The King Hill War (16 page)

“Yes, Tomas, I’m in here,” Hawke replied.

“I have a horse saddled for you, señor, if you are going with us.”

“Yes, I’m going,” Hawke said. He came out of the barn and swung into the saddle. “Where are the others, Josu and Felipe?”

“They have already started,” Tomas said. “They are taking the sheep to pasture.”

“All right, let’s go,” Hawke said.

As Hawke and Tomas rode off at a trot, Hawke saw that not only Ian, but Cynthia and Hannah as well, were out on the front porch. The expressions differed on each of their faces, and almost as if he were blessed with what his grandmother used to call “the gift,” he could read what they were thinking as easily as reading a book.

Ian was frustrated because he could not go with them.

Cynthia was worried that Hawke might be hurt or killed if anything happened.

Hannah was thinking about Jesse, wondering if there was any chance that he and Jesse would have some sort of encounter tonight.

On the porch, Ian said, “I should be with them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cynthia replied. “You can’t even ride with your legs in a cast. And I’m worrying enough about Hawke now, I couldn’t bear it if I had you to worry about as well.”

“Oh, please God, if Jesse is out there, don’t let him be hurt,” Hannah said.

JESSE HAD TO RIDE HARD TO KEEP UP WITH THE
others as they galloped through the night. The thunder of drumming hooves was interspersed with the squeak of leather and the jangle of bridal and tack. The churning hooves brought up the aroma of crushed grass, the same grass that was the center of all the trouble.

With every ounce of his being, Jesse wanted to turn away from the others, to leave them to whatever foul deed they had planned for the night. In fact, he wished he could leave the entire territory. He fantasized about going someplace else, like Texas or California. He would take Hannah with him, and they would start a new life, away from the war between the cattlemen and the sheep men.

Of course, he was only seventeen and she was but sixteen, so they would have a hard time getting started. And
some would think they were foolish for even trying. But he didn’t think she was too young to know what she wanted, and he was sure he wasn’t too young to make a life for the two of them.

Lonnie Creed, who was leading the riders, held up his hand to stop them. The riders called out to their horses, and the hoof beats slowed, then stopped. The dust floated in the air around them. In the distance they heard the call of a coyote.

Closer in, an owl hooted.

“What are we doing out here?” Jesse asked.

“You know damn well what we are doing out here,” his brother Johnny answered. “We are going to teach those sheep herders a lesson they’ll never forget. After tonight, no more sheep on the open range.”

“Keep quiet, you two,” Lonnie hissed. “Stay in close and be ready to go when I give the word.”

There were at least twenty men with Lonnie, and except for Jesse and Johnny Carlisle, they were all cowboys who rode for one or more of the ranches. With the horses walking quietly now, Lonnie led them up to the top of Squaw Ridge. There, in the valley below, their white wool coats shining brightly in the moonlight, were well over one thousand sheep.

Down in the valley, the sheep herders were waiting with their combined flock of sheep.

“Maybe nobody will come tonight,” Mark Patterson suggested.

“They’ll be here,” Hawke said.

Patterson, Dumey, Douglass, Cummings, Emerson Booker, Andoni Larranaga, and Mikel Mendiolea, as well as Ian, Josu, and Felipe, the Basque who worked for Emerson, were lying behind a low rising ridge line. In addition
to these ten men, there were four more men out tending the grazing sheep.

Hawke had deployed the ten between the sheep and the most likely approach of any cattlemen who would come to challenge them. He was walking back and forth behind this improvised skirmish line, checking each of their positions while at the same time keeping an eye open for approaching cattlemen.

He had a sense of déjà vu in what he was doing, because it was a deployment he had often utilized during the war.

“Hawke, if they come, what do we do?” Allen Cummings asked.

“Let me ask you this, Cummings,” Hawke replied. “What do you think would be the purpose of their coming?”

“I imagine it would be to kill sheep,” Cummings said.

“Or us,” Emerson added.

“And why are we here?” Hawke asked.

“To keep them from doing that,” Cummings replied.

“That’s right,” Hawke said.

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Cummings said. “What do we do if they do come?”

“We do whatever it takes to stop them.”

“You’re…you’re talking about shooting them, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am talking about shooting them. That’s why you are lying there with a rifle in your hand.”

“I don’t know,” Cummings said. “I’ve never shot anyone before. I’ve never even shot
at
anyone before.”

“Allen, a few years ago we had a great war in this country,” Emerson said. “You may have heard of it.”

“The War Between the States,” Cummings said. “Of course I heard of it. Who hasn’t heard of it?”

“During that war, we had hundreds of thousands of young men who had never shot at another man. And yet,
when the chips were down, they did just fine. I have no doubt but that you will as well.”

“Yeah,” Cummings said. “Yeah, I haven’t thought of it like that before. But I guess you’re right. This is sort of like a war, isn’t it?”

On the crest of Squaw Ridge, Lonnie Creed stood in his stirrups for a second, not to get a better look, but to restore circulation to his legs. Then, sitting back in his saddle, he snaked his Winchester from its sheath. “All right, boys,” he said. “Same as before. Let’s kill us some sheep.”

“What if the sheep herders are there?” one of the cowboys asked.

Lonnie took the string of rawhide from his pocket and stuck the end of it in his mouth. He smiled. “Well hell, boys, then we’ll have us some fun. We’ll kill them too.”

“No,” Jesse said, holding back. “I’m not going down there.”

“Oh yes you will,” Johnny said. “I’ll see to it that you will.” Johnny started toward him but stopped when he heard the deadly click of a pistol being cocked.

“I said I’m not going,” Jesse said defiantly, pointing his cocked pistol toward his brother. The barrel gleamed dimly in the moonlight.

“Let him be, Johnny,” Lonnie said. “We don’t have time for him now.”

“All right, you stay here,” Johnny said angrily, pointing his finger at his younger brother. “But don’t think I won’t take care of you when I get back.”

“Let’s go,” Lonnie said, and following his lead, the others started down the long slope of Squaw Ridge, heading toward the gathered sheep in the valley below.

The hoofbeats of the galloping horses spread like thunder over the valley. From their position behind the low
ridge, the sheep men watched in morbid fascination as the cowboys galloped toward them.

“They’re not stopping!” Cummings said.

“Then we’ll stop them,” Hawke said, firing the first shot.

The cowboys, surprised that the sheep herders were putting up a fight, returned fire. Bullets whistled back and forth in the dark, then one of the Mexican shepherds cried out.

“Tomas!”
Felipe shouted in pain. “I am hit!”

“Felipe has been wounded!” Tomas said, going to the Basque shepherd.

Although the others were lying down, Hawke was still standing behind them, firing a rifle, shooting as quickly as he could jack round after round into the chamber. The night was lit up with the light of muzzle flashes, and the sound of gunshots was redoubled by the echoes that rolled back from the hills.

“They’re running!” Dumey shouted. “They’re running away!”

“Keep shooting!” Hawke called. “Let’s hurry them along!”

The sheep herders kept up the shooting until, finally, Hawke called for a cease fire.

A cloud of gun smoke hung over the field, illuminated by the bright moon above. The smell of the spent gunpowder irritated their nostrils and burned their eyes.

“Tomas, how is Felipe?” Hawke asked.

“Felipe
,
zer moduz?”
Tomas asked, speaking in Euskara.

“It is not bad,” Felipe said, answering in English. “I was hit in the arm.”

“Hawke, I see some people lying out there,” Dumey said.

“Let’s go see if we can do anything for them,” Hawke answered. “But keep your guns handy.”

He led the others out to check on the men who were lying on the ground.

“This one’s dead,” Dumey called.

“Who is it?” Emerson asked.

“I don’t know, he must be one of the hands. I don’t recognize him.”

“I recognize this one,” Cummings said. “His name is Ralph Day. He rides for Rome Carlisle.”

“Dead?” Emerson asked.

“Yeah.”

“So’s this one,” Douglass said. “But I don’t have any idea who he is.”

“Uh-oh,” Patterson said. “This isn’t going to be good.”

“What?” Hawke asked.

“This one isn’t just some cowboy.”

“Who is it?”

“Maybe you’d better come over and look for yourself.”

Jesse was still on Squaw Ridge when Lonnie and the riders came back at a gallop. Without even counting, he could tell there were fewer than had gone out.

“What happened?” he asked. He didn’t see his brother. “Where’s Johnny?”

Lonnie pulled up beside him, stopping so quickly that his horse twisted around with him and he had to bring it under control.

“You want to know where Johnny is?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Lonnie pointed behind him. “He’s lying on the ground back there. Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, thanks to you,” Lonnie said.

“Lonnie, you got no call to say that to the boy,” Asa Crawford said.

“Yeah, I do,” Lonnie replied, scowling at Jesse. “Johnny was a good man. And our boy Jesse here is a traitor. I figure Johnny is dead because Jesse told the sheep herders we were comin’.”

“I did not!” Jesse insisted.

“Really? Everyone knows you are sweet on Macgregor’s daughter.”

“That doesn’t mean I would tell them anything like this,” Jesse said.

“Come on, let’s go,” Lonnie said. He looked over at Jesse. “Can you keep up with us? Or do you need a sugar tit to suck on?”

“Are we just going to leave Johnny out there?” Jesse asked.

“He’s in good company,” Lonnie said. “There are three more out there with him.”

Jesse shook his head. “It’s not right to just leave them out there.”

“If you want to go out there and get him, go ahead,” Lonnie said.

“Boy, now’s not a good time,” Asa put in. “Anyone goin’ out there now is likely to be shot. He’ll be all right till mornin’. We’ll get ’em all, come mornin’.”

By breakfast the next day everyone in King Hill knew of the fight between the cattlemen and the sheep herders. Oddly, there was no boisterous talk from those who had taken part in the fight. Most of the talk came from those who had not participated at all.

Three of the cowboys who had been in the fracas decided they were leaving the valley.

“I’ll tell you what I was thinkin’ the whole time I
was out there,” one of them said as he rolled his few belongings into a blanket. “I was thinkin’ about the baby Jesus.”

“What?” one of the other cowboys asked.

“I was thinkin’ about the baby Jesus,” the first cowboy repeated. “You know, how there was shepherds in the fields and angels come to tell ’em about Jesus bein’ born in a manger an’ all? I was thinkin’, what if a bunch of cowboys had come ridin’ in on ’em, shootin’ ’em up that night and killin’ their sheep like we done? I don’t think the baby Jesus woulda liked that.”

“Yeah, well, the baby Jesus ain’t lyin’ in a manger in King Hill,” one of the other cowboys said.

“Maybe not, but there’s shepherds here, just like in the Bible, and it don’t seem right to be killin’ off their sheep.”

The cowboy who had been thinking about the baby Jesus, and the other two, left the valley that very day. The rest of the riders, whether acting under some pact of secrecy or out of shame, didn’t come into town, or if they did, kept their involvement quiet.

By midmorning a wagon came rolling into town, driven by Rome Carlisle. Jesse was riding on the seat with his father, and in the back there were four canvas-covered lumps. These were the four cowboys who had been killed in the fight, and even before the wagon reached Prufrock’s Mortuary, everyone in town knew what was under the canvas.

Abner Prufrock came out on the front porch to meet the wagon. “I heard about your boy, Mr. Carlisle,” he said, before Carlisle even spoke. “You have my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you,” Carlisle replied, his voice low and filled with sadness.

Prufrock stepped to the rear of the wagon and pulled
back the canvas. “I recognize Johnny, of course. And this one is Pete Lowery, he rides for Mr. Fenton, I believe. But I don’t know the other two.”

“That’s Ralph Day, he was one of my riders,” Carlisle said. “And that’s Gene Bailey. He was one of Jared Wilson’s riders.”

“Mr. Fenton and Mr. Wilson will be paying for the funeral costs?”

Carlisle shook his head. “There won’t be a funeral for them,” he said. “Not for Ralph either. Ralph was from Texas, Pete was from Colorado, and Gene was from Kansas,” he explained. “All we want you to do to them is embalm them and put them in a crate that we can ship on the train. Mr. Fenton, Mr. Wilson, and I will take care of the shipping arrangements.”

“Yes, sir,” Prufrock said. “And your boy?”

“I want a good coffin. Your best.”

“Of course you do,” Prufrock said. “Come down with me to the Farmers and Ranchers Supply. I have an arrangement with Mr. Dunnigan, and he keeps my coffins on display there.”

“What about my boy?” Carlisle asked, pointing at the body.

“He will be all right here until we get back,” Prufrock assured him.

Carlisle and Jesse followed Prufrock to the Farmers and Ranchers Supply. Everyone in town knew of Carlisle’s loss, and they tipped their hat or nodded as they passed him, Jesse, and Prufrock on the boardwalk.

Inside, Prufrock led Carlisle back to the display of coffins. Jesse couldn’t help but recall, just a few weeks ago, when he and Hannah had stood on this very spot and were approached by one of the salesmen.

Prufrock showed Carlisle a black coffin, its ebony finish
shining brightly in the kerosene lamps of the store. It was richly decorated in silver.

“This is our very finest,” he said. “It is called ‘Heavenly Dream.’” The undertaker ran his hand over the ebony finish. “You can feel the quality for yourself. And it’s guaranteed for one hundred years.”

“Guaranteed for a hundred years?” Carlisle asked.

“Absolutely.”

Carlisle snorted. “That’s the dumbest damn thing I’ve ever heard. Who the hell is going to dig it up in a hundred years to check on it?”

“Well, uh, nobody of course,” Prufrock sputtered. “It’s just a way of explaining the quality of the workmanship. Run you hand over the finish and you’ll see what I mean.”

Carlisle did as Prufrock suggested.

“And, as you can see,” Prufrock said, demonstrating, “the top half comes off, so the decedent can be exhibited.”

“He’s not a decedent, he’s my boy,” Carlisle said angrily.

“Of course he is, Rome,” Prufrock replied condescendingly. He was experienced in handling angry grief. “Please understand that I meant no disrespect.”