Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint assured him. “I’ll see that it gets where it’s supposed to.” He stepped up in the saddle and wheeled Rowdy around.

“You say Sheriff Bridges is comin’ by to settle with Mr. Bailey?” the boy asked, seeking confirmation.

“You can count on it,” Clint said. “Bridges will be by.” Past ready to leave, Rowdy leaped forward as soon as he felt the slight pressure of Clint’s heels. Happy to be reunited, the two partners left the dust of Cheyenne behind them.

Riding free again over the rolling grass prairie, Clint felt a strong temptation to visit his father one last time, but there was the need to gain as much distance as he could from those who were certain to chase him. The sheriff and a posse, possibly Zach Clayton again, they would be on his trail soon. And his father’s place was not far enough from Cheyenne to hazard a stop there now. It was too bad, he told himself, for he could have gotten some supplies from his father. He wouldn’t suffer for food, anyway, since he had his rifle back.

The thing he must now decide was where he would run to. Clayton knew his heart yearned to return to Montana and the woman waiting there for him. Clayton was bound to show up at Frederick Steiner’s farm sometime. Consequently, that’s the last place Clint should go. But the need to see Joanna seemed to have intensified tenfold since his second escape, and he felt he owed it to her to somehow get word to her. Ever since he had left her, he felt an aching deep inside to see her again. Never having felt that way for anyone before, he was pressed to admit that he was in love. In love. Even the words seemed strange to him. Whatever the affliction, he knew that he wanted to be with her more than anything else. Still, he could not in good conscience bring his troubles to roost on the Steiner brothers. I’ll make up my mind later on , he told himself. For now, he would just continue to ride north.

Riding horseback from Cheyenne to Laramie, Zach Clayton arrived at the Wyoming Territorial Prison a couple of hours past dinnertime. He went straight to the warden’s office with the intention of persuading Boswell to do what he could to make Clint Conner’s life easier—hopefully, even convince the warden to help with an appeal for a new trial. He was not prepared for the news awaiting him.

Warden Boswell greeted him cordially as usual, but interrupted when Clayton began his plea on behalf of the returned prisoner, Conner. “I’m sure Conner is one helluva deserving inmate,” he said. “But the fact of the matter is that I don’t have a prisoner by that name at the present time. I do have a fugitive by that name who’s still very much at large.”

Confused, Clayton responded, “Whaddaya mean, Warden? Clint Conner was tried and sentenced day before yesterday. One of Quinton Bridges’ deputies brought him here yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, now, one of his deputies—name of Spade—brought in a railroad car he had evidently arrested. At least he was handcuffed to the handrail.” He sat observing a stunned deputy marshal for a few moments. “So from where I’m settin’, nothin’s changed in the status of my two escaped convicts. Ballenger and Conner are still runnin’ loose. The proper thing to do is to turn it over to the chief justice in Montana Territory to put one of his marshals on their trail. They’ve already wired about a couple of bank holdups. Last week two men in Helena held a pistol to the cashier’s head and got away with forty-seven hundred dollars in cash. They escaped on horseback.” He studied Clayton’s reactions to the news before continuing. “Maybe one of their men might have better luck in running Ballenger to ground.”

It was a stinging rebuke from a man from whom he had always enjoyed respect and friendship. Clayton got his hackles up a bit. “Dammit, Warden, I brought Conner in. It’s not my fault Spade lost him. But if you think another marshal can do a better job, then go ahead and ask for one.”

A hint of a smile appeared on Boswell’s face. “Why don’t you just go ahead and track him down again, but next time, bring him on back here? I don’t see why there needed to be a trial, anyway. A convict escapes from here, we just catch him and throw him back in a cell again.”

Leaving Boswell’s office, Clayton wasn’t sure he wanted to go after Clint again. The young man didn’t deserve to be incarcerated. He wasn’t an outlaw. He might have told Boswell to go ahead and get another marshal to do the job, but if the law demanded that Clint had to be apprehended, Clayton preferred to be the one to do it. He felt that he owed Clint. Another lawman might be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.

As far as Ballenger was concerned, that was a different story. Clayton wanted him badly, if for no other reason than the fact the son of a bitch shot his horse. Ballenger was a menace to the civilized world, a plague upon honest men and women. So Clayton would go again. He would pack up his war bag and his bedroll and start out for Yellowstone country once more. Ballenger and the piece of dung he rode with would show up sooner or later. And he wanted to be there when he did. His gut feeling told him that Ballenger and Yancey would be intent upon putting some distance between themselves and Helena if they were the two who pulled that bank job. Where would they go? Butte, maybe, but with plenty of cash, more likely some of the smaller towns back east. There were dozens of little settlements along the Yellowstone where a couple of outlaws could work their trade.

It was settled then. He would concentrate on finding Ballenger and Yancey, since they were a menace to society. Clint would have to wait. If he disappeared into Canada or somewhere, that was the chance Clayton would have to take. The other two were more important.

Chapter 13

Clell Ballenger braced himself in the stirrups against his horse’s steep descent down a rocky slide to the bottom of the canyon. Small pebbles and loose shale cascaded around the horse’s hooves, kicked up by Yancey’s horse behind him. Reaching the floor of the canyon, he urged the horse onward, following the narrow canyon, reluctant to stop to rest the animal. It was not a sound idea for a couple of bank robbers to hang around Helena. The town had proper law now, but it wasn’t that far removed from its vigilante days, and vigilantes were prone to hang any outlaws they caught.

“Clell!” Yancey called out from behind. “Let up, my horse is give out.”

Ballenger pulled back on the reins to let Yancey catch up. “All right,” he said, “I reckon we’d better rest ’em before we find ourselves walkin’ outta these mountains.” He looked back over the way they had come. “I think we got away clean. If anybody’s on our tail, they’re a helluva long way back.” Both horses walked along slowly now, their heads drooping from the long, hard ride with no stops for rest. “That looks like some sorta spring or somethin’ up ahead. We’ll water the horses there.”

“We’d better,” Yancey said. “I wasn’t far from havin’ to tote mine on my back.” He was ready for a rest himself. The wound in his shoulder, though healing well enough, still caused him some pain.

A small spring worked its way down through a notch in the canyon wall to form a small pool big enough for both horses to drink at the same time. While the weary mounts eagerly quenched their thirst, Ballenger and Yancey sat down with their backs propped against a large rock. Ballenger pulled a pouch from his coat pocket, reached in to extract a generous pinch of tobacco, and stuffed it in his mouth. He tossed the pouch to Yancey while he worked up his chew. Yancey stuffed his jaw with a chew as well, then leaned back against the rock. After a few moments while both men took turns spitting at the same rock on the edge of the spring, Yancey spoke.