Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Later that evening, the sheriff came in to see him. With him, Clint saw a big rawboned man wearing a deputy’s badge. “This here’s Roy Spade, one of my deputies,” Bridges said. “He’ll be escortin’ you on the noon train to Laramie tomorrow mornin’.”

In contrast to the sheriff, Spade eyeballed Clint with a curled-lip look of contempt. He stepped up close to the bars of Clint’s cell. “Just so you know, jailbird, I don’t tolerate no trouble from jaspers like you. So it’s up to you. We can have us a peaceable little ride up to Laramie if you behave. If you don’t, I’ll break a gun barrel across your skull and deliver you in a box. You got that?” He waited for Clint’s response. When several minutes passed without one, save the unwavering glare of the prisoner’s eyes, Spade turned and left the cell room, saying, “You just remember what I told you.”

The next day, it was Zach Clayton who brought Clint his breakfast, and sat talking to him while he ate. Overnight, Clint had thought about what had happened and realized that he had probably been wrong in thinking Clayton betrayed him. Still, he had abandoned all hope of having Plover’s decision reversed, and the prospect of ten more years in prison loomed before him as the end of all the dreams he had allowed himself during the past few weeks.

About a half hour before noon, Roy Spade came in. “Where the hell have you been?” Bridges demanded. “I told you to be here thirty minutes ago.”

“Hell, it’s still half an hour before the train gets here, if it’s on time, and it don’t take but ten minutes to walk to the station.” He took the cell key off a peg and went to Clint’s cell. “Let’s go, jailbird.” He grinned at Bridges as he walked by.

“Have you been drinkin’?” the sheriff asked accusingly, detecting a whiff of alcohol.

“Hell no,” Spade responded. “I stopped in the Silver Dollar for one little shooter this mornin’, and that’s all.”

Bridges was still suspicious, but it was too late to do anything about it if Spade had been drinking. His other deputy had gone out to check on a report of cattle thieves operating near the Rocking-M Ranch. He watched Spade pull Clint’s hands behind his back and cuff him. He seemed steady enough, so the sheriff decided Spade was probably telling him the truth.

“Come on, jailbird,” Spade goaded, grabbing Clint by the arm and giving him a forceful shove toward the door.

It was only a short walk to the end of the street and the train depot. There were a handful of people on the street, and they all stopped to gawk at the deputy and his handcuffed prisoner as they passed. A couple of small boys ran along beside them all the way to the depot. Posturing for their benefit, Spade frequently gave Clint a shove in the back, usually accompanied by a mischievous grin. Clint took it in silence, even when he almost stumbled once when Spade was especially rough. All the while Clint cursed himself for willfully putting himself in this position.

The train for Laramie pulled in at about twenty-five after twelve, which the stationmaster maintained was pretty much on time for the noon train. Spade complained, anyway. He would be staying overnight in Laramie and catching a train back the next day. And the sooner he got to Laramie, the sooner he could get rid of his prisoner and hit the saloons.

He led Clint down the track to the last car. The first step was knee high, and with his hands behind his back, Clint couldn’t step up on it. Spade cursed him as if it were his fault. “I can’t sit down in a seat with my hands behind my back, anyway,” Clint complained. “If you handcuff me with my hands in front, I can grab the handrail and get on the train, and I can sit down after we get on.”

“Did I ask you anything?” Spade shot back. “You think you’re the first son of a bitch I’ve had to take to Laramie? Turn around!” He spun Clint around roughly, grabbed his wrists, and unlocked the cuffs. Spinning him back around to face him, he said, “Stick your damn hands up here.” It happened faster than Spade’s alcohol-addled brain could react. Clint brought his hands up as he had been ordered, but to Spade’s surprise, his own revolver was in one of them, the barrel looking him in the face. “What tha . . . ?” Spade blurted, and slapped his hand on his empty holster.

Stunned by the suddenness of Clint’s move, Spade stared wide-eyed at the ominous pistol muzzle aimed at his eye. He made no move to resist when Clint took the key from his fingers. Finding his voice at last, he said, “You ain’t gettin’ away with this, you damn fool.”

“Shut up,” Clint ordered. “Put your hand in there. Make no mistake about it, I’ll blow a hole in your head before I’ll go back to that prison.” The resolve in his eye convinced Spade that he meant what he said. The deputy stuck his hand out and winced as Clint closed the cuff around his wrist. He then pulled the other cuff through the handrail and ordered Spade to put his other wrist up.

“You can’t do that!” Spade complained. “I ain’t gonna be handcuffed to no damn train.”

“You rather be shot down beside it? All the same to me.” He pressed the pistol against Spade’s forehead.

“Wait! Wait, dammit!” Spade exclaimed, and held up his wrist. Clint locked the cuff and stepped back as he heard the conductor’s call to board. “We’ll hunt you down for this,” Spade threatened. “You’re as good as dead.”

Clint shoved the deputy’s pistol in his belt. “You’re a pretty big asshole, but I don’t know if you’re man enough to hold back a train. I’d say you’d best hop up on that step unless you wanna be dragged to Laramie.” After a couple of loud blasts from the engineer’s whistle, the engine roared into life, and the passenger cars started slowly rolling, leaving Spade no choice but to leap aboard. Clint stood beside the tracks and watched as the train picked up speed, and Spade yelled wildly at every person standing on the platform.

“What was he hollerin’ about?” an elderly man who had just gotten off in Cheyenne asked Clint when he walked by.

“I don’t know,” Clint replied, and kept walking. “I reckon it’s his first train ride.”

Taking care to walk unhurriedly back from the depot, he went around behind the jail, and proceeded to the end of the street and the stables. Entering the rear of the stable, he pulled Spade’s pistol from his belt and stopped just inside the door, scanning the interior of the building. The owner, who had seen Clint and Clayton when they had left Rowdy to be boarded, was nowhere in sight. Instead, the stable was left in the care of a boy of sixteen or seventeen. Clint stuck the pistol back in his belt.

Walking nonchalantly between the stalls, he approached the boy. “I’ve come to pick up a horse,” Clint said, “that buckskin yonder in the corral.” When the boy appeared uncertain about the request, Clint went on. “Sheriff Bridges sent me to get the horse—belonged to a prisoner that just left on the noon train. There oughta be a saddle in the tack room. I’ll get it.” He walked on past the hesitant boy on his way to the tack room. “Well, hop to it, boy, the sheriff said right away.”

“Mr. Bailey’s gone to dinner,” the boy said. “He oughta be back pretty soon.” He was obviously uncomfortable about someone riding off on one of the horses.

“Don’t have time to wait for Bailey,” Clint replied. “He knows about it, anyway. Sheriff Bridges will be by to make it right.” He smiled at the cautious youngster. “Now, how ’bout helpin’ me out and cut that buckskin outta there? I’m kinda in a hurry.”

Deciding that it must be all right if the sheriff sent the stranger over, the boy dropped the pitchfork he had been employing and hopped over the rails. He watched as Clint saddled Rowdy. “That Winchester and the gun belt was supposed to be took over to the sheriff’s office,” the boy pointed out. “I was fixin’ to do it today,” he lied.