Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Percy’s eyes widened a bit. “Fifty dollars and a bump? Whaddaya mean, a bump?”

“A bump on the head,” Ballenger said with a grin as Yancey brought the barrel of his pistol down hard on the back of Percy’s skull. Percy slumped to the ground, fighting to retain his senses. “Get that rope yonder,” Ballenger told Yancey, pointing to the wagon. While the injured man struggled helplessly, Yancey quickly tied him hand and foot. “Let’s pick us a couple of good ones and get them saddles on.” Walking past the trussed-up cook, Ballenger bent low and whispered, “I was just joshin’ about the fifty bucks and our horses.” There was no possibility he would leave the chestnut Morgan he prized.

In a short amount of time, they were finished. Riding fresh horses, and leading the Morgan and Yancey’s palomino, they set out for the Yellowstone with at least three good hours of daylight left. After riding about three miles, they spotted a rider driving a few head of cattle back toward the way they had come. Too far to hail, Ballenger took off his hat and waved a salutation. The drover waved back, causing Ballenger to chuckle delightedly. “He ain’t gonna be too happy when he gets back to camp and supper ain’t ready.”

Two more days’ ride found them at the Yellowstone River where the Boulder River joined it, and the little settlement called Big Timber for the tall cottonwoods there. They decided Big Timber offered everything they needed for the time being: a saloon, a trading post and general store, stables, and a blacksmith. “Looks to me like the very place we’re lookin’ for,” Ballenger commented upon looking the town over. They took their newly confiscated horses to the stable and paid in advance for a double ration of oats. Lem Turner, the owner of the stable, directed them to Maggie Pitts’ rooming house when they informed him that they were desirous of a real bed to sleep on, and they had the money to afford it.

Clint Conner, fugitive, made his way through Powder River country, following virtually the same path he had taken once before. With little to eat except some strips of dried jerky he found in his saddlebags, he traveled all day and half the night for the better part of a week until he had crossed the Platte River. Feeling the threat of starvation, he took the time to hunt when he came upon a herd of antelope working their way across the grassy prairie. Knowing it wouldn’t be easy, he attempted to stalk the animals anyway. But to his exasperation, they would not let him approach without taking flight. Then, farther away, they would linger and graze until he drew near again. It seemed to him that they knew the range of his Winchester and managed to stay just outside it. Finally in frustration, he decided to give up chasing the beasts, and try an old trick the trappers used to employ, one his father had told him about.

Leaving his horse at the bottom of a ridge, he crawled to the top where he could see the antelope grazing five or six hundred yards distant. Knowing their eyesight to be keen, he tied his spare shirt to the end of his rifle barrel. Still lying flat on his stomach in the tall grass, he held the rifle in the air and began waving it slowly back and forth. After maybe a quarter of an hour with no response from the nonchalant herd, he was ready to declare the idea nothing more than folklore. But then he realized that a couple of the animals had stopped grazing and now stood alert, their heads turned directly toward him. He hesitated a moment before beginning his circling motion again. Their curiosity aroused, two of the animals began to slowly approach the ridge, and one or two more paused to stare at the strange object waving in the grass.

“Come on,” he whispered as they cautiously crept closer and closer. “Come on.” Fearing that the skittish animals might suddenly run away, he had all he could do to restrain himself from taking a risky shot. But he forced himself to have patience, waving his rifle even though it seemed to have tripled in weight. The two antelope advanced to the foot of the ridge, some two hundred yards from him, but then stopped and began to prance playfully back and forth. Afraid they might turn and suddenly bolt, he let the rifle fall slowly to his shoulder, sighted on the foremost antelope, and squeezed the trigger. The animal dropped at once while the rest of the herd sped away.

Getting to his feet, he watched for a moment to make sure the animal was down for sure. Satisfied, he hurried back down to his horse, not wishing to waste any time collecting the carcass. As he rode Rowdy across the ridge to the other side, he could feel his empty belly twisting in anticipation of the fresh meat, but his first concern was to load the antelope on his horse and find a better protected place to skin and butcher it. He didn’t fancy the idea of being caught out in the open by a Sioux hunting party attracted by his rifle shot.

He rode for more than two miles before finding a place suitable to do his butchering. With water from a narrow stream that found its meandering way down the middle of a ravine, and rambling berry bushes for a screen, it offered the best choice for his camp. He didn’t know if there was already someone on his trail, but he decided that he was going to have to take the chance. He needed to take a day to rest Rowdy and prepare some food for himself. There were enough dead branches from the bushes to keep a reasonable fire going, so as soon as he unsaddled Rowdy, he started the fire and then went to work skinning the antelope. Before quartering the carcass, he sliced strips from the haunch and set them over the fire to eat while he finished the butchering. The first strips were eaten half raw, such was his hunger, for he couldn’t wait for them to cook. Tossing the sizzling meat back and forth from one hand to the other to cool it, he stuffed his belly full. When his appetite was sated, he felt the urge to sleep, but there was still work to do to dry some of the meat to take with him. Several times he interrupted his work to climb up to the brim of the ravine where he would sit for a period watching the prairie around him for signs of anyone approaching. He kept the periodic lookouts until darkness fell upon his ravine.

When finally he lay down for the night, he pulled his blanket over his tired body, and lay listening to the whispered sounds of the prairie night. Like the mountains at night, the prairie had its distinctive quiet. Anyone who has lain out under the stars to sleep can tell you the difference. When morning came, he ate more antelope, and packed the portion of the animal he intended to carry. With Rowdy rested, he set out again, hoping to strike the Lightning River before dark.

Pushing on across the prairie, he struck the Belle Fourche two days later, continuing along the same trail he had taken before when he had come upon Joanna. He told himself that it was the only trail he knew through that country, reluctant to admit that it was also a trail that led him closer to her. Common logic told him that he should not return to Frederick Steiner’s farm, that it would be the first place Zach Clayton would expect to find him. Knowing that, he still continued on the same path, rationalizing his decision by deeming the country around the Powder and the Big Horn too dangerous for a white man alone. “I’ll make up my mind when I reach the Yellowstone,” he announced aloud.

Four days of hard riding brought him to the banks of the Yellowstone River, a few hundred yards upriver from the saloon where he had encountered the two men he had killed. With no desire to see the saloon owner again, he rode farther upriver to find a spot to make camp and think about what he should do.

He was not entirely comfortable with the longing he felt to see Joanna Becker again. It was a new feeling for him, one that was hard to explain. The closest thing he could relate to the annoying sensation was feelings he had experienced in the past to see the rugged Rocky Mountain country, or the longing he had experienced in prison for the sense of freedom on the outside. This new emptiness he felt was different, and far more compelling. All said and done, he had to conclude that he might be in love with the woman. A hell of a thing , he thought, reacting as if he had caught a disease.