The King Hill War (7 page)

Then, suddenly, Morgan drew his pistol, drawing and firing so fast that those who were watching were barely able to make the transition between seeing the pistol in his holster and the pistol being fired in his hand.

As soon as he saw Morgan start his draw, Sheriff Majors pulled the trigger on both barrels of his shotgun, but it was too late. By the time he reacted to what he was seeing, it was over. The double-aught charges from his shotgun tore large, jagged holes in the floor of the saloon, even as the heavy bullet from Morgan’s gun was slamming into his heart.

Deputy Colmes was the most surprised man in the room. He had not even bothered to draw his pistol, believing that, since Majors had the drop on Morgan with a double-barreled shotgun, the situation was well in hand. He realized, too late, that he was wrong, because even as his pistol was clearing leather, Morgan’s second shot crashed into his forehead. Colmes went down, dead before his body hit the floor.

“I reckon you fellas all saw this,” Morgan said, his voice as deadly calm as if he had done nothing more that spill his drink. He pointed to the two bodies. “They drew on me first.”

“Of course they did. They was lawmen,” someone said. “They was here to arrest you.”

“Arrest me, or kill me?” Morgan said. “Did any of you see a warrant?”

“I didn’t see no warrant,” one of the saloon patrons said.

“Me neither. If you ask me, it was self-defense,” one of the others said.

“Are you crazy, Michael? It can’t be self-defense if they wasn’t doin’ no more than tryin’ to arrest him.”

“It was self-defense,” Michael said again, staring pointedly at his challenger.

It suddenly dawned on the challenger what Michael was saying.

“Oh, uh, yes,” he said. “Yes, now that I think about it, it
was
self-defense.”

The others in the saloon, catching on quickly to Michael’s lead, began agreeing that it surely was self-defense.

“I thought you boys would wind up seeing it my way,” Morgan said. Returning to his table, he very casually finished his beer, then walked out the door, totally unconcerned that anyone would dare challenge him, even from behind.

BACK AT THE MACGREGOR PLACE, THE ROOF HAD
been completed and Hawke was on the ground, getting ready to lower Ian.

“All right,” Ian called down. “I’ve got myself tied in. Lower away.”

Untying the rope, Hawke started letting it down hand over hand. But Ian was barely below the edge of the roof when the rope stopped.

“What is it?” Ian said. “Why aren’t you lowering me?”

“Something’s wrong,” Hawke told him. “The rope has gotten hung up. Can you get back on the roof?”

Ian reached for the edge of the roof but was unable to grab hold.

“No,” he called down.

Hawke jerked on the rope a few times but nothing happened.

“I see what it is,” Ian called down.

“What?”

“The rope is off the pulley up here. Maybe you can flip it and get it back on.”

Hawke flipped the rope several times, but without success.

“I can do it,” Hannah said.

It wasn’t until then that Hawke realized that both Hannah and her mother were standing just behind him, looking up anxiously.

“What?” Hawke asked.

“I can fix the rope,” Hannah said. “I can climb up there and put it back on the pulley.”

“No, Hannah, you can’t,” Cynthia said.

“Yes, I can,” Hannah insisted, and ran to the ladder.

“Hannah, no!” Cynthia called, but even as she called out, her daughter was scrambling up the ladder.

“Darlin’, you can’t reach that from the ladder,” Ian said. “Listen to your mama and go on back down.”

“I can do it, Papa,” Hannah insisted. She climbed onto the roof, then, lying on her stomach, inched out to the edge and strained for the rope. It was just beyond her reach.

“I told you, you can’t get it,” Ian said. “Now, go on back down before you fall.”

Hannah stretched a little farther, then felt herself sliding off the roof.

“Hannah, no!” Ian shouted.

Hannah grabbed the stanchion and hung from it for a long moment.

“I can get it now,” she said, and holding on with one hand, reached up and managed to loop the rope over the pulley.

“Ian, I’m going to let you down quickly,” Hawke
shouted. “Then I’m coming up for Hannah…. Hannah, hold on!”

Hawke let Ian down very fast, slowing only as he reached the ground. Ian wound up lying on there, unable to get up.

“I’m going to have to leave you there for a moment,” Hawke said. “Hannah, hang on, I’m coming!” he shouted.

“I can’t hold on much longer!” Hannah called down, her voice quivering now, in exhaustion and fear.

Hawke climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. Then, following the same path as Hannah, he lay on his stomach and worked his way down to the edge of the roof, just above the stanchion.

“Hurry, Mr. Hawke,” Hannah said, her voice showing the strain.

Hawke reached down to her, then wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Let go of the stanchion.”

“I…I can’t let go,” she said. “I can’t make my hands work.”

“All right, I’ll do all the work,” Hawke said.

He began pulling her up, but because he could only get one hand on her, and because he was at an angle where he had no leverage, he was lifting dead weight.

Down on the ground, Cynthia had run over to stand beside Ian, and now they both looked up anxiously as slowly, laboriously, Hawke pulled Hannah back onto the roof. Finally he had her up high enough where she could help herself, and she scrambled the rest of the way up onto the roof.

“Oh, you saved my life!” she said, hugging him tightly.

Hawke chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “I probably just saved you from breaking a leg.”

“Ha!” Ian shouted up from the ground. “Wouldn’t that be great now, with two of us having broken legs?”

“Come on in the house, you three,” Cynthia said with a sigh of relief. “I’ll make some lemonade for you.”

“Lemonade?” Ian said. “Well, now, that’ll be good enough for Hannah, but Hawke and I might want something a bit stronger.”

Cynthia chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.

Joshua Creed had planned to just glance through the newspaper then put it down, but an article on page three caught his attention.

Laying the newspaper aside, Morgan walked over to his liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a drink. He smiled as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat. This might be just the answer he was looking for.

Leaving the train at Thurman City, Joshua Creed boarded the riverboat
Horatio
for the thirty mile run up the Boise River.

“What time will we reach Boise City?” he asked as he stepped aboard the small stern-wheeler.

The purser looked at his watch. “If we don’t hit a sandbar or an underwater snag, we should be there by three o this afternoon,” he replied.

“What happens if we hit a sandbar or a snag?” Creed asked.

“Why, the boat blows up and we all die,” the purser answered with a high-pitched laugh.

“And how soon before the next boat comes back?”

“Mister, this
is
the next boat,” he said. “We’ll make the run back tomorrow, leaving at nine o. If you miss that one, you’ll have to wait two more days.”

“I’ll make tomorrow’s boat,” Creed said.

Creed climbed the stairway up to the hurricane deck. Because it was a warm day, he chose to sit outside and found a place on a bench near the railing.

The pilot signaled for the engine to be put into reverse, and down on the boiler deck, the engineers responded. Steam boomed out of the steam relief pipe like the firing of a cannon. The wheel began spinning backward as the boat pulled away from the dock, then it turned, with the wheel going downriver and the bow pointing upriver. The engine lever was slipped to full forward and the wheel began spinning in the other direction until it caught hold, overcame the force of current, and started pushing the boat upstream.

The riverboat hit no sandbar or underwater snag, and as the purser had told him, they did indeed arrive in Boise City in three hours time. Now, Joshua Creed looked up at the sign hanging in front of the building that read:
CLAY MORGAN DETECTIVE AGENCY.
He pushed the door open and went inside. A young man was sitting at a desk, making entries into a ledger. Creed paused for a moment, a little taken back over the youth of the detective.

“May I help you?” the young man asked.

“Are you Clay Morgan?”

The young man smiled. “No, I’m just one of his assistants. Mr. Morgan is here though, would you like to speak to him?”

“Yes.”

“May I tell him what it is about?”

“I would like to hire him,” Creed said.

“And your name, sir?”

“Creed. Joshua Creed.”

“Very good, Mr. Creed. Wait here for one moment.”

The young man went through a door and disappeared into the back of the building. As Creed waited, he looked around the office and saw scores of wanted posters on the wall. At first he thought they were all active posters, and then he saw that there were inscriptions on each one of them.

KILLED IN IDAHO CITY

KILLED IN LARAMIE

KILLED IN CHEYENE

KILLED IN DENVER

KILLED IN FLAGSTAFF

Nearly every poster he saw had the same resolution. The wanted man had been killed.

“Mr. Creed?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Morgan will see you now. Please go in.”

“Thanks.”

Clay Morgan was standing when Creed went into his office, and because he was, Creed could see that he was a big man. Morgan rubbed his finger across the purple scar on his face, then pointed at a chair.

“Have a seat, Mr. Creed,” he said. “I understand you want to hire me?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of job do you have in mind?”

“I represent a consortium of cattle ranchers down in Alturas County,” Creed said. “Recently, several sheep herders
have moved into the Camas Prairie. They are turning their sheep loose on the open range and that is destroying the grass for cattle.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Morgan asked.

“I want you to run them off.”

“And how would I do that?”

“I don’t know…whatever it takes, I suppose,” Creed said. “Mr. Morgan, I may have been misinformed about you. And if so, I’m wasting your time and mine.”

“What, exactly, were you told about me?” Morgan asked.

“I was told that you were very…efficient,” Creed said, struggling for the word. He pointed to the outer room. “On the wall back there, you have posters of dozens, perhaps scores, of men who were wanted. And on nearly all of them you indicated that they were killed. Is that true? Were they killed?”

“Yes.”

“Then you aren’t afraid to take…extreme…measures,” Creed said. He shook his head. “I don’t know, I thought you were just the man I was looking for. Perhaps I’m wrong.”

“Mr. Creed,” Morgan replied, “I will take extreme measures when such measures are warranted. But I must have some legal justification. In the case of every man out there, I was covered by the law.”

Creed smiled. “Oh, well if that’s all you need, you’ve got it,” he said.

“I have what?”

“Legal justification,” Creed said. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“What is that?” Morgan asked.

“It is a court order, demanding that the sheep herders stay out of the open range area.”

Morgan looked at the document for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, this I can work with.”

“Then you will work for us?”

“If the price is right,” Morgan replied.

“I’m sure we can come together on the price,” Creed said.

WHILE WAITING FOR THE MEETING TO START,
the visiting ranchers had gathered into conversational groupings to exchange pleasantries and information. When Creed said that the meeting was ready to start, the little groups broke up and everyone started looking for a place to sit.

When everyone was settled and quiet, Creed announced: “I called all of you together because we have a big problem on our hands. As I’m sure you know, the sheep herders pushed their sheep into the range last month. My son, Lonnie, and a few others rode out to see them and managed to…persuade…them to leave. I reckon you all know Lonnie.” He pointed to the tall, slim young man leaning against the wall, chewing on a piece of rawhide. Lonnie barely nodded in recognition of his father’s introduction.

A few of the ranchers, who had already heard the story as to how Lonnie persuaded the sheep herders, laughed.

“Joshua, I agree with you,” Rome Carlisle said. Although Creed’s ranch was the largest, Carlisle’s wasn’t far behind. “But the question I have is, what legal right do we have to keep them off the open range?”

“Rome, is that you talking or is it your son?” Jared Wilson asked.

Carlisle squinted at the man who had asked the question. “Just what are you talking about, Wilson?” he demanded.

“Everybody knows that Jesse is sweet on the little Macgregor girl,” Wilson said. “Seems to me like someone should show that boy where his home range is.”

“You leave my son out of this, Wilson,” Carlisle said. “If a pretty girl has turned his head, well, he’s only seventeen years old. It’s no big thing, and it is certainly none of your business.”

“Seems to me like it’s all of our business if it colors how you feel about runnin’ the sheep herders off.”

“Don’t get the wrong impression just because I want to know whether or not we’ve got the law on our side,” Carlisle said. “I want them out of here, same as all of you do. But I don’t want to wind up losing my ranch in some lawsuit, and I damn sure don’t want to go to jail.”

“Rome is right,” Creed said.

“What? What do you mean, Rome is right?” Wilson asked. “Hell, Creed, I thought you were the one putting all this together.”

Creed smiled broadly. “I am the one putting it together,” he said. “But Rome is right saying he wants it to be legal.” He held up a document. “What I have here is a court injunction, a legal order filed by Hodge Eckert on behalf of the United States government telling the sheep herders that they cannot use the open range.”

“Good man, Josh!” Dalton Fenton said. “How did you get that?”

“I hired Lawyer Gilmore to present our case to the judge, and he issued the order.”

“Well,” Carlisle said. “That ought to be the end of it, then.”

“Yes, well, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” Creed replied. “But it’s not going to be so easy. I don’t believe the sheep herders are going to turn and run. In fact I think it is just the opposite. They are going to fight us.”

“Well, how much of a fight can they actually make of it?” Dalt Fenton asked. “We average, what…at least ten cowboys apiece working for us? And there are twelve of us here. We have over one hundred men. What do they have? Twenty? Thirty, tops? And they are all Basque shepherds who won’t put up much of a fight.”

“Fenton is right,” one of the other cowboys said. “Let them put up a fight. We’ve got a court order, that means we have the law on our side.”

“It may not be as easy as all that,” Creed said. “They’ve hired themselves some help.”

“What are you talking about?” Carlisle asked.

“They’ve hired a man by the name of Mason Hawke. He’s a gunfighter.”

“Well, he can’t be much of a gunfighter,” Fenton said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Sheriff Tilghman has,” Creed said. “If you want to know more about him, just ask Tilghman.”

“Where is he now? What does he look like?” Carlisle asked.

“He’s staying with the Macgregors,” Creed said. “And from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t look very tough. But I suppose that’s one of the things that makes him so dangerous. He is a piano player, and he dresses rather like a fop.”

“Wait a minute, Pa,” Lonnie said, speaking up. “You aren’t talking about Fancy Dan, are you?”

“I am.”

Lonnie laughed. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle him for you.”

“Would that be the same Fancy Dan who took away your knife?” Jared Wilson asked, chuckling.

“He didn’t take away my knife,” Lonnie replied in quick anger.

“That ain’t the way I heard it,” Wilson replied.

“I was just havin’ some fun with him,” Lonnie said. “I was just playin’ around…I didn’t know he was goin’ to take it so serious. He would’ve never taken the knife if it had been for real.”

“If you say so, Lonnie,” Wilson said.

Lonnie pointed at the cattleman. “Maybe you’d like to take my knife away from me,” he said in a low, menacing voice.

The smile froze on Wilson’s face, and he looked around at the other cattlemen to see if anyone would come to his aide. Not one returned his glance.

“Well, Mr. Wilson,” Lonnie said, “shall we put it to the test?”

“Look here, Lonnie, I didn’t mean nothin’,” Wilson said. “I was just tellin’ what I heard, is all. Whoever told me must’ve got it wrong.”

“They did get it wrong,” Lonnie said.

“Calm down, Lonnie,” Creed said to his son. “Right now the important thing is to figure out what we are going to do about Mason Hawke.”

“What do you have in mind, Josh?” Fenton asked.

“I’m glad you asked that,” Creed replied. “Because I’ve already taken steps to handle the situation. I’ve hired Clay Morgan.”

“Clay Morgan? Do you mean the man they call the Regulator?” Rome Carlisle asked.

“That’s exactly who I mean.”

“Oh, Joshua, I don’t know,” Carlisle said. “That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Creed replied. “I’ve always believed in fighting fire with fire. They hired a gunfighter, we’ve hired a gunfighter.”

“What do you mean, we’ve hired him?” Carlisle asked. “Are you saying you’ve already done that?”

“Yes.”

“How much is this costing us?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars?” Wilson said. He whistled. “Isn’t that a little steep?”

“Not as steep as having all our cattle starve to death because of what the sheep have done to the grass,” Creed said.

“I don’t know. Fifteen hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“I’ll pay one thousand myself,” Creed said. “All you men will have to come up with is five hundred dollars.”

“Well, hell, five hundred?” Fenton said, brightening. “Yeah, we can do that. I know we can.”

“And another six hundred for the court injunction,” Creed added.

Over at the Carlisle Ranch, half a dozen cowboys were busy branding calves. Johnny Carlisle, the owner’s oldest son, was sitting on the upper rail of the corral, watching the operation. When one of the calves got loose, Jesse, his younger brother, leaped into the saddle and started after the calf at a gallop, twirling a lariat overhead.

“Run ’im down, Jesse, run ’im down!” one of the cowboys called.

Although he was only seventeen years old, Jesse was already known as the best rider on the ranch, and he showed
it now, guiding the cow pony with varying pressure from his knees, moving with the horse as gracefully as if they shared the same blood and musculature.

Jesse threw the loop and it fell easily over the calf’s head. Then, again only with pressure from his knees, he brought his pony to a dead stop, jerking the calf down when he reached the end of the rope.

The cowboys all applauded when Jesse came trotting back to the corral, the docile calf following alongside.

“Whooeee,” Ralph Day said. “I tell you true, there ain’t nobody in the whole territory of Idaho that can ride a horse like your little brother can.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty good with a horse, all right,” Johnny said. He spit out a stream of tobacco, then wiped the residue off his chin. “But he ain’t got the sense of a blind Chinaman when it comes to picking out his women.”

“You’re talking about that sheep herder’s daughter?” Ralph asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I cain’t really say as I blame him much,” Ralph said. “She’s a looker, that girl.”

“Yeah, well, if she was the Queen of Sheba herself, he ain’t got no business messin’ with her,” Johnny said.

Jesse jumped down from his pony as a couple of the other cowboys threw the calf then held a branding iron to it. The flesh singed and smoked, the calf bawled, and then, with the Rocking C brand shining brightly, it got up and hurried off.

“Hey, Jesse,” Ralph called. “It’s Saturday. Several different ones of us is goin’ into town after a mite. You want to go with us?”

“Yeah, I’ll go,” Jesse said.

“What are you goin’ for?” Johnny teased. “You know Pa won’t let you go to the saloon.”

“The saloon isn’t the only thing in town,” Jesse said. “There’s the Farmers and Ranchers Supply, there’s a couple of nice restaurants, there’s plenty of things to do in town.”

“Wait till you’re eighteen and Pa lets you go to the saloon,” Johnny said. “Then you won’t care a Johnny said. “Then you won’t care a whit ’bout goin’ to any of them other places.”

“When are we goin’?”

“Real soon,” Johnny said.

“Then I better get cleaned up.”

Ralph laughed. “Cleaned up? Hah! How’d you become such a dandy? Ol’ Johnny here don’t care if he looks like a hog in a waller when he goes into town.”

“Yeah, well, this is Saturday,” Johnny said, “which means all the sheep herders will be comin’ into town, and ol’ Jesse there has him a sheep herder’s daughter to get cleaned up for. Funny thing, she probably stinks so much of sheep shit, I don’t know why he bothers.”

“She doesn’t stink,” Jesse said.

“She doesn’t stink,” Johnny mocked.

“I don’t like it when you talk like that, Johnny.”

“You don’t like it huh? Well, little brother, seein’ as I got about four inches and thirty-five pounds on you, what are you goin’ to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Jesse admitted. “I was hoping to appeal to your good side, that’s all.”

Ralph laughed. “Good side? What makes you think Johnny has a good side?”

Playfully, Johnny hit Ralph on the shoulder. Then he looked back at Jesse.

“Little brother, one day it’s going to get down to nutcuttin’ time,” he said. “And when that happens, you’re going to have to choose sides between your family and the sheep herders. I hope you do the right thing.”