Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Clint shrugged. “Tell you the truth, that snake musta crawled up between you and the fire to get warm, but I was afraid if you moved, it mighta struck. Besides, it wasn’t that close. He musta been six or seven inches from your head.”

“Oh,” was all Clayton replied, but he knew for sure that he had not misjudged the character of the man he was taking back for trial.

They made the trip in eleven days with half a day lost because of Clayton’s sick spell, and two delays when Sioux hunting parties were spotted. Bypassing Fort Laramie, they retraced the trail Clint had taken on his way to Montana weeks before.

“Where are you taking me?” Clint asked one evening by the fire. “Laramie?”

“No,” Clayton replied. “I’m supposed to take you to Cheyenne. You’ll have to go to trial there since that’s where you were sentenced. Then I expect you’ll be sent back to Laramie as soon as the trial is over.” He watched Clint’s face closely, wondering whether, now that they were within a couple of days’ ride, he might be getting cold feet about returning to prison. “Maybe they’ll give you your old cell back,” he said in an effort to lighten his spirits. “It’ll be like comin’ home.” He chuckled. “But I don’t expect you’ll be put on stable duty again.”

Clint laughed. “I don’t reckon.” Stable detail was for men who were not at risk of attempting escape. “It’s the broom factory for me.”

“Judge Wingate is a reasonable man,” Clayton said. “I think when he hears all the facts in your case, you’ll be outta there before that little gal of yours has a good chance to miss you.”

“What’ll happen to my horse and the rest of my stuff?” Clint asked.

“Well, your guns and saddle will most likely go to the sheriff’s office till they decide somethin’ else to do with ’em. They’ll put your horse in the stable—for a while, anyway. Then they may ship him to Laramie. I ain’t really sure.”

“These guns and the saddle belong to my pa, the horse, too. Any way he can claim them?”

“I don’t know,” Clayton said. “I’ll find out.”

Clint had not spent a great deal of time thinking about the problem. Now he wished that he had ridden one of the Indian ponies he had captured, and left Rowdy in Montana. He didn’t like the thought of the buckskin being turned out with a bunch of prison horses.

Sheriff Quinton Bridges took delivery of Clayton’s prisoner and locked him in a cell to await trial. Clayton informed the sheriff that Clint was a good man, and warned him that he’d better damn sure treat him proper. He came back to check on Clint that same day.

“I’ve notified Judge Wingate’s office, and wired the prison over at Laramie that you’re in custody,” Clayton said. “They promised me that Judge Wingate would try the case within a couple of days, so you shouldn’t be here too long.” He paused to look hard at Clint. “You all right?”

“Yep,” Clint responded, “I’m all right. I’ve been in jail before.”

Clayton nodded. “Okay then.” He got up from the stool he had pulled over next to the bars. “I’ll be back to see how you’re doin’.” On his way out, he spoke to the sheriff. “I’ll see you later, Quinton. Take care of my boy in there.”

“I will,” Bridges replied. He walked back to the cell and spoke to Clint. “Son, you must have somethin’ on ol’ Zach. I ain’t ever seen him worry about a prisoner like this before. More times than not, they’re pretty bloody when he brings ’em in.”

The trial date was set, and on the scheduled day, Sheriff Bridges handcuffed the prisoner and escorted him across the street to the courtroom. As Bridges led him to his seat, Clint nodded to Zach Clayton on the other side of the room. Seated in the noisy room of curious spectators, they awaited the arrival of the judge. After a delay of nearly half an hour, the court clerk called out, “All rise.”

Sitting stoically to that point, Clint suddenly felt a jolt throughout his whole body when the judge entered the room. It was Judge Wyman Plover! He started to surge forward, causing the sheriff to grab him and pull him back. “Whoa, boy, where’re you goin’?”

“That’s that son of a bitch, Plover,” Clint blurted. “It’s supposed to be Judge Wingate!”

“Plover’s fillin’ in for Wingate,” Bridges said, unaware that it made any difference to the prisoner. “Judge Wingate came down ill yesterday and Judge Plover rode in this mornin’ to try the case for him.”

Judge Wyman Plover called for the courtroom to be seated, then glared at the sheriff and Clint over the top of his spectacles. “Settle your prisoner down over there.”

It would be one of the shortest trials Sheriff Bridges could remember. The entire proceedings were finished in less than an hour. When Deputy Marshal Clayton was called to the stand, he asked to speak to the court on behalf of the prisoner. Judge Plover instructed him to respond to his questions with answers of yes or no. When he tried to testify on the cooperation of the prisoner and his willingness to risk his life to save that of the deputy, Clayton was told that his testimony was irrelevant to the charges against Clint. “We’re here to decide whether the defendant escaped from the Territorial Penitentiary or not, and you’ve already testified that he did. Added to those charges is assault with intent to kill prison guard Otis Williams.” When Clayton protested, the judge threatened him with contempt and ordered him to step down.

“The defendant saved that guard’s life!” Clayton insisted.

Banging his gavel forcefully, Plover ordered Clayton out of the courtroom. The deputy marshal had no choice but to do as he was ordered. “Now then,” Plover said after Clayton was gone, “we’ll get on with this trial.” He ordered the defendant to stand for sentencing. Addressing Clint, he proceeded. “Clint Allen Conner, it is the ruling of this court that you shall be returned to the Wyoming Territorial Prison, where you will serve the remaining three years and one month of your original sentence. In addition, you will serve two years in punishment for your escape and five years for the attempted assault on the guard.” He banged his gavel down. “This case is closed,” he announced, then after a smirk in Clint’s direction, he walked out the side door.

Unable to believe what had just happened, Clint sat down heavily in his chair, staring at the door that Plover had just exited. Just as stunned, the sheriff looked down at him, wide-eyed with shock. “Damn, boy, he threw everythin’ but the kitchen stove at you. He sure had it in for you.”

Clint didn’t speak for a few moments, still trying to right his tumbled mind. Then he looked up at Bridges and said woefully, “It was his horse I stole.”

The rest of that day was a tornado of conflicting thoughts that left Clint in a state of despair. Feeling betrayed, by Clayton as well as the vengeful judge, he cursed himself for allowing the marshal to bring him back to Cheyenne. Thinking he had been sentenced unfairly the first time, he had permitted himself to be persuaded to seek restitution from the court, aided by his deeds of compassion for the officers of the law. Looking back, now that it was too late, he thought himself a fool for swallowing Clayton’s promises of redemption.

Sheriff Bridges was quite contrite about the heavy sentence Plover had laid down for his young prisoner, and tried to make up for it somewhat by arranging for a special supper from the hotel kitchen. With no interest in food, Clint ate but a small portion of it. Clayton came to visit him just before supper. Even though he explained to Clint that he had been trying to gain an audience with Judge Wingate all afternoon, he could see the complete reversal of Clint’s attitude toward him. “I won’t forget you,” he said in parting. “As soon as I can see him, I’ll get the facts to Judge Wingate.” Growing more bitter by the minute, Clint didn’t respond, sitting glassy-eyed on his cot as Clayton closed the cell room door behind him.