Charles West - Lawless Prairie

His pack ready, Robert finally spoke. “I’m thinkin’ it’s time I went back to Omaha.”

Karl didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” “I’m goin’ back home,” Robert said. “We’ve both lost our wives, and there ain’t no sense in stayin’ out in these god-forsaken mountains any longer waitin’ to get scalped. You’re welcome to go with me, but I’m aiming to leave this mornin’.”

“But Joanna’s still out there somewhere,” Karl insisted, astonished by his son-in-law’s decision. “We’ll find her.”

“Karl,” Robert responded impatiently, “we don’t know she’s even alive, and chances are she ain’t.”

“But we have to look for her,” Karl pleaded.

“Even if we found her, she ain’t the same woman that left here. You know that.”

“I don’t know any such thing!” Karl blurted angrily as Robert stepped up in the saddle.

With eyes cold and unfeeling, Robert stared down at his father-in-law. “You comin’ or not?”

“Hell no, I ain’t coming with you, you sorry dog. Go on! Get the hell away from here,” Karl raged. “I always knew Joanna was too good for the likes of you.”

“I’m sorry, Karl, but there ain’t nothin’ here for me no more. No hard feelin’s, though.”

“Get the hell gone before I get my gun and shoot your sorry ass,” Karl replied. He stepped back and watched his son-in-law ride out of the clearing, feeling like the last man left on the face of the earth.

Chapter 8

The uniformed guard tapped lightly on the office door before opening it far enough to stick his head through. “Clayton’s here, Warden,” he said.

Warden Nathaniel K. Boswell looked up from his desk. “Well, tell him to come on in,” he said, and leaned back in his chair in amused anticipation of the deputy marshal’s report.

Deputy Marshal Zach Clayton strode into the office. The trace of chagrin he wore on his face bore proof that he knew full well the reception awaiting him. Boswell did not disappoint.

“Howdy, Zach. I hear tell you’ve taken to riding the train lately,” the warden said. “Have a seat. I heard you’ve been doing a little walking, too.” He could not suppress all of the grin that threatened to spread across his face. He could well imagine the embarrassment for Clayton following his encounter with the escaped felons, resulting in his having to walk to Cheyenne, then take the train back to Laramie. Zach Clayton was a proud man, although he would never admit it.

Clayton and Boswell had known each other for a number of years, from the time when Boswell was a sheriff. He knew before he walked in that his old friend was going to ride him hard for this one. “Yeah, Nat, I reckon you can crow a little about this one, but it ain’t over yet.”

“According to your telegram, you had one of ’em, but you let him get away and leave you on foot,” Boswell said, enjoying the interview. “How’d that happen?”

Clayton smirked and rubbed the healing cut on his chin. “He was very persuasive,” he replied, “so I told him to go along and I’d just walk back to Cheyenne. Hell, it wasn’t but fifteen miles.” He went on to tell Boswell how he had happened to ride into the ambush with Ballenger and Yancey. “As for young Conner, that’s a hard one to figure out. If he hadn’t jumped those two from behind and run ’em off, I might still be pinned down behind my horse. It’s hard to arrest a man after he’s just saved your bacon.” He paused, thinking about it. “But I took the oath, so I arrested him”—he shook his head as if finding it hard to believe—“and then let him get the jump on me.”

“Got any ideas about Ballenger and the other fellow?” Boswell asked. “Where they might be headed?”

“None at all,” Clayton replied. “They could be heading anywhere, but I’d bet on Montana Territory, Bozeman or Helena most likely. They’ll show up before long, rob a bank or hold up a stage, and then I’ll be right behind ’em.”

“Zach, we could turn this over to another marshal in Montana,” Boswell suggested.

“Hell no,” Clayton responded at once. “I’ll run those bastards down if I have to go to Canada to catch ’em. I ain’t ever quit on a job.” His dark eyebrows lowered to form a heavy frown. “I’ll catch young Conner, too.” His frown deepened. “He might be a little harder to run down, ’cause he ain’t likely to rob no banks or nothin’. He just wants to lose himself somewhere, but one of these days he’ll turn around and I’ll be standin’ there.”

Expecting nothing less from the reliable deputy, Boswell said, “All right, it that’s what you’re of a mind to do. But, Zach, that country’s dangerous right now. You watch yourself.”

Joanna Becker knelt beside the gently flowing creek, trying to see her reflection in the water. It was not dark enough to reflect a clear image, giving her a distorted picture of her battered face. Much of the tenderness had gone from the bruises left by the brutal wide-shouldered savage, but she feared the cut on one side of her face would leave a scar. What will Robert think? she asked herself. “He’ll understand,” she said softly in reply.

She continued to stare into the water, touching her bruised face lightly with her fingertips. The touch caused her to shiver when she remembered the abuse that had brought about her wounds. She vowed that she would never tell her husband the full extent of her abuse. It might break his heart. She looked up from the creek to glance at the stranger who had rescued her and protected her as he led the horses up from the creek and prepared to saddle them. She thanked God for Clint Conner, marveling that he would interrupt his life to see her safely home. She also thanked God for the man’s decency. Out in these mountains, removed from all civilization, he could easily have used her and then abandoned her, and no one would ever have known. But she had learned that Clint was a man of integrity and honor, a man she could put all her trust in.

Reminding herself that she should help him break camp, she quickly splashed water on her face and smoothed her hair back. She couldn’t block the thought that crept in as she patted her face dry. He’s seeing me at my very worst , she thought. She was well aware that she was not really a pretty woman, but she knew that she was not truly homely, either. Just plain , she thought, and then scolded herself for even wondering whether it mattered how she looked to Clint.

“I expect we’d best get goin’,” he said when Joanna walked back from the creek, “if you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” she replied as cheerfully as she could manage. “I’ll just rinse out the coffeepot and put out the fire.”

Looking over the saddle as he tightened Rowdy’s cinch, he watched her as she hurried about the campfire. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit after what she had suffered. She had tried not to be a burden to him. Last night she had insisted that she should prepare their supper. “I should do something to carry my weight,” she had proclaimed, and mixed up some pan biscuits with the flour he had brought from his father’s house. They were pretty good, too , he thought. Her husband’s a lucky man.

In the saddle again, they started out, following the creek through a series of foothills, Clint first, leading his packhorse, and Joanna coming on behind. The prior two days had been spent tracing various springs and streams through the mountains in hopes that they would lead to some place Joanna recognized. None had, but the creek they were now on was only a few hundred yards from its confluence with a river that Joanna guessed might be the Beaver. Upon reaching the river, there was a question as to the proper direction to turn, north or south, in hopes of finding the forks that she remembered crossing when abducted. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t honestly know.”