Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“Hell,” Yancey cursed, becoming more convinced that Clint’s presence might bring them bad luck, “we can’t ride into that town with him in that damn jail suit. Somebody’s likely to shoot on sight.” The plan, known only to Ballenger, Yancey, and Skinner to this point, was to hit the bank at Fort Collins. Yancey figured that Washburn would be included since he had supplied part of the bribe that got him and Ballenger on stable detail. He was wondering now what use the extra man might be, especially since he didn’t even have a gun. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he wasn’t going to agree to a five-way split on the bank job. “We got one more man than we need,” he said to Ballenger.

“I expect you’re right,” Ballenger replied. “We’d best get rid of him.” They didn’t know that Bob Washburn was already working himself up to take care of their problem.

In Washburn’s mind, Lady Luck had placed him in the cell next to that of Clell Ballenger. To Bob, it was the answer to a longing to be associated with greatness. Clell Ballenger was a living legend among outlaws. At least that was his picture of the notorious murderer, and he was honored to have been the one inmate allowed close contact. He was avoided by the other inmates because of the crime for which he was sentenced. And now, when they referred to him at all, they called him Ballenger’s lackey. But he didn’t see himself as Ballenger’s lackey. He thought he was Ballenger’s friend and confidant. After all, wasn’t he the only inmate privy to the famous outlaw’s escape plan? Now the presence of Clint Conner made him fear that his status as Ballenger’s friend might have suffered.

The more thought he gave it, the more he suspected Conner’s intention of moving in to take his rightful place as Ballenger’s right-hand man. Why, he wondered, had Ballenger let Clint kill the guard? I coulda done it , he thought. That would have proved to Ballenger and Yancey that he was worthy of their respect. Maybe they thought that because he was imprisoned for raping a child, he didn’t have the nerve necessary to kill. He needed to prove to them that he could.

Suddenly everything about Clint made Washburn angry, and his resentment toward Clint swelled up inside until he felt about ready to burst. When Washburn could stand it no longer, he approached Ballenger with a suggestion. “I don’t think we need that son of a bitch, Clell.” Washburn spoke in a low tone, all the while eyeballing Clint coldly. “He ain’t no good to us, and he’s gonna draw attention to us in them prison stripes.”

Ballenger looked mildly surprised. “Why, me and Yancey was just talkin’ about that. We was sayin’ we got one more man than we need. We’re figurin’ on hittin’ that bank in Fort Collins, and four’s an easier split than five—and four of us is plenty to take that little bank.”

“I knowed it!” Washburn exclaimed. “I figured Clell Ballenger would have a job all picked out!” Like a child, Washburn could not conceal his excitement at the prospect of robbing a bank with Clell Ballenger. He then jerked his attention back to the situation with Clint. “Why don’t I take care of Mr. Smart-ass Conner for you?” he suggested. “We don’t want him around messin’ up our plans.”

Ballenger grinned. “Why don’t you do that, Bob? Do us all a favor.” He glanced over at Yancey and winked.

Seated at the edge of the creek where they had made camp, Clint looked up to notice that three sets of eyes were focusing on him. He glanced over his shoulder at Skinner, who was evidently taking the opportunity to get a little shut-eye. Looking back again at the other three, he sensed that something was about to happen, something that involved him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Being the odd man, he had already given thought to the possibility that he might be eliminated. He was anxious to take his leave of the four, but not this way.

He put aside the saddle he had been working on when Washburn took a couple of steps in his direction. There was a smug expression on the simpleton’s fleshy face and he walked with an exaggerated swagger. Never taking his eye off the three outlaws, Clint casually reached behind him, feeling around until his hand rested on a sizable rock. Then, after another fleeting glance to make sure Skinner was oblivious of it all, he waited, watching Washburn carefully. Whatever the play, it appeared that it was to be Washburn’s alone, for Ballenger and Yancey seemed content to hang back and watch the show.

The only weapon he had was the rock his hand rested upon, not much to rely on when facing the six-gun riding on Washburn’s hip. He was thinking that it could amount to a swift execution if Washburn had brains enough to simply pull the pistol and shoot him. He was gambling upon the notion that the bumbling child molester would want to gloat over his position of dominance to satisfy his jealous ego.

Clint was accurate in his judgment of the man. Washburn swaggered up to stand a couple of yards from him. His feet spread wide, his hand resting on the handle of his holstered pistol, a mocking smile quirked slowly across his broad face. After taking a few moments to enjoy the situation, he spoke. “This here’s the end of the line, Mr. Smart-ass. It’s time for you to cash in your chips.” He took his time pulling the revolver, to give Clint plenty of time to think about it. Unable to understand why there was no desperate look of fear showing in Clint’s face, he thought he had to explain what he was about to do. “You dumb son of a bitch, I’m fixin’ to shoot you.”

“I figured,” Clint replied calmly. Another quick glance confirmed that Ballenger and Yancey were spectators only. His fingers tightened around the rock.

Disappointed to the point of dismay that his victim showed no signs of fear or panic, Washburn took another step closer and pointed the pistol at his head. “Damn you! I’m gonna put a hole in your head. How do you want it? Sittin’ there, or standin’ up?”

“Well, if you’re givin’ me a choice, I think I’ll take it standin’ up.”

Washburn took a step back to give himself room, still baffled by the victim’s calm acceptance of his execution, but he misjudged the quickness of the man he sought to kill. Clint’s moves were slow and deliberate until he rose to one knee. From there, however, he sprang up in a fraction of a second, hurling the heavy rock into Washburn’s face. The startled man could not help but flinch when the stone smashed his nose. It was all the time Clint needed to clamp down on the wrist of Washburn’s gun hand and jerk back on his arm with such force that the man’s shoulder popped out of joint. Washburn’s scream of pain brought Skinner up from a dead slumber. “Let ’em be!” Ballenger yelled at Skinner as the confused man drew his weapon.

With his right arm useless, Washburn was unable to hold on to his weapon. Clint easily wrestled it from him and cracked him upside the head with the barrel. Dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes, Washburn lay still, his eyes glazed, his mind a jumble of confusion. Clint backed away, far enough to gain a field of fire that could include the two men on his left and Skinner on his right. Aiming the pistol toward Ballenger and Yancey, he waited for them to make a move.

Still grinning, Ballenger held up his hand. “Take it easy there, son. Ain’t nobody gonna shoot ya.” He walked over beside Washburn, who was still lying on the ground. Still talking to Clint, he said, “I like the way you handle yourself, young feller.”

His head clearing somewhat, Washburn struggled up to his hands and knees. “Damn, Clell,” he whined, “I think he broke my arm.”

“That don’t matter none,” Ballenger replied. “You ain’t gonna need it.” When Washburn looked up, still confused, Ballenger explained, “Like I said, we got one too many.” With that, he pulled his revolver and put a bullet in Bob’s head. Looking back at Clint, he said, “Looks like you got yourself an outfit. You can shuck them clothes offa him. I shot him in the head so’s not to put a hole in his shirt.”