Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Caught in a panic of confusion, Ballenger and Yancey scrambled down off the slope amid a hailstorm of slugs zipping by them and ripping up the ground. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” Ballenger yelled as he stumbled down to the bottom of the ravine. Yancey, his left arm soaked with blood from a shoulder wound, needed no encouragement. Without their knowing who, or how many their assailants were, there was no thought beyond escape in the minds of both men. “How bad are you hurt?” Ballenger shouted at his partner as they galloped along the bottom of the ravine.

“Shoulder!” Yancey called back. “I don’t know how bad.”

They followed the ravine to the point where it widened at its origin on a hillside, then made their way, running the horses flat out through a maze of low treeless hills. When the horses began to falter from the strain, they were forced to let up on the weary animals. Looking back over his shoulder, Ballenger said, “I don’t see nobody. I don’t think they saw which way we went.”

Yancey, breathing almost as hard as his horse, winced in pain when he replied, “I say we just keep ridin’. I need to tend to my shoulder.” He wasn’t sure whether Clell was of a mind to circle back to retaliate, but if he was, it was going to be without him.

“The son of a bitch had help,” Ballenger said. “I don’t know how they got around us, but we were damn lucky to get outta there.”

“ You were lucky,” Yancey growled as he stuffed his bandanna inside his shirt to try to stop the bleeding.

“They wouldn’ta caught up with us at all if you hadn’t laid around in your blankets this mornin’,” Clell grumbled.

“I didn’t know we were in a by-God hurry till we spotted him this afternoon. Hell, I didn’t notice you up so damn early.”

Ballenger was staring back the way they had just come. “You see anybody?” he asked, forgetting the bickering for the moment.

After a pause, Yancey answered. “We lost ’em. Let’s get movin’ before they start searchin’ these hills.” With no choice but to rest the horses, he started walking, leading his horse.

Clint stood on the side of the gully, reloading his rifle while watching for any sign of the bushwhackers’ return. He waited until he felt sure they had gone before going back for his horses. He was undecided at first about riding down to help the man trapped behind the horse. Chances were he was a lawman chasing Ballenger and Yancey. What if he wasn’t, but an innocent victim of ambush by the two? Even while telling himself that he was a fool to do it, he decided to see whether the man was alive or dead.

His question was answered when he approached to within fifty yards of the lead-filled carcass. Clayton rose to one knee, watching him carefully before standing up to meet him. “Mister,” he said, “I’m mighty glad you came along.”

“You looked like you could use a little help,” Clint said as he pulled up beside him and dismounted. “I don’t think those two will be back. They lit out toward the west.”

“I’m much obliged,” Clayton said. “They left me in a fix.” He studied his young Samaritan closely, thinking maybe he had seen his likeness on a poster. Growing more confident in the identification, he casually pulled his vest aside to show his badge. “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal. I was chasin’ those two when they ambushed me.”

“Is that a fact?” Clint replied, careful to maintain an indifferent manner.

Clayton watched Clint’s facial expressions closely as he continued. “Yeah, they’re a couple of bad ones. One of ’em escaped from the territorial prison a few days ago with two other prisoners. I shot one of ’em over in Fort Collins. These two took off up this way, but they musta split up with the other feller because he left the night before.” The picture of a lone rider he had passed on the road into Fort Collins one moonlit night came to his mind, and he had a strong feeling that it was the same man he was now talking to. The thought caused a plethora of conflicting decisions.

Clint was not comfortable with the direction of the conversation. He cursed himself for coming to help the marshal, but he had no choice now but to maintain a calm exterior and hope to bluff his way through. “Well, looks like your man-hunt has hit a snag for now,” he said. “I don’t like to leave a man on foot out here, so I reckon I could let you have my packhorse to get you back to Cheyenne.”

“Why, that’s mighty neighborly of you, Mr. . . . what was your name?”

“Smith,” Clint replied too quickly to come up with something original. “I reckon you’ll be headin’ back to get another horse.”

“Oh, no,” Clayton replied. “My job is to go after those convicts.” He gave Clint a knowing smile. “All of them.” There was an awkward moment of silence while the two stood facing each other. “Now, if I was a bettin’ man,” Clayton went on, “I’d bet that you’d more’n likely answer to the name of Conner instead of Smith.” The sudden tightness of Clint’s jaw told him he was right. He was a little reluctant to take the next step since Clint had just gotten him out of a serious situation. There was a series of acts that indicated Clint Conner was a decent man—saving the prison guard’s life, the warning note about the bank job, and now his own rescue. In view of all that, he could elect to let him go on his way. But Clayton could not turn his back on his responsibility, and Clint was an escaped convict. It was Clayton’s job to bring him to justice. It was as simple as that.

Clint took a backward step toward his horse, and quicker than a lightning flash, Clayton’s hand came up, his .44 leveled at him. He shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, son, but I’m gonna have to take you in.”

“Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch,” Clint responded. “I shoulda left you lying behind that damn horse.”

“I understand how you feel, and I appreciate what you done. I’ll mention it to the judge, and maybe he’ll go easy on you, but I’ve got to do my job. It ain’t up to me to decide the right and wrong of things.” He motioned with his pistol. “Now take your left hand and unbuckle that gun belt. Do it real slow. I don’t wanna have to shoot you, but I sure as hell will if you don’t do like I tell you.”

With no choice but to do as he was told, Clint let his gun belt fall to the ground. “Now you’d best unload that packhorse and put my saddle on him,” Clayton ordered. Clint said nothing, went to the packhorse, and started working on the straps his father had fashioned. When he had untied one of the large canvas packs, he backed away from the horse, holding the pack in his arms, pretending to look for a place to set it down. “Just drop it on the ground,” Clayton ordered impatiently.

“It’s got flour and such in it. I don’t wanna spill it,” Clint said.

“Jesus!” Clayton scoffed. “Whaddaya care? You ain’t gonna be usin’ it.” He stepped forward and reached out to jerk one end of the pack out of Clint’s hands. “Drop the damn thing.”

In one swift move, Clint shoved the canvas sack into Clayton’s chest, launching his body after it. The deputy’s reflexes caused him to pull the trigger, but the thrust of Clint’s shoulder drove Clayton’s arm down and the bullet went into the ground between them. In desperate combat, Clint grabbed Clayton’s wrist before he could bring the pistol to bear again and drove him to the ground. As the two men wrestled for control of the weapon, Clayton learned that he had underestimated the strength of the quiet young man. With his neck in a headlock that threatened to break his spine, he was forced to release the pistol. Clint quickly grabbed it, and like a cat, rolled off the stunned lawman, and was on his feet.