Ambush at Dry Bone Gulch Read online

  Before calling it a night, Williams decided to check out the Black Widow saloon on the way back to his office. It was a grubby dive whose owner and patrons regarded lawmen as an annoyance and inconvenience. The place obviously attracted drifters, rustlers and outlaws.

  O’Toole, a burly Irish bartender, scowled from behind a rough-sawed plank bar as Williams ducked around the single batwing door. The other side had been torn from its hinges a month ago in a brawl and never replaced. He winced at the near overpowering smell of unwashed bodies and cheap liquor along with a haze of tobacco smoke that obscured the other end of the room, “Howdy, O’Toole. Just checkin’ to see how things are going.”

  The bartender straightened up and faced Williams his large beefy hands rested on the bar palms down. “How the hell do you think things are goin’? Worse since you walked in.”

  O’Toole, a brawler and bully, had beaten up a cowboy for complaining about watered down drinks a few months ago when the sheriff broke it up. The bartender then turned on Williams who gave him a good thrashing in a short but vicious bare knuckle fight. Unfortunately, O’Toole found out the hard way that Williams was the 1865 pugilist champion in Union General J. H. Wilson’s cavalry corps while they were fighting their way through Tennessee.

  Although there was no love lost between them, the bartender grudgingly shared range talk and provided a few tips now and then that had helped the sheriff keep track of hard cases riding through.

  Williams grinned at O’Toole’s bravado knowing that it was mostly a show for the customers and lowered his voice. “Just checkin’ on what the talk is over Crawley getting killed. Anyone upset about it?”

  “Naw, most of my customers could care less, though I did hear of a couple of locals talking about how his cows may be easy pickings right now. Look for an inside job if a bunch of cows come up missing.”

  “Obliged.” Williams said. Then loud enough for all to hear as he backed toward to door, “Warning ya, O’Tool, keep cutting that rot gut you sell for whiskey and I’ll have to shut ya down.”

  “Go to hell, Williams, you can’t prove nothing,” the bartender growled putting on a fierce scowl.

  Inside job. That’s interesting that some local hard cases think they can take advantage of Crawley’s death to make off with some of his prize stock. Well, we’ll have to keep an eye peeled for that, Williams thought as he continued up Main to see if Nellie saved him any grub. A few wind driven rain drops splattered in the dry dirt as the front passed over the area bringing with it the smell of sage and cows.

  Nellie was busy cleaning up when Williams ducked in out of the dust and rain. “You’re lucky. I was able to save a slice of pie and still have some hot coffee,” she said disappearing into the kitchen.

  Williams dropped into a chair and pulled several letters out of his vest pocket the stage had dropped off earlier. He hadn’t had a chance to look through them in the excitement of Walsh stumbling in with Crawley’s body. A telegram mixed in with the letters caught his attention. He unfolded the telegram noting that it was from Department of the Columbia, U.S. Army, General Howard’s command. He scanned the brief message informing him that about a hundred Bannocks jumped the Fort Hall Reservation. Some marauders may be headed south in his direction and to be on the lookout. Just what I need right now, more problems. There’s not much I can do about it until tomorrow. Even then all I can do is warn the ranchers to stay alert and keep a loaded rifle handy. They probably won’t get this far south anyway, he thought re-folding the telegram.

  Nellie returned bringing a generous slice of pie, a mug of steaming Arbuckle and cup of tea for herself. “You’re scowling, anything serious?”

  “Na, just got word a bunch of renegade Bannocks may be headed this way, and Silvia and her cowhands will be riding in here tomorrow,” Williams said trying to relax and enjoy a few hard-to-come-by minutes with Nellie.

  Chapter 3

  A nearly full moon helped Justin navigate the faint 25 mile wagon track to Crawley’s ranch in about six grueling hours. That he had been over the route several times riding out to see Jenny also helped, otherwise rough terrain would have made the ride much longer. Normally he would relish an opportunity to advance his growing friendship with Jenny, but not this time.

  Justin reined in his horse on a low rise overlooking the ranch. I would rather take a direct hit from a spraying polecat than give Mrs. Crawley and Jenny this bad news, he thought glumly staring down on the ranch buildings casting stark, black shadows in the bright moonlight. After a few moments, he came to grips with the job he had to do knowing that stalling wasn’t going to make it go away. Reluctantly, he spurred his horse toward the ranch buildings.

  Two barking Irish wolfhounds bounded from the shadows of an out building as Justin rode up to the two-story main house. He whistled and called softly to the dogs; they became less aggressive, but still continued to bark and make a ruckus.

  Justin slipped out the saddle and started toward the house when a voice from the shadows near a cattle loading chute said menacingly, “Hold it right there, stranger, I’ve got you covered; both barrels loaded with double ought.”

  “It’s all right. I’m Justin, deputy marshal from Henryville. I’ve got some bad news for Mrs. Crawley.”

  “Suppose you mosey over here in the moonlight so I can take a look at ya...”

  Justin did as ordered and recognized the shotgun-toting form that emerged from the shadows as Jonas, the ranch foreman. Just then a light flared in the bottom floor of the house when someone lit an oil lamp.

  “Up kinda late ain’t ya,” said Jonas as he led the way toward a wide front porch that wrapped around three sides of the structure. “For a moment, I thought you and Jenny was going to elope you coming around this late...you say you got bad news for Mrs. Crawley?”

  Justin winced at the mention of eloping. Too bad that isn’t the case. Not that I ain’t trying... he thought feeling his face grow warm and his collar a little tight at the thought.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Justin as he followed Jonas. After a couple of raps on the door into a Victorian decorated parlor, they stopped and removed their spurs before going further. An ironclad rule that if forgotten would bring Mrs. Crawley’s wrath down instantly on any hapless rider who forgot.

  A Mexican woman lit a second lamp as Silvia Crawley descended the wide curving staircase tying a flower print silk wrap around her slender form. “Juanita, what’s happening...why are the dogs barking up a storm?” She then spotted Jonas and Justin glumly standing by the door hats in hand.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but the sheriff ordered me to ride out here tonight to tell you your husband has been killed,” Justin said awkwardly not knowing how to convey the bad news any other way than to blurt it straight out.

  Silvia gasped and turned pale. “Oh no, it can’t be,” she wailed. “Randal is supposed to be in Fort Laramie...he’s not due back for another week. How can this be – are you sure? What happened?” She collapsed onto a red velvet settee, hands covering her face.

  “Mother, what’s wrong?” A voice echoed from top of the staircase as an attractive lass with auburn hair in braids bounded down. She jerked to a stop at the bottom and her eyes widened in alarm when she noticed two men standing in the entrance. Recognizing them, she relaxed slightly. “Justin, what are you doing here this time of night?”

  “Sorry, Jenny, I just rode in with bad news...Randal has been killed.”

  “What! Are you sure? How can you know? He’s in Fort Laramie,” Jenny cried as she rushed to her mother who sat rocking from side to side sobbing.

  Both women clung to each other as they attempted to absorb the news and grapple with the shock. After several minutes, Silvia regained her composure enough to ask Justin what happened. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing her and related how a man brought in her husband’s body claiming Randal had ambushed him in Dry Bone gulch.

  “The man claimed he had acted in self-defense and had no idea why Randal or anyone else
would want to kill him. That’s all I heard before Sheriff Williams told me to high-tail it out here to fetch you,” he said shifting his gaze from Silvia to Jenny. “We need to start back at first light. If it’s all right, I’ll catch a couple of hours of shut eye in the bunk house.”

  “Of course, anything else you need let us know,” Silvia said dabbing at her red and puffy eyes while trying to manage a faint smile.

  Jenny went over to Justin and put her hand on his arm. “I’ll walk you to the bunkhouse. You’ll need some blankets. Can Juanita get you something to eat? You must be starving after that long ride.”

  “Naw, too worked up to be hungry. Just need to catch some shut-eye if we’re going to leave as soon as we can see the trail.”

  Justin untied his horse, and he and Jenny led it silently toward the horse barn a couple of hundred feet away from the main house and easily visible in the bright moonlight. “I really feel bad coming out here in the middle of the night toting such bad news.”

  “Don’t feel bad; Mother and I do appreciate you riding out like you did. Do you know anything more about what happened?”

  “Not really, Williams had the cowpuncher who brought Randal in sitting at his desk when I left. Hopefully he’ll squeeze the lowdown on what really happened out of him by the time we get there tomorrow.”

  While Justin gave his horse a quick rubdown and a double handful of oats, Jenny tip-toed into the bunkhouse and lit a lamp. She retrieved a couple of heavy wool blankets from an overhead shelf and spread them over an empty bunk. Starting to tip-toe out, she decided that was not necessary. Gee, I could have ridden my horse through here and these snoring cowhands would never hear me, Jenny thought with a grin.

  She met Justin halfway between the barn and bunkhouse and squeezed his arm. “Good luck sleeping in there, deputy. It’s noisier than pond full of bullfrogs...see ya in the morning.”

  Although Jenny knew Justin was sweet on her and would have liked to turn their friendship into something more serious, she wasn’t sure she wanted to make that leap. To most of the gals in the valley, he was a prime catch, but for her the spark hadn’t burst into flame yet, much to her mother’s annoyance.

  Mountain peaks east of the ranch slowly became visible against the night sky as dawn approached. Cold air currents carried the pungent smell of sage intensified by higher pre-dawn humidity or— depending on direction— the pungent, earthy smell of cow and horse manure.

  Jonas stepped out of the bunkhouse, breathed in deeply the smell of sage and pulled out tobacco makings as he meandered toward the corrals. He enjoyed these moments when the eastern horizon started to lighten and rolled a Bull Durham for a quiet smoke before he rousted out the ranch hands.

  Leaning against the corral railing, Jonas got an uncomfortable feeling as he ran down in his mind what they would need to take along. A sheepherder passing through a few days ago had told him that he heard renegade Bannocks had jumped the reservation. A group had been spotted further north in Grass Valley and may be raiding south. Well, not much we can do about it but keep alert and take a few extra rifles along, he thought flipping his cigarette butt into the corral.

  Jonas rolled a two-seat surrey out of the horse barn and hitched up two matched bay Morgans, drove the surrey over to the bunkhouse and set the brake. He purposely let the door slam as he entered, stomped over and kicked the pine log double decker bed frame, “Come on, Justin. If we wait for you to wake up, we won’t get out of here till noon.”

  Groans and cussing came from the other half dozen hands rudely awakened, but Jonas showed no mercy. “C’mon you bow-legged, lazy-assed monkeys, let’s shake a leg. The sun’s gonna be shinin’ in yer eyes soon. Oh...and I need to tell ya that Justin rode in late last night from Henryville and said that some cowpoke brought in Randal over a saddle. Claimed he was ambushed and defended himself. Me and Justin is taking Mrs. Crawley and Jenny to town in the surrey. We’ll have to cut through Squaw canyon with the surrey, but the rest of ya can make better time on horseback skirting around the foothills and meet us in town.”

  Dead silence followed Jonas’ announcement. Ruddy groggily swung his feet onto the rough plank floor. “Ya saying someone killed Mr. Crawley and took his body to Henryville?

  “That’s the story Justin rode out with late last night.”

  Ruddy now wide awake stared at Jonas in disbelief. The other cowhands, also now wide awake, struggled to digest the news of their boss’s death. Shock slowly turned to anger which turned to let’s-go-string-up-the-killer-before-he-gets-away talk.

  Ruddy stood up. “How many hands do you think we’ll need to take along to string this son-of-a-bitch up?”

  Jonas hitched his unbelt up and tightened the buckle a couple of notches. “Well, I don’t want to interfere with the law. We don’t know what happened yet, but we do need a good showin’, about eight or ten of our riders should do it. Don’t know if Mrs. Crawley wants to bury him in town or bring him back to the ranch. Have to see how it goes. Get some breakfast in ya, and we’ll meet in town.”

  Lights already showed through several windows in the main house. The women were up and preparing for a long ride fixing baskets of food. Jonas knocked softly, removed his spurs and entered. He made his way through the parlor to a library with a gun cabinet along one wall. He selected two Winchester ‘73s and three boxes of 44-40 cartridges along with a new Greener double 10 gauge shotgun in a hard case. He was about to close the cabinet doors, when he noticed that a custom .45-70 Sharps rifle was missing. Odd, he thought, that was Randal’s favorite rifle and he hunted deer and elk with it whenever we went out. I didn’t know he took that with him when he left for Laramie. It’s not a rifle that’s easy to travel with. He dismissed the thought with a shrug and turned his attention to more immediate needs.

  Justin drove the surrey around to the front of the house and Jonas met it with the extra guns and cartridge boxes.

  “What’s with the extra rifles, Jonas? Expecting big trouble?”

  “Just a rumor that the Bannocks and Shoshones are pretty stewed over something. A sheepman riding through a couple of days ago said Chief Buffalo Horn and few dozen bucks had jumped the reservation and killed two herders up North. Probably nothing between here and Henryville, but ya can’t be too careful.”

  Justin nodded his agreement as Jenny and Silvia stepped out of the house with their baskets. He hastened over to help them giving Jenny a big smile. “You two look chipper this morning. I’ve put a couple of buffalo robes in the back seat. It’ll be pretty chilly until the sun comes up.”

  With everyone and everything loaded, Jonas climbed into the driver’s seat, released the brake and gave the reins a flip. Two matched, well-trained bays needed no more urging and set out with a smooth gait across a valley that was now mostly Crawley range.

  Crawley’s ranch with its Circle C brand sat in the middle of a large oval valley. Steep mountains and peaks that taper into foothills formed the valley’s eastern side while slightly lower hills marked the north and south boundaries. Until six years ago, several small ranches also operated in the valley, but Crawley convinced the owners to sell out to him giving him over 7,000 connected acres. Several small year-around streams fed from snow packs and run-off made the ranch especially valuable because it was possible to grow and store hay to carry a good number of cattle through a bad winter.

  A primitive wagon road to Henryville tracked due north about ten miles to some low mountains and foothills. It then climbed over 1,500 feet on a series of switch backs to a wide notch or saddle between two steep mountains. From the saddle’s summit, the track entered an old stream bed where yearly flood water had cut a steep-sided canyon through basalt rock. Squaw Canyon – as the locals called it – emptied into Henry Valley. From the canyon mouth it was a dusty, sometimes axle breaking ride of nine miles through washes, sage and rabbit brush covered flats to town.

  The horses made good time as the eastern sky changed from dark grey to light grey to brilliant yellows and orange
s of a fair-weather sunrise. Cold valley air quickly dissipated once the sun rose above the mountains and temperatures climbed quickly. Buffalo robes were stored and the ride became slightly more enjoyable.

  About mid morning, they arrived at the northern foothills and paused to stretch and walk around before starting a long slow climb to a saddle high above the valley floor. “Once we make the saddle, we better give the horses some rest and water before we start down the wash,” Jonas said as he removed his dusty slouch hat and wiped his brow with a once-red bandana that had faded to a light pink.

  The sun was at its zenith when they climbed the last switchback to a small grassy area on the saddle with a grove of cottonwoods growing at the mouth of the wash. Jonas unhitched the horses, found a small pool from a recent storm and let them drink. He tethered the horses in a patch of grass and strolled back toward the wagon.

  Jonas hadn’t gone more than a few steps till a tiny refection off an object in the rocks halfway up a side hill caught his eye. He kept walking nonchalantly a few more yards then slipped into a small stand of pinions. Hidden in their shadows, Jonas studied the side hill where he saw the reflection. He knew that it was unlikely whatever he saw was nature caused. He waited looking for more movement or anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly a pair of blue grouse flushed from a small stand of pines close to where he had seen the reflection. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as old memories and experience took over. Many times he had experienced these situations and learned to trust his instincts completely. And many times he had helped bury those who didn’t hone their skills of observation and develop a sixth sense for trouble.