Warbonnet Creek Read online

  Warbonnet Creek

  Trouble is looming along Warbonnet Creek between a powerful rancher named Marryat and the smaller cattlemen. Ned Hogan and his neighbours, the Caseys, are leading the opposition but they are up against Marryat’s hired gunmen and corrupt Sheriff Templeman, leaving them with no protection from the law.

  With his ranch house set on fire and a murderous rifleman hunting him, Hogan is forced to go into hiding. Who is this mysterious stranger and whom is he working for? Now Hogan must step outside the law before the killing ends and peace can return.

  By the same author

  Outlaw Vengeance

  Warbonnet Creek

  Greg Mitchell

  ROBERT HALE

  © Greg Mitchell 2006

  First published in Great Britain 2006

  ISBN: 978-0-7198-2361-9

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Greg Mitchell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Walter Hill probably never saw the man who killed him. The heavy bullet, fired from ambush, hit him squarely in the center of the chest and knocked him back over the rump of his startled horse. The killer knew that his aim had been true, and he did not approach his victim.

  Ned Hogan was saddling his horse prior to checking on his cattle when he heard the distant report of a heavy rifle. It differed from the flat sound of the Winchester .44/40, which most ranchers owned. Someone hunting, he told himself and thought no more about it until he heard a galloping horse on the hard-packed clay road that ran past his Rocking H ranch. He looked up to see a riderless pinto horse galloping toward him. He recognized it as one that belonged to his neighbor and hurried through the gate to stand in the horse’s path. The animal saw the man and slowed down. As Hogan extended his arms, it skidded to a stop.

  Speaking gently, he caught the horse’s bridle. The reins were knotted together, unlike the unjoined reins favored by working cowmen. They had fallen behind the saddle horn and remained there. Hill had arthritic hands and habitually knotted his reins together in case he should accidentally drop one.

  ‘You old devil,’ Hogan told the pinto. ‘You’ve taken off and left Walter to walk home. Took fright when he fired that shot, I suppose.’

  Still unsuspecting, he collected his own mount and led the pinto back along the trail. He was sure that he would find his neighbor cursing the runaway. Or he was until he came over a slight ridge and saw a still body on the ground in the distance. He had seen the awkward sprawl of a dead man before. Thoroughly alarmed, he urged his gray gelding into a canter, although instinct told him that it would not matter if he got there a few seconds later.

  As he dismounted beside the corpse he saw that there was nothing he could do. He turned the dead man over, and noticed a large exit wound in his back. The bullet had passed right through him.

  The only cover for the shooter was a clump of bushes about fifty yards away, and Hogan’s hand strayed to his hip where he usually carried a Colt .45. Too late he remembered that he had left the weapon in his ranch house. For all he knew, the killer could still be lurking there, seeking another victim.

  He plucked the dead man’s old Remington .44 from the holster and immediately stepped behind the sheltering bulk of his horse. But no shot came and after a while he knew that the murderer had left the scene.

  Walter Hill returned to his ranch tied across his horse with his own lariat. His two hands, George Hynes and Ed Corbett were replacing a broken corral rail but came running when they saw the pinto with its grim burden.

  Hynes got there first. ‘It’s the boss. What happened?’

  ‘I heard the shot and saw his horse coming down the road. When I went looking I found him dead on the trail. Somebody ambushed him,’ Hogan explained as he dismounted.

  Together the three men carried the body to the ranch house veranda.

  ‘Any sign of who did it?’ Corbett asked. He was a thin, stooped man who had worked on Hill’s ranch for several years.

  ‘I didn’t hang around as I didn’t have my gun with me and was not too keen on taking on a rifle with Walter’s old six-shooter. I’ll go back to my ranch and get one and I’ll bring back Juán Perez. We’ll see if we can find any tracks. It might be best if you fellows did what you could for Walter, and someone will need to ride to town and notify Sheriff Templeman.’

  Corbett growled. ‘That useless sonofabitch won’t be much help. He won’t do anything for us small ranchers. Marryat has him in his pocket.’

  Marryat owned the largest ranch in Warbonnet Creek and also ran the most stock on the open range. All the valley’s ranchers had stock that they grazed together on the open range.

  ‘Marryat’s always accusing us of being rustlers,’ Hynes said angrily. He was young and had little time for the district’s biggest rancher. ‘The boss reckoned he was behind that note he got the other day.’

  Hogan asked: ‘What note?’

  ‘It was in the mailbox,’ Corbett explained. ‘Said that Walter was a rustler and told him to get out of the valley. Walter thought it was just someone trying to scare him. It wasn’t signed or even in an envelope.’

  ‘Looks like somebody really had it in for him,’ Hogan said as he remounted. ‘I’ll pass the word to the Caseys and be back here soon with Perez.’

  Juán Perez was a wiry young man, half-Mexican, half-Indian. He had worked for Hogan for two years and had proved himself to be a top ranch hand. Though some of his neighbours did not trust half-breeds of any kind, Hogan had always found him to be very reliable. He was the rancher’s only permanent hand, although he would employ a couple more at round-up time.

  Perez was saddling a horse to go looking for him when the rancher rode up. ‘I was just going looking for you, Ned. I saw you take off up the road with Walter’s horse. What’s happening?’

  ‘Someone murdered Walter. I found him shot on the trail. I’ve just come home to get my gun. I’ll ride over and tell the Caseys. Be ready to ride in half an hour. We’ll see then if we can pick up any tracks.’ With those few words Hogan hurried inside and returned buckling on his gun belt. He mounted quickly, wheeled his horse, touched it lightly with the spurs and headed for the neighbouring ranch.

  Casey’s dogs were barking long before he reached the house. A female figure appeared at the door and Hogan hoped that it was Ellie Casey, but as he rode closer he saw that it was her mother, Jean. The older woman smiled as she saw the young rancher.

  ‘What brings you here in such a hurry, Ned?’

  ‘There’s been a murder, Jean. Someone shot Walter Hill.’

  ‘That’s awful. Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet but I’m going to where he was shot with Juán. If anyone can pick up the tracks he can. Is Mike about?’

  ‘What’s this about a murder?’ Ellie Casey appeared at the door. Her apron and hands were covered in flour but Hogan still thought that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The curly, light-brown hair and sparkling blue eyes always seemed to set his heart jumping.

  ‘Howdy, Ellie. I was just telling your mother that Walter Hill has been murdered. I found him shot on the trail. He never knew what hit him.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Mr Hill was such a nice man.’

  ‘Someone didn’t think so,’ her mother said. Turning to Ellie she asked: ‘Where did your father say he was going with the boys?’
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  ‘He said they were going to push any cattle out of Swampy Canyon; the water’s drying up there and the feed isn’t much good anyway. Then they were going along the ridges to see if any cattle were drifting into the badlands. I could ride out and find them.’

  ‘It might be best if you don’t,’ Hogan told her. ‘We don’t know what sort of person is running around out there. It’s best that you stay on your guard here. When Mike and the boys come back you can tell them what’s happened. When I find out more I’ll let you know.’

  He rode the mile and a half back to his own ranch where Perez was waiting with two horses. ‘You might want to change horses, Ned. Old Barney that you’re riding is getting on a bit. This bay horse might be better for a hard day.’

  Perez was right but Hogan begrudged the time spent changing his saddle and fixing a Winchester carbine in a leather boot to it. He wanted to be after Hill’s killer before the trail was too cold. He mounted quickly and the pair spurred for Hill’s ranch.

  They found Corbett waiting for them at the front gate. He too was wearing a six-gun and had a rifle on his saddle. ‘George has gone for the sheriff and there was nothing I could do for Walter, so I put him inside and will be riding with you.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ Hogan said. ‘I couldn’t get Mike Casey or his two boys.’

  The big patch of blood, like a dark shadow on the ground, clearly showed where Hill had fallen. Nothing was to be gained by studying that and Perez took the lead as they approached the bushes from where the killer had fired. He dismounted, passed his reins to Hogan and went forward carefully on foot.

  ‘He was lying up here, sighting his rifle through this bush,’ the half-breed called to them. ‘The ground’s scuffed about but it’s too hard to hold a decent track. My best bet is to see if I can find where he left his horse.’

  Fifty yards away they found an erosion gully and saw where a horse had been tied there out of sight.

  Perez shook his head. ‘He had a horse probably around the fifteen-hand mark. Its near hind hoof is slightly more triangular than it should be, but that’s common. Let’s see if we can find where it went.’

  They followed the tracks until they came to the main road to the town of Muddy Creek ten miles further to the north. There the prints left by horses, wagons and cattle made tracking impossible.

  They rode up both sides of the road for a couple of miles but found nothing new.

  Hogan told the others: ‘Looks like he got clear away and we can’t even tell which way he went.’

  ‘Riders coming.’ Corbett pointed down the road, then said in surprise: ‘Well I’ll be danged. It’s George and Sheriff Templeman.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no mistaking the sheriff. Every-thing about him was for show, from his big palomino horse to the pearl-handled Schofield revolver on his hip. The man himself was large and imposing, with slightly greying hair, a handsome face and an imperious manner. The expression on his face as he approached indicated that he was not pleased to see the men from Warbonnet Creek.

  ‘I met the sheriff half-way along the road,’ Hynes explained. ‘He was on his way out to see us.’

  ‘I’m looking for you, Hogan,’ the sheriff said.

  ‘Looks like your search is over, Sheriff. But for once I’m pleased to see you. No doubt George told you about the murder.’

  ‘He did. But I’ve also received a complaint about you. Mr Marryat said that you threatened him.’

  ‘I just told him that the next time he calls me a rustler I’m going to knock his teeth down his lying throat, but right now I reckon murder is a bit more important than Marryat’s cattle.’

  Templeman disagreed. ‘Marryat received a note yesterday telling him he would be killed if he didn’t sell up and get out of the area. He thinks you sent it.’

  ‘Like hell I did. My neighbour, Walter Hill got a similar note, too. Didn’t George tell you that? Walter’s dead now but I can assure you that I don’t go around shooting my friends.’ Hogan picked up his reins and said to Perez: ‘Time we were going home, Juán. Sheriff Templeman will take over now. If you want a statement from me, Sheriff, you know where to find me.’

  The riders were nearly home when they met Mike Casey and his eldest son, Tom. Both wore revolvers and had carbines on their saddles.

  ‘I heard about Walter,’ the older Casey said by way of greeting. ‘Did you find any sign of who killed him?’

  ‘Nothing really, Mike. We lost the killer’s horse-tracks on the town road. There was a fair bit of traffic and we couldn’t tell which way he went. Templeman has arrived now so I’ve left it to him.’

  Tom Casey snorted. ‘Templeman couldn’t track an elephant in snow if its trunk was bleeding. He won’t find anything. How did he get on the scene so quick?’

  Hogan laughed. ‘He was coming to see me about my exchanging pleasantries with Marryat. Now he has a bit of real work to do, he’ll get out of here as fast as he can.’

  ‘We saw Marryat this morning,’ Casey said seriously. ‘He had Ace Collins with him. He reckoned that someone sent him a note threatening his life.’

  Hogan frowned. Ace Collins was fast gaining a reputation as a gunfighter. He had killed a man in Muddy Creek only recently. Sheriff Templeman had been over-eager to see the killing as self-defence and rumour was that he was afraid to go against Collins. ‘I wonder if Collins had anything to do with Hill’s murder.’

  ‘It’s the sort of job he’s always looking for,’ Casey said. ‘But he was too far away from where Hill was shot. It couldn’t have been him.’

  They rode back together. The Caseys declined the offer of a cup of coffee at Hogan’s and continued down the road.

  Later that afternoon Hogan and Perez took a horn-saw and rode out onto the range seeking one of their cows that had a horn turning in towards its eye. Luckily she was a distinctive light roan and was easy to see among the other range cattle. It took a while to find the cow but eventually they sighted her.

  ‘There she is,’ Perez said as he unfastened his lariat. ‘I’ll take the hindlegs.’

  That arrangement suited Hogan because the half-breed was a master at throwing a heel catch.

  When she saw the riders approaching the cow took off, but she was no match for the horses. Hogan roped her around the neck and his horse sat back on its haunches while he dallied the rope around the saddle horn. The cow swung sideways but did not fall. As it struggled, Perez flicked his rope around both heels with an underhand throw and took up the slack. The cow fell on her side and the taut ropes held her stretched out on the ground. Hogan took the horn-saw from his saddle and hurried to the fallen animal. The horn was within half an inch of the cow’s eye and in time would have grown into it. Kneeling on her neck, Hogan worked quickly and cut off the tip of the horn so that the problem was fixed. He knew that the cow would not be feeling particularly grateful about the rough handling, so he removed the ropes cautiously and backed to where his horse stood waiting. He mounted just in time to avoid the charge that the animal made as soon as she regained her feet. The horse jumped sideways and the cow snorted, shook her head and trotted back to the rest of the grazing stock.

  Cattle of many brands were running together and would continue to do so until the fall round-up. Many of the cows had calves at foot and as he rode by one bunch, Hogan saw a calf wearing his brand. He checked his horse because he knew that he had not branded it. Another surprise awaited him when he saw that the mother cow wore Marryat’s brand.

  ‘Look here, Juán,’ he called. ‘Someone’s put my brand on one of Marryat’s calves. What in hell is going on around here?’

  ‘That is bad. It makes you look like a rustler. Some of the other ranchers have probably seen that calf already. This will be bad for your reputation and it will give Templeman an excuse to arrest you for rustling. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘There’s only one thing I can do. I have to see Marryat. Much as I dislike him I’ll have to come to some sort of arra
ngement about it. We’ll go there now. I think someone has set me up. That cow was a very distinctive colour and would be easy to spot later. Let’s look at a few more odd-coloured ones on the way to Marryat’s.’

  The Marryat ranch was actually over a range of hills from Warbonnet Creek. On the ride there Hogan and Perez discovered three more distinctively coloured cows with calves wearing the Rocking H brand.

  It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at Marryat’s front gate. The big, sprawling ranch house with its barn and corrals was set back about half a mile from the entrance.

  ‘Marryat gets a good view of any visitors,’ Perez observed.

  They were fifty yards from the buildings when the slight figure of the rancher appeared on the veranda. A larger man stood beside him. There was no mistaking Ace Collins. He was above medium height with a big nose and narrow eyes. He wore a neatly trimmed moustache and clothes that were too clean for a working cowhand. In an area where most men carried one gun, which they used rarely, Collins wore two. He was scowling as he recognized the visitor.

  Marryat’s greeting was far from friendly. ‘What are you doing here, Hogan?’ His voice was nervous.

  ‘I just found some calves that someone had been using a running-iron on. It was my brand but the cows were yours. I don’t know who did it but it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I’m damn sure I wouldn’t give away my calves. You’re the only one who would profit from such a deal, Hogan.’

  ‘I don’t see any advantage in that sort of deal. I think someone is trying to set me up as a rustler. The cows are all easy to see and a rustler normally would not be that stupid. None of the calves I saw will be weaned by round-up time and I won’t dispute their ownership but if that doesn’t suit you we could always rope them on the open range and brand a bar through my brand. I know that open-range branding is not popular because it encourages rustling but this is a special case and I’ll do things any way that suits you.’