Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“He’s stolen,” Clint answered. “One of the prisoners I broke out with stole him from the prison corral.”

“Damn, that ain’t good,” Arthur involuntarily uttered.

“I know, but he’s all I got right now, and I’ll be takin’ him a long way from here.” He cast a critical eye at the flea-bitten gray horse and shook his head. “At least he’s better than the one I was ridin’ before him.”

Arthur thought about the situation for a moment more. “He might be all right for a packhorse, and you’ll be needin’ a packhorse.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

Arthur interrupted. “I got a horse for you.” With Clint about to protest, his father started toward the corral. “Come on,” he said. A faint streak of morning light snaked over the hills to the east, and Arthur set the lantern down at his feet. “That buckskin dun over there next to the trough—I bought him off a fellow about a month ago. He’s saddle-broke and stout—got a little bit of rascal in him, too, plumb rowdy sometimes. Day after I brought him home, he was nippin’ at the other horses in the corral just to see ’em run round and round. He’ll make a fine horse for you.”

Even in the dim morning light, Clint couldn’t help but admire the horse, but it seemed like an awful lot to expect from his father. “I appreciate it, Pa, but that horse probably cost you a pretty penny, and I can make do with the gray.”

“There ain’t gonna be no discussion about it,” Arthur insisted. “You can’t go ridin’ off to Montana on that old buzzard-bait. Besides, I figure I owe you for that Appaloosa you loved so much. If I hadn’t sold that damn horse, you wouldn’t have gone to prison. I want to get rid of that damn buckskin, anyway, before he runs the other horses ragged.”

His father’s statement caused him to think. He had never blamed his father for his arrest, and it had never occurred to him that his father might feel in some part responsible. “Hell, Pa, the reason I got sent to prison was because I did a damn fool thing. It wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine.”

“I want you to take the horse, anyway.”

The horse wasn’t the only thing he gained by visiting his father. By the time he left, Arthur had loaded the packhorse with supplies and utensils, as well as insisting that he trade the old model Winchester for his dad’s ’73 model. He rode away from the little ranch southwest of Cheyenne well mounted, well armed, well supplied, and with a little money in his pocket. “I’ll be seein’ you one day,” he said in parting. “Maybe I’ll find me a place to raise some cattle and horses up in the high country, and you can move up there with me.”

“That would suit me fine,” Arthur said, knowing in his heart that he might never see his son again.

It was well past sunup when Clint said his final farewell and pointed the buckskin north. There was a feeling of sadness over leaving his father again, but at the same time a sense of relief, as if his soul was free to start on a clean slate. Intending to pass to the east of Cheyenne, he planned to head toward Fort Laramie, possibly following along the route of the old cattle trails that led from Cheyenne to Montana Territory. From there, he planned to follow whatever urge struck him at the time. Happy to be rid of Clell Ballenger and his sidekicks, he could now look forward to discovering a new country where thoughts of prison and outlaws were left far behind him.

His father had been accurate in his evaluation of the buckskin dun. The horse seemed willing and strong as the two new partners crossed the railroad tracks east of Cheyenne, and by the time they reached Lodgepole Creek, he was thinking over names for the horse. Remembering what his father had said about the spirited gelding, he decided to call him Rowdy. “Rowdy,” he pronounced. “I like it.” He patted the buckskin on the neck. “How do you like it?” The horse snorted and tossed his head. “I’m gonna consider that a yes.”

By midafternoon he felt reasonably certain that he had struck the Shawnee Trail. There were enough signs that revealed evidence of the old cattle trail that had extended the Goodnight-Loving Trail beyond Cheyenne. He was on his way to Montana, unaware of the dark cloud that shadowed him from Colorado.

Chapter 5

Zach Clayton stuck doggedly to the trail he had followed from Fort Collins. He had held his horse hard to a fast pace, but had not, so far, gained any ground on Ballenger and Yancey. It did not discourage him. He knew that he would eventually catch up to them, as sure as the sun rose and set every day. He had never failed to run down any man he chased. His patience and determination were well-known among lawmen and outlaws alike throughout the territory.

The outlaws had stopped to rest their horses on Owl Creek, some five or six miles south of Cheyenne. Clayton sat on his heels by a burnt-out campfire and stirred the ashes with his finger. They were not that far ahead of him now, judging by the warmth of the ashes. They had rested their horses before moving on. He found their tracks on the other side of the creek, veering toward the east, obviously intending to skirt around the town. He had made up some ground on them, but his horse was in need of rest. He decided on a short rest for his horse; then they could both walk for a couple of hours in an effort to make up a little more ground. He pulled the saddle off and let the sorrel graze while he sat with his back against a cottonwood. He had hoped the two outlaws would ride straight into Cheyenne, where there was always a fair chance they would get slowed down by a saloon, making his job easier. At least their tracks were easily followed. Late afternoon found him saddling his horse again. Picking up the tracks on the east side of the creek, he started out leading the sorrel, figuring he had a few hours of daylight left before being forced to stop for the night.

The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to follow the tracks, he was in the saddle again. He found their next campfire around noon about fifteen miles north of Cheyenne. The ashes were still smoking when he stirred them. He was close. He stroked the sorrel’s neck and said, “It’s time to make you work a little, boy.” Stepping up in the saddle, he gave the horse a little kick with his heels, starting out at a lope.

“I knew it, dammit!” Yancey blurted. “I had a feelin’ we weren’t done with that son of a bitch. I’ve been in this business too damn long not to know when I’m being dogged by a lawman.”

Ballenger, kneeling by the tiny stream that meandered down through a narrow ravine spotted with sage and berry bushes, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rose to his feet. “Whaddaya lookin’ at?” he asked.

“That damn marshal, Clayton,” Yancey replied heatedly. “Dammit, Clell, I told you he’d be doggin’ us. I’d bet my share of the money that Clint Conner was the son of a bitch that tipped them off.”

“Well, you’ve been lookin’ over your shoulder ever since we left Colorado,” Ballenger said, less concerned, but interested if the rider was indeed Zach Clayton. “You probably drawed him to us, you was lookin’ so hard.” He climbed up to the top of the ravine beside Yancey and looked in the direction his partner pointed. “I expect it’s him, all right,” he said, although the lone rider was little more than a tiny figure on the treeless prairie behind them. The feeling in his gut was enough to verify it.

“It’s him,” Yancey stated emphatically.

“He’s rode a long way to get killed,” Ballenger said. He turned to look back down the ravine where the horses were drinking. “And this looks as good a place as any. Come on.” He started back down the side of the ravine to get his rifle. “Better tie the horses to a bush so they don’t run off when the shootin’ starts.”