Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“I won’t be no trouble,” the terrified woman quickly pleaded, unable to take her eyes off the mutilated body of her mistress.

“All right, then, pack up!” Ballenger ordered. “I’ll go get our horses. While I’m gone, pack all the food and stuff you can find in the kitchen and anything else we might use.”

Thinking it best that he went alone to the stable, he walked in just as the owner was hurrying out to see what the gunshots on the other end of town were about. Not expecting to see the big man again after the visit from the marshal, Lem Turner managed to suppress his surprise when Ballenger walked in and said he had come for the horses. It was obvious that the marshal’s confrontation with Ballenger and his partner had not gone well for the lawman. He attempted to make casual conversation, but could not accomplish it when facing the outlaw. Ballenger scowled at him when he mentioned extra costs for oats, causing Lem to say, “No extra charge, though. We’ll call it even.”

When he returned to the house, Clell and Yancey searched for the money they had spent while they were there, especially the fifty-dollar charges for Ballenger’s contracts with Maggie. The search was to no avail until Clell’s temper erupted again and he started smashing the furniture. It was then that the money showed up in a bureau drawer with a false bottom. At Yancey’s direction, Corrina took her pick of the clothes strewn around on the floor and changed into them before Yancey’s leering eyes. Just at dark, they rode out, heading east, with Ballenger leading Thompson’s horse loaded with food and supplies, blankets and ammunition. Yancey followed with Corrina holding on behind him. Ballenger decided to leave the other two horses, not wanting the bother. They would have preferred to wait until morning, but they could not be certain of the little town’s reactions to the killing of the marshal. There was always a chance that somebody might take a shot at them.

When they had ridden far enough to feel safe, they stopped to make camp where a series of gullies broke down to the river. “Might as well stop here,” Ballenger said. “It’s so damn dark we’re liable to break a horse’s leg in these damn gullies.” When they dismounted, he told Corrina to make a fire and fix something to eat. She quickly did as she was told, fearful of triggering her captors’ ire. After feeding them, she submitted to both men’s carnal needs without protest. Afterward, she lay bundled in a quilt taken from Maggie’s bed and waited patiently until both men were snoring contentedly. Hesitating briefly as she tiptoed between the two sleeping men, she considered the possibility of slipping the revolver from Yancey’s holster and shooting both men. The revenge for herself and her mistress would go a long way in repaying the savage pair for their brutality. But the thought of waking them before she could accomplish the deed was enough to prevent her from trying.

Moving quietly then, she tiptoed away from the fire and led the deputy marshal’s horse down along the riverbank, afraid to take the time to steal one of the saddles. Once she was sure she was beyond their hearing, she jumped on the horse’s back and rode away in the night.

Chapter 16

Planning to follow the Yellowstone to the far mountains, Clint Conner made his way westward. He opted to avoid most of the infrequent settlements he encountered along the river, riding around the random clusters of tents and shacks of traders and trappers. The occasional farm bore evidence of the Indians’ departure as a few brave souls moved in to attempt a living in a land still far from civilized. After camping one night near the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Rosebud creeks, he rode on until he struck another creek, where he came upon two men in the process of building a cabin. Inclined at first to ride around them, he reconsidered, thinking the men looked innocent enough.

“Good day to you,” Clint called out as he approached. They were so intent upon their labor that both men were startled.

After quickly moving to stand next to the rifles propped against the knee-high wall of the cabin, they stared back at the stranger for a long moment before one of them returned the greeting. “Good day to you,” he echoed, watching him carefully.

The other man, after scrutinizing him and his packhorse for a few moments, decided that Clint was no more than a lone traveler. “Howdy,” he said. “Where you headin’?”

“West,” Clint answered.

“Any place in particular?” the man’s partner asked.

“Just west,” Clint replied, smiling.

Judging Clint to be friendly enough, the first man said, “How you gonna know when you get there?” Then before Clint could answer, he asked, “You new in this part of the country?”

“Yep,” Clint replied, “but I reckon everybody out here was new sometime.”

The two men looked at each other and laughed. “Step down if you will,” the second man said. “We’re fixin’ to knock off for some dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

At this particular time the invitation appealed to Clint. “Much obliged,” he said. “I am gettin’ a little stiff in the saddle, and a cup of coffee would taste good right now. I’ll even furnish the coffee.”

It turned out that the men were brothers, John and Julian Tate, and they were the vanguard for two younger brothers who were planning to join them in the spring. “We’re figurin’ on settin’ up a sawmill,” John, the eldest, said. “James and Jeremy will be bringin’ the sawmill with them.” Clint gave his name as Clint Allen, using his middle name for last.

“We’re figurin’ this is a good spot for a town, what with the steamboats comin’ up the river and all,” Julian said. “If you’re just lookin’ for a place to settle down, you might consider this place.”

“You may be right,” Clint said, “but right now I’m just goin’ to see what I can see.”

Soon the coffeepot was bubbling, and the Tate brothers fried up some bacon to eat with biscuits they had made that morning. Taking coffee only, Clint spent a pleasant hour with them before bidding them good luck with the sawmill and their town and climbing back in the saddle.

He continued west along the river for the rest of that day until approaching darkness found him at another creek, this one larger than the one the Tate brothers were building on. It seemed an ideal place to make camp, so he turned off the river track and rode up the creek for a quarter mile or so until finding a place that suited him. With plenty of grass for the horses, as well as water and trees for protection, he set about making his camp for the night.

At morning light, he took his time about leaving, deciding to take a better look around him. When he had made camp the night before, there had been very little light to inspect the spot in which he had landed. The abundance of deer sign caused him to consider exploring the creek a little farther, so he saddled Rowdy and loaded the pinto and followed the creek north.

Fairly wide in places, the creek wound its way through hilly prairie land like a great snake, lined with trees and thick brush. With the presence of deer sign everywhere, the opportunity to find fresh meat replaced thoughts of returning to the Yellowstone right away. Before the end of the day, he was rewarded with an easy shot at a young buck drinking at the creek. Clint thought it a good sign, and decided to make his camp on the spot with plans to further explore the creek.

Julian Tate straightened and gazed toward the edge of the cottonwoods. “John,” he said, “there’s somebody comin’.”

John dropped his ax and turned to follow his brother’s gaze. A lone rider aboard a strawberry roan was approaching at a slow walk. “I swear, it’s gettin’ downright crowded out here,” he said. “That’s the second rider we’ve seen in two days. I wonder if he’s as lost as that other feller.”