Fortunately for him, a teamster driving a wagonload of supplies for Fletcher’s Dry Goods gave him a lift before he had walked a mile. It wasn’t much faster than walking, but it was easier on the feet.

  The time was only a little past noon when he hopped off the wagon at Fletcher’s store. It would take his uncle most of the morning to ride in from his ranch, so he had time to kill. Standing before the store, he looked up and down the street. A lot had changed since he had been away, but the Whiskey Hill Kitchen was still there next to the hotel, so he decided to spend most of the little bit of money he had on a meal.

  Chapter 2

  Mayor Roy Whitworth slid his coffee cup over to the edge of the table for Mary Simmons to refill. He paused to give the young half-Cheyenne waitress an approving smile before resuming his conversation with Raymond Fletcher. He was about to expound on his plans for his reelection campaign when he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Barney Samuels.

  Bursting through the door, Barney made straight for the little table in the back room where the town’s leading citizens routinely met for lunch. Seeing the mayor and Fletcher already seated at the table, he announced, “You ain’t gonna believe who I just saw get off a freighter’s wagon . . . at least who I think I saw.”

  “Who?” Roy Whitworth asked, not really that interested.

  Barney grinned, anticipating the reaction to his announcement. “Colt McCrae,” he said. “He looks a helluva lot different, but I swear it’s him.”

  As Barney expected, his statement caused both men at the table to suddenly sit upright. Whitworth hesitated to comment for a moment while he thought about it. “Hell, Barney,” he said, “you musta started drinking a little early today. Colt McCrae’s still in prison—won’t get out for some years yet.”

  “I ain’t had a drop today,” Barney replied, his grin expanding, pleased by the mayor’s reaction. “He’s been gone longer than you think, I reckon. I swear, if it ain’t him, it’s sure as hell his double, only this one’s a helluva lot bigger.”

  “What in hell would he want to come back here for?” the mayor asked. He was about to dismiss Barney’s claim as mistaken identity when the sheriff walked back, accompanied by the owner of the diner, Oscar Anderson. Whitworth turned his attention to the sheriff. “Say, J.D., Barney here thinks he saw Colt McCrae get off a wagon that just pulled into town. You hear anything about him coming back to Whiskey Hill?”

  J. D. Townsend grimaced and shook his head, not bothering to answer the mayor until he had seated himself at the table. “I expect he mighta seen McCrae. I got paper on him a week ago.”

  “A week ago?” Whitworth exploded. “And you didn’t say nothing about it?”

  “What the hell was I supposed to say?” the sheriff responded, obviously irritated by the grilling from His Honor, the mayor. “All it said was that he was released from prison. It didn’t say he was comin’ back here. Tell you the truth, I didn’t think he’d ever show his face here or in Cheyenne again. Ex-convicts generally go somewhere they ain’t known.”

  “Well, I expect it would be best if you told him to keep right on moving,” the mayor said. “We don’t need his kind in Whiskey Hill. We cleaned up this town eight years ago, and we sure as hell don’t need any jailbirds in our community.”

  Obviously perturbed, Townsend responded, “Well, Roy, I can’t lawfully tell him he can’t stay.”

  “But you can let him know he ain’t welcome,” Oscar Anderson interjected.

  “Well, of course I’ll have a talk with him,” J.D. said, still perturbed. “I expect he ain’t plannin’ to stay for long, anyway.” He paused while Oscar’s waitress placed a cup of coffee on the table before him. “Thanks, Mary,” he said, then continued. “Hell, it mighta not even been McCrae that Barney saw, anyway. It’s been nine years, and he wasn’t much more than a boy at the time.”

  “It was him,” Barney insisted, “and he sure as hell ain’t a boy now.”

  The topic of the back table’s discussion was at that moment standing before the door of the Whiskey Hill Kitchen, thinking of a time over ten years before when Oscar Anderson had thrown him out of the diner with instructions never to come back. The thought of it brought a thin smile to Colt’s face. He had probably earned Oscar’s wrath, although all he had tried to do at the time was buy some breakfast. He was promptly hustled out the door by the burly Anderson simply because Oscar didn’t want “his kind” in his establishment. He took a moment to count the money in his pocket to be sure he had enough left to buy a meal, then opened the door and entered.

  The place hadn’t changed much since the last time he had seen it, with the exception of a row of wooden booths along the far wall where a long table had been. He glanced around the open diner for a few seconds before walking over and seating himself in one of the new booths. He sat there for a minute or two before the waitress, a young girl, walked over to take his order.

  “What can I get you?” Mary Simmons asked. “You want the lunch special?”

  “Is it too late to order some breakfast?” Colt asked. “I just got in town, and what I’d really like is some scrambled eggs and bacon.” He didn’t express it, but he also thought that it would be fitting to be served the breakfast he had tried to buy when Oscar threw him out.

  “I didn’t think I’d seen you in here before,” Mary said. “Sure, you can get some eggs. Pearl will fix you breakfast any time of day.” She flashed a warm smile for his benefit. “You new in town, or just passin’ through?”

  Colt returned her smile as he took a moment to study her face. Dark hair and eyes, pretty in a wild way that suggested a strain of savage blood. If he had to guess, he would say that there was Indian blood somewhere along her family line. “I may stay for a while. I’m not sure yet. I used to live near here, but I’ve been away for a while.”

  “Well, welcome back,” Mary said. “I’ll get you some coffee.” She turned and went to the kitchen where Pearl Murray was busy filling up plates of meat loaf and potatoes for the table
in the back room. “I need an order of scrambled eggs and bacon,” Mary called out as she walked through the door.

  “The hell you do,” Pearl replied gruffly. “Who the hell for?”

  “Customer in the first booth,” Mary replied cheerfully, anticipating Pearl’s reaction to someone ordering something different than the lunch offering.

  “Why can’t he eat meat loaf like ever’body else?”

  “He said he just got in town, and I guess he missed breakfast,” Mary replied. “I told him sweet ol’ Pearl would be more than thrilled to fix him whatever he wants.” She graced the peevish cook with a wide grin. “Besides, he’s not bad looking.”

  “I shoulda known,” Pearl retorted. “It ain’t enough I got the town big shots in the back room. Now I’ve got to stop and fix some drifter breakfast.”

  Colt glanced up when Mary approached with a steaming mug of coffee. Placing it down before him, she slid into the booth across from him. “So, you’ve been away for a while,” she said. “What brings you back to Whiskey Hill?”

  “Came to see my uncle,” Colt replied, thinking that the girl was prone to ask a lot of questions.

  “Your uncle? Who would that be?”

  “Burt McCrae,” Colt answered, still wondering how far the girl’s curiosity was going to take her.

  “Oh, Burt,” she said. “I know him. He comes in once in a while when he’s in town. Vance, too. You know Vance?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Oh,” she replied, stopped for a moment by something in the back of her mind. She was relatively new in town, but she seemed to have heard something about Vance McCrae’s brother. At this moment, she was unable to recall just what it was.

  Since she seemed to have run out of questions, Colt asked one of his own. “Does Oscar Anderson still own this place?”

  “Yes. Do you wanna talk to him?”

  He laughed. “No, I just wondered. That’s all.”

  She remained there for an awkward moment while he sipped his coffee. He seemed nice enough—soft-spoken—but there was something guarded about his demeanor that made her wonder if she should be so friendly. “Well,” she suddenly stated, “I’ll go see about your breakfast.”

  “I was about to holler for you,” Pearl said when Mary returned to the kitchen. “You can take these dinners back to the big shots.” Just as she said it, Oscar joined them. “It’s comin’ now,” Pearl said to Oscar, anticipating his query.

  “I was wonderin’,” Oscar commented. He picked up a couple of the plates to help Mary.

  “What about my breakfast order?” Mary asked as she picked up the other two plates.

  “In a minute,” Pearl replied. She glanced at Oscar, grinning. “Mary’s got a new customer she’s shining up to.”

  “Who?” Oscar asked, ready to tease his waitress.

  “Some stranger,” Pearl replied.

  “He’s Vance McCrae’s brother,” Mary offered, then stopped abruptly to keep from bumping into Oscar, who had come to a sudden halt.

  “Where?” Oscar demanded. When told the stranger was in the first booth, he put the plates down and went to the pass-through window behind the counter. After staring at the man calmly drinking coffee for a long moment, he uttered a whispered “Jesus! It’s him, all right.” Remembering the wild, skinny boy, he found it a little unnerving to see the filled-out, solid version that was the man.

  “Oscar, what is it?” Mary asked, concerned by her employer’s obvious alarm. She and Pearl crowded in beside Oscar to stare at the man as well.

  Oscar turned to face them. “That man is Colt McCrae. He’s been in prison for the last nine years.” He directed his next remark at Mary. “Don’t go gettin’ friendly with the likes of him.”

  “He seemed nice enough,” Mary uttered in her defense, shaken by Oscar’s remark.

  “Them dinners is gettin’ cold,” Pearl reminded them, unconcerned with any threat from the stranger in the booth.

  “You mind yourself,” Oscar instructed Mary. “Feed him and get him outta here.” The thought of refusing him service was but a brief vesper across Oscar’s mind. He had no urge to confront the man he saw in the booth. He might still be harboring bad feelings about the last time he was in the diner. Reluctant to even glance in Colt’s direction, he hurried toward the back room just as Turk Coolidge, who owned the Plainsman Saloon, came in. He paused to let Mary precede him with the other two plates of food. Mary, however, could not resist sneaking another peek at the mysterious stranger in the first booth.

  As soon as he was inside the door, Oscar made his announcement. “Well, boys, Barney was right. Colt McCrae is settin’ in my front booth right now, pretty as you please.” As soon as he said it, all heads turned toward the door, although it was impossible to see the booths without actually stepping to the door.

  Mayor Whitworth was the first to speak out. “He’s got some brass, coming back here. Maybe you oughta go in there and arrest him, J.D.”

  “For what?” the sheriff responded.

  “I don’t know,” Whitworth shot back. “I don’t care. Make up something. Let him know he ain’t welcome around here.”

  Immediately defensive, the sheriff replied, “I told you I aim to talk to him. I can tell him it’s best to move on, but unless he breaks a law, I can’t do much more than that.”

  “Maybe it’s time to call up the old vigilance committee again if you can’t keep criminals out of town,” the mayor said.

  “There ain’t no cause for talk like that, Roy,” J.D. responded indignantly. “I do a damn good job of keeping the peace around here. I’ll have my eye on this jailbird, and the first time he steps outta line I’ll nail his hide to the wall.”

  Turk Coolidge, an interested bystander to the conversation to that point, made a suggestion. “It’s your establishment, Oscar. Why don’t you throw him out?”

  “Like J.D. said,” Oscar was quick to reply, “he ain’t done nothin’ to break the law, so it wouldn’t be right to throw him out without no reason. Now, if he was upsettin’ the customers or something, I’d throw his ass right out in the street.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Barney said with a chuckle.

  While the town’s leading citizens were debating the possible actions available to them to rid the town of this latest threat, the object of their conversation was contemplating a plate of scrambled eggs just set before him. He could not help but notice a change in the waitress’ expression as she refilled his coffee cup. Glancing beyond her toward the bar, he also noticed a woman’s face in the pass-through window. “These eggs really look good,” he commented, guessing that she must have discovered his past. “Tell the cook—what was her name, Pearl?—that I really appreciate it.”

  “I guess they didn’t care how they cooked ’em in prison, did they?” She couldn’t help herself. She just blurted it out. Embarrassed then, she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  He smiled. “Why not? It’s a fact. They looked like leather and tasted worse.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. She started to turn away, then hesitated. She sensed no threat of harm to come her way from this man. “What are you going to do, now that you’re back?” she suddenly asked.

  He glanced up to study her eyes for a moment before replying. “Rob banks, hold up trains, murder innocent people, I reckon. You know, the things that ex-convicts do.”

  She gave him a look a mother might cast upon a petulant child. “Well, the way they’re talking about you in the back room, I think that’s what they expect. You need anything else?”

  “One more cup of coffee,” he said. Then glancing up when the front door opened and a big man wearing a derby hat walked in, he added, “And maybe one for my uncle.”

  She stepped back as Colt untangled his long legs from the booth and stood to greet his uncle. Burt McCrae said a brief hello to Mary before stopping to scrutinize the man standing next to the booth. Struck speechless by the transformation of boy to
man, he just stood there for a long moment shaking his head in disbelief. When words finally returned, he said, “Damn, boy, I wouldn’ta known you if you didn’t look so much like your daddy in the face.”

  “How you doin’, Uncle Burt?” Colt replied, taking his uncle’s outstretched hand. He didn’t voice it, but his father’s brother had aged a great deal since he last saw him. The dark hair had turned almost completely gray, and the cheerful face he remembered as a boy was now lined with wrinkles, but he still wore the determined expression of a bulldog. The derby was weathered and faded from the Wyoming sun, but still cocked at a jaunty angle. The exterior was frayed and worn, but Colt suspected there was no change inside. “I’m glad to see you got my letter.”

  “Yeah, got it last week,” Burt replied. “Sorry the only letter I wrote you was one tellin’ you about your pa.”

  Colt smiled. “Hell, I was surprised to get that one. I didn’t think you could write.”

  Burt continued to look his nephew over from head to toe, astounded by the change. When Mary broke into his fixation to ask if he wanted coffee, he nodded, then slid into the booth opposite Colt. “Damn if it don’t look like prison life was good for you,” he said, his face breaking into a wide grin, much like the picture of his uncle that Colt remembered. “I swear, it’s good to see you. I’m just sorry you couldn’t have got out before your daddy was murdered. Those bastards . . .” he added, his words trailing off.

  “What bastards?” Colt prodded quietly.

  Burt shook his head in frustration. “Drummond’s men,” he answered. “Who did the shootin’? It’s hard to say, but there ain’t no doubt in my mind that it was by Drummond’s order. Course J. D. Townsend ain’t been able to find out who the shooter was, since he don’t as much as take a shit without askin’ Drummond where to put it. You know how your daddy was—he wasn’t about to roll over for Drummond like some of the other small ranchers did. And I ain’t, neither. I reckon I’ll be the next one on Drummond’s list of killin’s, ’cause I’m just as stubborn as your pa was. He’s gonna have to kill me to get my land. It’s Vance I’m worried about.” He paused briefly when Mary brought his coffee. “I’ve been losing a few head of cattle here and there, but Vance has lost more than I have. Not only cattle, he’s lost three of his regular cowhands. They just up and quit for no good reason, but I’ve got a pretty good idea some of Drummond’s scum has been puttin’ the fear of God in ’em. I’m afraid Vance is gonna knuckle under and sell out to Drummond, and if he does, that’s gonna cut me off from water.”