Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“Still hard to sneak up on ol’ Ned.” The voice came low and soft. Arthur stopped in his tracks, stunned and confused. “Evenin’, Pa. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Clint?” Arthur gasped. “Clint? Is that you, boy?” The hand holding the lantern was shaking with excitement now.

“Yessir,” Clint replied. “It’s me. I didn’t wanna slip in here like this, but I had to watch the house for a bit before I rode in. I wanted to make sure you were alone.”

“My God in heaven,” Arthur exclaimed, and strode forward to meet his son. “I can’t believe it’s you.” He held the lantern up so he could look at him. “I swear, you don’t look none the worse for three years in prison. I believe you’ve growed into a man.” He reached out and gave his son a one-armed bear hug, then stepped back and demanded, “And why the hell wouldn’t I be alone?”

“Well,” Clint said, hesitating, “there might be somebody lookin’ for me.”

“Done come and gone,” Arthur replied. “Sheriff’s deputy came out from Cheyenne yesterday lookin’ for you.”

“You already know I broke out, then,” Clint said.

“Yeah, I know. Come on, put your horse in the barn, and we’ll go in the house and fix you somethin’ to eat. You hungry? I ain’t never known you when you wasn’t.”

“Pa, I didn’t have no intention of breaking out of prison. I was bound to serve my time, but I got caught in a situation where I had to run with those other fellers, or be left behind with a bullet in my head.”

“You don’t owe me no explanation, son. You’ve always tried to do the right thing. And that includes when you took that Appaloosa from Judge Plover. I don’t blame you none, never did. They ought’n to sent you to prison for that. That man ain’t fittin’ to own horses.” He watched until Clint pulled the saddle off and filled a bucket with oats for his horse. “Come on and I’ll find you somethin’ to eat.” He led the way to the house.

Before stepping inside, Clint paused to pet the dog for a few seconds. “Now after makin’ all that fuss, you want your ears scratched,” he said. “Maybe you remember me after all, huh, boy?” He gave Ned a couple of dismissal pats and followed his father into the house. As soon as he entered the room, he felt a shiver of emotion run through his entire body as he looked around the familiar scene after an absence of three years.

Watching his son carefully, Arthur said, “Ain’t much changed since you’ve been gone. I finally built a new table. That’s about all, I reckon.”

Clint followed his father’s eye to the kitchen table. He nodded, but did not comment. His father had threatened to build a new table for years to replace one that wobbled precariously from two mended legs. It was a job that no one had the time to get around to, and one that always caused his father to swear every time a cup of coffee or a pan of fresh milk was caused to slop over when someone leaned too hard on one end or the other. “She’s solid now,” Arthur said, and smacked the table with the palm of his hand. Feeling awkward in his attempt to make small talk, he decided to cut right to what he really wanted to know. “How come you broke out, son?”

“Like I said, I didn’t really have a choice,” Clint replied. He then went on to relate the details of his escape with Clell Ballenger and Bob Washburn, and his subsequent split with the outlaws.

“Did you kill anybody?”

“No, sir,” Clint answered.

Arthur nodded his head thoughtfully. He was satisfied that as long as Clint hadn’t taken anyone’s life, he could be forgiven for anything else that might have happened. “Well, what are you plannin’ to do now? Like I said, the sheriff’s deputy was already out here. I expect he’ll be back. It might go easier on you if you turned yourself in instead of waitin’ for them to come lookin’ for you again.”

“I ain’t goin’ back, Pa. I just stopped by to see you before I head up to Montana Territory. I aim to lose myself up in the high country, maybe go on to Canada. It liked to killed me being locked up for three years. If I go back now they’re bound to add time to my sentence. I ain’t goin’ back.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. He had always been a law-abiding man, but he understood his son’s feelings. Clint had always been a child of the forests and hills, more at home under the stars instead of a cabin roof. It was indeed cruel and unjust punishment to keep his son incarcerated, punished for his compassion for a mistreated horse. Knowing it unlikely that Clint’s mind could be changed once he had decided upon something, he shrugged to signal the issue settled. “It ain’t exactly a good time to be ridin’ up to Powder River country,” he warned. “I don’t know how much you heard, being locked up in that prison, but there’s been a lot of trouble with the Sioux and Cheyenne durin’ this whole last year.”

“I heard about it,” Clint said. “I intend to stay clear of any Indians.” He hesitated a moment before broaching a subject that had bothered his conscience. “Pa, I know you were probably countin’ on me to help you here when I got out of prison, and I’m sorry I’m not gonna be here to do it.”

“Don’t fret about it,” Arthur said. “I’m doin’ all right. I’ve got Charley Simpson workin’ for me. And to tell you the truth, Charley ain’t good for nothin’ but ranch work. So I don’t know what ol’ Charley would do if you came back and I had to let him go.” Deciding the matter closed, he went to the stove and picked up the coffeepot. Handing it to Clint, he said, “Go fill this with some water while I grind up some coffee. I’ve got some corn bread left from supper, and I’ll see if I can find somethin’ else for you to eat.”

“I need to swap these clothes I’m wearin’ for somethin’ better,” Clint said. “You didn’t throw out all my old clothes, did you?”

“They’re in your room, right where you left ’em,” Arthur replied.

“Good, ’cause I can’t wait to shuck these I got on.” It had disgusted him to have to wear Bob Washburn’s shirt and pants, and he was anxious to discard them. He was not surprised to find that his old clothes were a trifle tight across the chest and shoulders, but he could still wear them. Feeling more at ease then, he sat down at the table again to eat.

They talked late into the evening like two old friends instead of father and son. Arthur was aware of the change in his son that prison had wrought, whether good or bad he couldn’t say, but there was a sense of quiet maturity that was not in the boy when he was sent to prison. Arthur decided that Clint was doing the right thing; he had no business in prison. Arthur went to bed that night believing that justice had at last been served.

Up before sunup, Clint was in the barn saddling his horse when Arthur came from the house. “Morning,” he said when his father walked in. “I thought I’d get outta here before Charley comes to work. No need to let anybody know I was here.”

“Hell, Charley wouldn’t tell anybody,” Arthur said. “He won’t be here till noon, anyway. I’da been up before this, but we stayed up a long time past my bedtime last night.”

Clint smiled. His father had always considered it a matter of pride to be the first one up in the morning. And he always had an excuse for those times when he wasn’t. “I wouldn’t have been up so early myself, but I guess I was havin’ a hard time gettin’ used to a soft bed again.” In truth, Clint had learned to sleep anywhere after three years on a straw tick spread over a board frame.

Arthur held his lantern up as he looked Clint’s horse over, a habit brought on from years of raising horses. “Where’d you get him?” he asked while looking in the gray’s mouth. “Kinda long in the tooth, ain’t he?”