Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Clint was torn with anguish; he wished that he had more time to think about it. There were other factors that entered into his decisions now, the most important of which was Joanna. He had seen a glimmer of what might have been, and at this moment, he knew that it could never be if he was constantly on the run. He took his eyes off Clayton long enough to cast an inquiring glance in her direction. Her face, filled with distress, answered his unspoken question with a nod of her head, and she mouthed the silent words I’ll wait for you. Still uncertain, he pulled the rifle down from his saddle. They were all startled by what happened next.

“You don’t have to go anywhere with him!” John Steiner stated forcefully as he stepped up behind Clayton with a shotgun leveled at the deputy’s waist. “We’ll ride up in the badlands where nobody can find us.”

There followed a few minutes of chaos as Frederick exclaimed, “John!” and started toward his son. John waved him and his mother back while keeping the shotgun trained on Zach Clayton.

Realizing the consequences that were sure to follow John’s actions, and the certain ruination of the young boy’s life, Clint knew what he had to do. “John,” he said, “the deputy’s right. Put the gun down. It’s best I go back and clear this mark against my name.”

“But we can make it, Clint,” John pleaded. “I’ll help you.”

“I know you would, and I appreciate it, but it ain’t the right thing to do. You heard what Clayton said. I won’t be gone long, and your pa needs you here.” He waited until the boy lowered the shotgun, then turned to Clayton. “I reckon you win.” There was a sigh of relief from everyone.

“I expect it would be best to go ahead and get started,” Clayton said. He could see little sense in lingering there where there might be too many things to cause Clint to have a change of heart. He held out his hand for Clint’s rifle.

“Whatever you say,” Clint replied, surrendering the weapon. “I’m ready.”

“If we run into any Injuns, I’ll give it back,” Clayton said. “Might as well let me hold that pistol, too.” Then he extended his hand again, this time to shake Clint’s. “I’ll give you my word that I’ll do everything I can for you in court, and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me yours that you won’t cause me any trouble on the way back.” Clint nodded and shook on it.

It was a strange turn of events, a parting unlike any the deputy marshal had ever experienced before while in the process of making an arrest. Bertha quickly gathered some food for them to take and Karl filled a sack with oats for the horses. Clayton did not tie Clint’s hands or feet. It was more like two friends starting out for home after a visit. He stood by his horse while Clint spoke his final farewells.

After Clint thanked Frederick and Bertha for their hospitality, he shook hands with Karl, who told him he was doing the right thing. Next he shook young John’s hand, and charged him with the responsibility of taking care of his horses and the guns and ammunition he had acquired after the confrontations with the Sioux and the two bushwhackers from the saloon. “When I get back,” he said, “we’ll go up in the hills across the river and get us an elk.”

Joanna held back while he said good-bye to the others. When he turned to find her, she stepped forward and much to the astonishment of the males in her family, threw her arms around Clint’s neck. Pulling his head down to her, she kissed him with all the ardor she held in her heart. Astounded, Karl and Frederick could only look at each other and gape. When Joanna finally released him, she whispered, “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“I’ll surely be back,” he promised, then turned and led Rowdy out of the barn. Taking one last look at Joanna, he turned the buckskin toward the road and left at a fast walk. Clayton tipped his hat politely to the two women, nodded to the men, and urged his horse to lope until he caught up with his prisoner. Side by side, they settled into a comfortable walk and headed to Cheyenne.

Chapter 12

Covering thirty to forty miles a day, they drove a steady pace down through the Powder River valley, riding until they exhausted daylight, in an effort to pass through the still dangerous territory. The great village of Sioux and Cheyenne that had annihilated Custer on the Little Big Horn had long since splintered off in many different directions. But there was always the good possibility that many were still in the area, causing both men to watch constantly for any sign of hostile groups. At night the campfire was kept low, out of sight in a gully or other defile where possible so as not to attract any curious Lakota hunter. Since the trip would take better than a week and a half, there was plenty of opportunity for the two men to get to know each other a little better.

The first night out, Clayton had tried to sleep with one eye open. He trusted Clint at his word, but there was the nagging thought that he might change his mind after being away from that little lady back in Montana. There was no sense in taking a chance on losing him again. He finally threw precaution to the wind after the fourth day when he developed stomach cramps from eating the last of the meat Bertha had given them, the meat having spoiled after that length of time. They lost half a day’s travel when Clayton was too sick to get out of his blankets. Clint had the opportunity to do pretty much whatever he wanted, but he chose to help the stricken man as best he could, never giving any thought to escape. After that, Clayton gave Clint’s rifle and pistol back, saying, “Hell, if you didn’t run off when I was laid up pukin’ like a dog, I reckon your word’s as good as gold.”

Trying to make up for lost time, they pushed the horses hard the following day, never stopping until it was almost too dark to see. “Let’s head for those hills over yonder,” Clayton said, pointing toward a pair of buttes with a line of trees between them, indicating the presence of a stream. Guiding the horses down a rocky path cut by the narrow spring, they selected the best spot they could find in the growing darkness, and made their camp. After they’d taken care of the horses, there was little time spent sitting by the fire before turning in for the night. Clint roasted a little jerky for his supper. Clayton, his stomach still a bit tender after his bout with the tainted meat, settled for coffee alone.

The notch between the two buttes ran east to west, so the first rays of the morning sun shone directly down it, lighting tiny sparkles that danced upon the water. It was a peaceful place. Clayton opened his eyes to find himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol, pointed directly at his head. He froze, helpless to react fast enough and knowing he was a dead man.

“Don’t move,” Clint warned softly.

Clayton heard the ominous sound of the hammer cocking seconds before the revolver roared. Stunned, unable to believe Clint had missed at point-blank range, he rolled out of his blanket, trying to scramble to his feet, his mind a whirl-wind of chaotic thoughts. When he managed to get his gun out, he stopped, puzzled by Clint’s calm, smiling face as he pointed toward Clayton’s bedroll and the five-foot rattle-snake lying dead beside it. “Maybe we oughta be a little more careful where we make our beds,” Clint said, and holstered his pistol.

Clayton was stricken dumb for a few seconds, gaping wide-eyed, first at the snake and then at Clint. Then he finally found his voice. “Goddamn!” he exhaled. “Goddamn!” He shook his head over and over as if trying to rid it of his alarm. “I came mighty damn close to shittin’ the rest of that meat in my britches. Why couldn’t you just wake me up and tell me?”