Charles West - Lawless Prairie

With the pistol leveled at Clayton, Clint gave the orders. “Now we’re gonna sing the same song, but with a different verse,” he said. “Pick up that pack and tie it on again.”

“You’re makin’ a helluva big mistake,” the deputy marshal said, rubbing the wrist that Clint had almost broken.

“I believe you’re the one who made the mistake, seein’ as how I’m the one holdin’ the gun. Now hurry up and tie that pack on.”

Clayton, believing he had judged the man accurately, continued to balk. “You ain’t a killer. You’re not gonna shoot me, so why don’t you just hand over the gun?”

Clint stood gazing at the cocksure lawman for a long moment. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. And before Clayton could form the confident smile he intended, Clint struck him hard on the chin with the weapon, knocking him to the ground. “Now get up and do what I tell you. And make no mistake, I will shoot if I have to.”

Clayton took a minute to clear his head before climbing to his feet a more subdued man. Clint took the opportunity to quickly buckle on his gun belt again. When the pack was secure once more, Clint picked up Clayton’s rifle and stepped up in the saddle. “You’re the one who chose to play the game this way,” he lectured the deputy. “I’ve paid enough for the mistake I made three years ago, and I’m not goin’ back to that prison. It’s about fifteen miles back to Cheyenne, just a good stretch of the legs.” He glanced around, looking for a spot. “See that low mesa over there? I’ll leave your guns over near the base of it.”

“You’d best shoot me,” an angry Clayton spat, “if you don’t wanna see me again, ’cause I’ll hunt you down if it takes the rest of my life.”

“Mister, I hope you’ve got better things to do with your life,” Clint said in parting.

His first camp after leaving Marshal Zach Clayton on foot was beside Horse Creek. It was not lost on him that he was no more than forty miles or so from the Wyoming Territorial Prison where he had spent the last three years of his life. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he was anxious to get an early start in the morning to be on his way, seeking to leave Wyoming behind him. He thought about his confrontation with Clayton. The deputy marshal should have completed his walk back to Cheyenne by then, and no doubt sent wires to every town that had a telegraph pole. In view of that, he planned to avoid towns of any size. He would cross the Chugwater tomorrow and head northwest, planning to cut between the Laramie Mountains and Fort Laramie. Once across the Platte, he would head in a more northeasterly direction, hoping to avoid Sioux or Cheyenne war parties.

Two days of steady riding found him in camp by the north fork of the Laramie River near the base of the rugged Laramie Mountains. Riding up into hills dotted with pines and evergreens, he doubled back to check on his back trail to make sure no one was following him. It was strictly precaution, for he didn’t expect to see anyone. But since he had accidentally run into Ballenger and Yancey, he thought it best not to leave anything to chance. It was only after another day and a half, when he crossed the Platte a few miles east of Fort Fetterman, that he discarded his concern over being followed. Turning Rowdy a little more toward the east while keeping a general northern course, he rode over rolling grassland with distant horizons in all directions. One man, alone in a seemingly endless prairie, he at last felt free of civilization’s restraints. There was no sign of mankind, white or savage. He imagined he felt as Adam had before God sent Eve to keep him company. Maybe the only difference was a wide prairie instead of a Garden of Eden.

Chapter 6

Joanna Becker paused to listen to a bird calling outside the back window. It was an odd call, she thought, unable to identify the species. It sounded like a meadowlark, but she had never seen a meadowlark in these hills. She swung the large iron pot away from the fire and stirred the rabbit stew with a long wooden spoon. Swinging the pot back over the fire, she paused again when she heard the bird once more, this time on the other side of the cabin.

“Want me to set the table?” her mother asked as she sat by the front window, sewing a patch on her father’s shirt.

Knowing her mother wanted to finish the shirt so he could wear it the next day at the sluice box, Joanna replied, “No, it can wait. Daddy and Robert won’t be back for at least an hour yet.” The afternoon was fading rapidly, and soon there would be little light coming through the open window. She gave her mother a smile. “This stew isn’t going to be ready before then, anyway, as slow as it’s cooking.” Her husband, Robert, had told her that morning that he and her father planned to move the box upstream about a hundred yards, and would probably be home a little later than usual.

The two men had been working hard for the past four months to get the cabin ready for winter while trying to work a mining claim at the same time. When they came to the Black Hills from Omaha in the early spring, Robert had boasted about the plentiful game close to the cabin. “We’ll never have to worry about havin’ meat on the table,” he promised. The problem was he never had time to hunt for fresh meat. Joanna and her mother had fashioned a trap that had caught the rabbit now simmering in the iron pot. She smiled when she thought about the surprised look she would see on Robert’s face when he came home expecting more salt pork.

Robert , she thought with a concerned smile. The quest into the Black Hills to search for gold had sounded so adventurous when they started out from Omaha. It had turned out to be an unrewarding labor from dawn to dusk as the men worked to build a rough cabin while filling a sluice box with colorless dirt. The only other choice was to go to Montana Territory with her uncle and two other families in hopes of creating a farm community. The search for gold had seemed much more compelling. Joanna honestly believed that had not Robert been excited about the prospect of striking it rich, her father would most likely have chosen to go to Montana with his brother.

It made little difference now, she decided; the die had been cast. Maybe the gold they had hoped to find would be turned up any day now. Troubling her mind lately was Robert’s lack of enthusiasm for almost anything. She guessed that maybe he was just tired. His interest in her seemed nonexistent except on the occasional nights when he felt the need to relieve himself of his anxieties by availing himself of the use of her body. The episode was always short and to the point as he groaned and struggled to keep the noise down in their tiny room next to her parents. Maybe , she thought, if I were not so plain . . .

“There it is again,” she said.

“What?” her mother asked.

“That bird, can you hear it? There, hear it? It’s on the other side now.” As soon as she said it, a chilling thought came to her mind. With a worried glance at her mother still sitting by the window, she walked over beside her and peered out into the lengthening shadows. She saw nothing at first, but as she continued to stare, she suddenly caught a movement in the shadows, and her heart stopped for a beat. “Robert?” she called, hoping it was her husband by the corner of the cabin. She turned to speak to her mother, but was startled by the look of terror on the old woman’s face. She turned then to see the cause of her mother’s fright, the painted torso of a Sioux warrior framed in the kitchen window.

Too terrified to scream, she murmured, “Mama . . . ,” and turned toward the shotgun over the mantel. Before she could take a step, the door was suddenly flung open and two warriors burst into the cabin. She started to run to the fireplace, but one of the warriors, a solid brute of a man with wide shoulders, caught her by the wrist and threw her to the floor.