The King Hill War (2 page)

“You son of a bitch!” Angus shouted. “What right do you have interferin’ between me ’n’ my wife?”

Angus fired two more shots at Hawke as he dashed across the saloon toward the bar. One bullet hit the stove pipe, sending out a puff of soot to mix with the growing cloud of gun smoke. Another bullet crashed into the face of the big Regulator clock.

Hawke was not the only one running. With shouts and screams of alarm, everyone else in the saloon, men and women alike, were trying to get out of the way of the mad gunman’s bullets.

Angus’s fifth shot was fired just as Hawke leaped toward the bar. This shot hit a full whiskey glass that one of the patrons had abandoned in his own wild dash. The sixth shot, fired as Hawke rolled across the bar and onto the floor behind, hit the mirror, leaving several shards, which had the effect of multiplying all that was going on.

Hawke lay on the floor for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief that the sixth shot had been fired.

“I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch,” a low, raspy voice said.

Rising up, Hawke saw Angus Oates standing at the end of the bar. Angus’s left arm was hanging down by his side, his left hand curled around a smoking pistol. But it was his right hand that worried Hawke, for Oates had pulled a second pistol from the waistband of his pants.

“Oh, my God, he has a second gun!” the bartender said. It wasn’t until then that Hawke realized Ben was on the floor behind him.

“If you know any prayers, you better say ’em,” Angus said, pulling back the hammer on the Colt. 44.

Looking to his left, Hawke saw the shotgun that Ben always kept behind the bar. Grabbing it, he rolled back to his right just as the hammer fell on Angus’s .44. Angus’s bullet tore into the floor, sending a little shower of splinters into Hawke’s face.

Bringing the shotgun to bear, Hawke pulled both triggers. The roar of the two shells discharging at the same time was much louder than the pistol shots had been. The twin loads of ten-gauge double-aught buckshot opened up the gunman’s chest, driving him back through the window to crash out onto the porch in front of the saloon.

Hawke lay the gun down, stood up, and walked over to the window to look out at the body. One of Angus’s feet was on the windowsill, the other folded up beneath him. His chest looked as if someone had taken an axe to it. What was left of his heart and lungs were visible, as well as the white of his shattered rib cage.

“I’ll bet that feller don’t never try that no more,” Ben said from behind Hawke.

By now the others in the saloon, realizing that the danger had passed, were also coming over to have a look.
Several of them patted Hawke on the back, and nearly all congratulated him.

“What the hell happened here?” a gruff voice asked.

Looking toward the door, Hawke saw the sheriff coming in.

“It sounded like a war was going on.”

“Ask Oates,” one of the men said. “He’s the one come in a-blazin’ away.”

The sheriff walked over to the shattered window to look out at the body. Angus’s arms were thrown out to either side and both hands were clutching pistols. His mouth and one eye were open.

“Doesn’t look to me like Oates is going to do much talking,” the sheriff said.

“He come in here shootin’ all over the place,” Ben said.

“And before he done that, he beat up Elsie,” another said, and soon everyone was speaking at once, so that the effect was no more than a babble of voices.

“Hold on, hold on,” the sheriff said, holding up his hands to call for quiet. “Don’t all of you talk at once. What I want to know is, who was it shot the fella that’s layin’ out on the porch? It was obviously a shotgun, and I’m guessing it’s the one you keep under the bar. Did you do it, Ben?”

“I shot him,” Hawke said.

“You shot him? How did you get the shotgun?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Hawke said.

One of the patrons laughed. “Hawke, here, is the one that Oates come gunnin’ for. You should’a seen ol’ Hawke leap over the bar. Beat anything I ever seen.”

“Oates needed killin’, Sheriff,” Ben said.

“That’s the truth,” another added.

“All of you, keep quiet,” the sheriff said. “I want to hear the story from Mr. Hawke.”

“Do you mind if I listen in, Sheriff?” a small, bald
headed man asked. He was holding a pencil and pad. “I want to do the story for the newspaper.”

“I don’t mind,” the sheriff said. “So long as you don’t get in the way of my investigation.”

Ben put a drink in Hawke’s hand.

“Thanks,” Hawke said.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Ben said. “Ever’one in the saloon’s wantin’ to buy you one.”

“All right, Mr. Hawke, suppose you tell me what happened here,” the sheriff said.

Hawke took a sip of his drink. “The story has been told,” he said. “Oates came gunning for me, I was unarmed, so I borrowed Ben’s shotgun. That’s all there is to it.”

IAN MACGREGOR ROLLED A CIGARETTE AS HE
leaned against a cottonwood tree and looked out over the gently waving grassy plain that rolled out before him. Low swells of prairielike ground sloped down toward the south. Dark evergreen trees, few and far between, stood out prominently, and here and there on the prairie he saw clusters of red and gray rocks. Farther to the north, up the gradual slope, rose the Soldier Mountains, a ten-thousand-foot-high snowcapped range that loomed dark purple, its ten-mile-long wall stretching to the east and west, towering over the richly grassed Camas Valley.

To the west, the prairie rose in some ancient upheaval of the earth, ending in grooved walls, castellated cliffs, and gray escarpments. And in the middle of this vast panorama was a sea of wool, a flock of twenty-five hundred sheep, grazing on what was, officially, open land.

Before Ian could light his own cigarette, a match flared and Emerson Booker held the flame first under Ian’s cigarette, then his own. He took a puff, then spit out a loose bit of tobacco before he spoke.

Ian Macgregor was a sheep rancher, and he and the other sheep ranchers—Emerson Booker, Clem Douglass, Mark Patterson, Chris Dumey, Allen Cummings, Ed Wright, George Butrum, and Mitch Arnold—had combined their flocks for safety. They brought them onto the open range in a direct challenge to the cattlemen who had given them specific orders not to do so.

“You think anyone is going to show up to challenge us?”

“It’s more than likely someone will,” Ian answered. “Joshua Creed will see to that.”

“This is open range, but Creed has the cattlemen thinking it’s their own private grazing land,” Emerson said.

“Is everyone ready in case Creed and his crowd show up?” Ian asked the group.

“We’re all ready for him, Ian. It was a good idea you had for us to band together for this.”

“There’s no one of us who can hold off the cattlemen, but all of us together…” Ian let the sentence hang for a second. Then he continued. “Well, truth to tell, even if we are all together we can’t beat them in an all out war. But maybe if they see us all sticking together it will make them stop and think a bit before they do anything.”

At 100,000 acres, Joshua Creed’s Crown Ranch was not only the largest cattle spread in Alturas County, but one of the largest in Idaho. Lonnie, his son, had the same dark hair and eyes, but beyond that, was more like his mother; a narrow nose, high cheekbones, and a full mouth. There were times when Joshua thought his son might be too hand
some, almost to the point of looking effeminate. But that was only on first glance. There was something else about Lonnie, a manner and perpetual sneer, that more than offset his fair features.

Lonnie was sitting on the top rail of the corral, watching the cowboys saddle their horses. His hat was pushed back on his head and he was chewing on a small string of rawhide that dangled from his mouth. Even in this, there was a degree of arrogance to his demeanor that was almost palpable.

“Lonnie, we’re purt’ near ready to go,” said Asa Crawford, a cowboy who worked on the ranch.

“Is my horse saddled?” Lonnie asked.

“We saddled him up first off,” Asa said.

“Good. Let’s get this done.”

Lonnie put the little string of rawhide in his pocket and jumped down from the fence.

“You sure your pa is all right with this?” Asa asked as he walked with Lonnie toward the saddled horses.

Lonnie looked at Asa, and even in the darkness his eyes flashed with anger at being challenged.

“When are you goin’ to learn, Asa, that as far as you are concerned—as far as any of the cowboys who work on this ranch are concerned—whatever I say is the same as my father sayin’ it.”

“Don’t go gettin’ sore about it, Lonnie,” Asa said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s just that…well, I’ve been cowboyin’ for a long time, and I’ve been in more than a few range disputes. But I ain’t never killed another man’s livestock before. I mean, they’re just dumb critters that don’t really have no stake in whatever might have us riled.”

“They are sheep, Asa. Do you understand that? Sheep are about the lowest type of critter there is, and that bunch of sheep herders is runnin’ them on our land.”

“Well, it ain’t actual your land, Lonnie. I mean, from what I know, it’s open range for all the cattle.”

“That’s just it, Asa.
Cattle
,” Lonnie said, emphasizing the word. “Not sheep. Any cattle rancher is free to use that land. But ever’body knows that the sheep crop the grass so low there’s nothin’ left. And what’s more, the grass don’t grow back after sheep have grazed. You want all of Camas Prairie to turn into desert?”

“No,” Asa said. “I don’t want nothin’ like that.”

“Well, the only way we’re goin’ to keep that from happenin’ is to run the sheep off the grazin’ land. And if you can’t understand that, why then, maybe you should get yourself a job in town cleaning out stables at the livery, or sweeping the floor in the general store.”

Asa shook his head. “I ain’t never done nothin’ but cowboy, Lonnie. You know that. Hell, I was cowboyin’ for your pa when you was just a kid.”

“Then you, of all the people who ride for the Crown, should know what we are about tonight.”

“I reckon I do,” Lonnie said.

Most of the other cowboys were already mounted when Lonnie and Asa reached the horses. The two of them mounted as well, then Lonnie looked out over his riders.

“All right, boys, let’s ride.”

In the big house, Joshua Creed stood at the window watching as the riders left at a brisk trot. He was holding a glass of bourbon, and he lifted it to his lips as they passed under the gate that spelled out
CROWN RANCH
. Along with the name of the ranch, a large, iron crown was mounted above the gate.

Ian was talking to a couple of the other sheep ranchers when his Basque foreman, Tomas Gainza, came over to join them.

“There are riders coming our way, Señor Ian,” Tomas said.

Ian sighed. “Yeah,” he replied. “I expected it. I was hoping they wouldn’t, but I was expecting it. Which way are they coming from?”

“They are coming from the west, from Señor Creed’s ranch, just the way you said.”

“All right, boys,” Clem Douglass shouted to the others. “Get your guns ready.”

By now nearly everyone could see and hear the approaching riders.

“Damn, look at that!” Douglass said. “There are at least twenty of them.”

“Twenty,” Ian repeated and sighed. “I hadn’t really expected this. I didn’t think there would be more than five or six.”

“Ian, I don’t think we can fight twenty men,” Mark Patterson said.

“Maybe we won’t have to fight,” Ian said. “Maybe if they know we’re here, watching them, they’ll leave. I’m going to talk to them.”

“Ian, no!” Douglass warned. “They aren’t ridin’ in here like they’re wantin’ to talk.”

“Keep me covered,” Ian said as he mounted his horse.

“Señor Booker, I don’t like the looks of this,” Tomas said. “I don’t think Señor Ian should go out there.”

“His mind is made up,” Emerson Booker replied. “I don’t think anything we can say will stop him.”

“Lonnie, one of ’em’s ridin’ out here,” Asa called out, pointing to the lone rider who was approaching, holding up his hand to stop them. “It’s Ian Macgregor. Looks like he’s wantin’ to talk.”

“What are you doing out here, Macgregor?” Creed
shouted when they were close enough to hear each other.

“Tending the flock,” Ian answered, reining his horse.

“You have no right to be here. Get these stinking sheep off Crown Ranch land.”

“Lonnie, you and I both know this is open range,” Ian replied.

“This is open range for cattle,” Lonnie said. “Cattle, not sheep. This is your last chance. Get ’em off this range.”

“There’s grass enough here for all of us,” Ian replied.

“Start killing the sheep boys!” Lonnie shouted.

At his order, the riders with Lonnie began shooting into the sheep.

“No!” Ian yelled, and spurred his horse toward them.

“I warned you!” Lonnie said as Ian approached, and a moment later, shot his horse. The animal went down, trapping Ian under it.

Whooping and yelling, the cowboys rode at a gallop into the massed sheep while shooting into the woolly mass. Scores of sheep fell, while the rest, bleating in pain, terror, and confusion, began to run.

Among the sheep herders, Clem Douglass said, “Emerson! Should we shoot?”

“No!” Emerson replied, shaking his head. “We can’t take a chance on shooting, not with Ian out there.”

So the sheep men stood by, watching helplessly as the cowboys continued their senseless slaughter. The shooting didn’t stop until the panicked flock was more than a mile away and still running across the prairie.

“You bring them stinkin’ sheep back onto this pasture again,” Lonnie shouted, “and it won’t be just sheep that we shoot!” Then waving his hat and shouting to the others, he and his cowboys galloped away.

As the drumming of galloping horses receded in the distance, the dozen sheep herders stood in stunned silence
over what they had just witnessed, listening to the bleats of the dying sheep. The night air was redolent with the smell of gun smoke, dust, blood, and sheep excrement.

“How come Señor Ian hasn’t come back?” Tomas asked, his voice showing his concern.

“He must be hurt,” Emerson said. “Ian!” he called. “Ian, are you out there?”

“I’m here, boys,” Ian called back, his voice strained.

“Are you all right?”

“My horse fell on me,” Ian answered. “I think both of my legs are broken.”

“Come on, boys,” Emerson said. “We’ve got to get Ian back home.”

Sixteen-year-old Hannah Macgregor saw a wedge of light shining under her bedroom door. Thinking it strange to see a light this late at night, she got out of bed and padded, barefoot, into the parlor. Her mother was sitting in a rocking chair by a low-burning lantern, the same lantern that had projected the light under her door.

“Mama?”

Cynthia looked up when her daughter called. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I—” Hannah started, then changed in mid-sentence. “Mama, what are you doing up so late? Where’s Daddy? Is something wrong?”

“I’m…I’m very worried about your father,” Cynthia said.

“What is it? What’s wrong with him?” Hannah started toward her parents’ bedroom.

“He isn’t in there,” Cynthia called out.

“He isn’t? Where is he?”

“He and some of the other sheep ranchers are keeping watch over the flock out on the open range tonight.”

“The open range? Isn’t that the land the cattle ranchers say is theirs?”

Cynthia nodded. “They say it’s theirs, but it isn’t. It’s open range, and that means it belongs to anyone who wants to use it.”

“You think there’s going to be trouble, don’t you, Mama?”

Cynthia nodded, without replying.

“Why?” Hannah asked, approaching her mother. “I mean, why do the cattlemen hate us so?”

“Oh, honey, they don’t hate us.”

“I know that not all of them do,” Hannah said. “Jesse Carlisle doesn’t hate us. In fact, he’s very nice.”

“Yes, he is a nice young man, but…”

“But what?”

“Hannah, don’t get too taken with him. I mean, you’re still young, there will be plenty of other boys for you. There is no need for you to make a mistake so early in your life.”

“You are just saying that because his father is a cattle rancher and Papa is a sheep man,” Hannah said.

Cynthia sighed. “I suppose I am.”

“That’s not fair, Mama. I like Jesse, a lot. And I know that he likes me.”

“I know it isn’t fair, honey, but it’s life. And sometimes a person just has to make an accommodation with life.”

“What would you know about it, Mama,” Hannah asked. “You’ve got Papa. If I can’t have Jesse, I don’t have anyone.”

Cynthia chuckled, then put her arms around Hannah and pulled her daughter to her. “You are a very pretty girl, Hannah,” she said. “Trust me. You will have someone when the time is right.”

“It’s just that—” Hannah started to say, but was interrupted by the clattering of hoofbeats in front of the house.

“Mrs. Macgregor! Mrs. Macgregor, it’s Emerson Booker! Are you awake, ma’am?”

Carrying the lantern, Cynthia hurried to the front door and opened it. She saw several mounted men out front, nearly all of whom she recognized. Then her heart leaped to her throat.

She didn’t see Ian.

“Ian!” she gasped. “Where is Ian?”

“I’m here, Cynthia,” her husband said, his voice coming from the darkness.

“Where?”

“He’s behind my horse,” Emerson said.

“Behind your horse?”

“We had to make a travois to bring him back. He is injured, Mrs. Macgregor.”

“Injured? Oh, my God! Ian!” Cynthia called, hurrying outside.

“Don’t get all worried about it, Cynthia,” Ian said when his wife stood over him, looking down. “I just broke a couple of legs, is all.”

“A
couple
of legs? My God, Ian, all you have is a couple of legs.”

Cynthia’s comment struck Ian as funny, and he began laughing. The other men laughed with him, and seeing that Ian was in good spirits, Cynthia laughed as well.

“Mr. Booker, would you and a couple of men bring him inside, please?” she asked.

“Of course,” Booker said. “And by tomorrow morning I’ll have the doctor out here to see to his injuries.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia said.

Three days after Ian’s injury, Emerson Booker showed up at the house carrying a chair that had been fitted with wheels.

“What in tarnation is that?” Ian asked.

“It’s called a wheelchair,” Emerson said. “I ordered it from Denver.”

“A wheelchair?”

“Yes. What you do is sit in it and use your hands to roll the wheels. Watch, I’ll demonstrate.”

Emerson sat in the chair and rolled himself forward and backward. Then, stopping one wheel while rolling the other, he showed Ian how to change directions.

“What do you think?” he asked, getting up from the chair with a broad smile on his face.

“That’s great,” Ian said dryly. “How do I get it on a horse?”