Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach Clayton had figured on making it to Little Porcupine Creek to camp that night. He made it with a good hour of daylight to spare, but he didn’t expect to find two fellows building a cabin there. Seeing no need to be overly cautious, he rode on in and pulled up before the two men eyeing him carefully. “Looks like you fellers have got a right fair start on a cabin,” he said.

“We’re workin’ at it,” John Tate replied.

Clayton looked around the clearing, noting the small tent off to the side and the horses hobbled a few dozen yards away. He saw no sign of women or children. Still seated in the saddle, he said, “I’d figured on restin’ my horse and camping close to the creek tonight, but I’ll ride on a ways.”

“What brings you out this way, friend?” Julian asked.

“I’m lookin’ for somebody,” Clayton replied. “I’m a deputy marshal outta Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory.” He opened his coat to display his badge. “Two fellers robbed a bank over at Helena,” he continued. “Pretty bad pair, one big with a flat nose, the other one rangy with a face like a weasel. You seen anybody like that?”

“Cheyenne?” John questioned, ignoring the question. “You know you ain’t in Wyomin’ Territory, don’t you?”

Clayton smiled patiently. “I know,” he said, “but I started chasin’ ’em in Wyomin’. You seen ’em?”

Both brothers shook their heads. “Nope,” John replied. “Ain’t seen nobody like that. We don’t get much company.”

“Except for the last two days,” Julian reminded him.

“That’s right,” John said, “you’re the second feller passed by here in the last two days. We didn’t see nobody for a month before that.”

“ ’Pears like you know where you’re goin’, though,” Julian commented. “That feller we saw the other day didn’t rightly know where he was headed.” He laughed, then added, “He was a nice enough young feller, though.”

The comment struck a chord in Clayton’s mind. He had heard a similar remark from Billy Turnipseed about a stranger he had met back at the Belle Fourche. It would be too much of a coincidence, but he felt compelled to ask, “Was he ridin’ a buckskin dun?”

“As a matter of fact, he was,” John replied. “He a friend of yours?”

“Maybe. How long ago did you see him?”

“Day before yesterday, about dinnertime.”

“Remember his name?”

John shook his head. “No, I swear I don’t. You remember, Julian?”

“Nah,” Julian replied, scratching his head. “Allen somethin’ or somethin’ Allen. I ain’t sure.”

Coincidence was piling upon coincidence. Clayton told himself the stranger they had seen was not likely Clint Conner. He didn’t figure Clint to be traveling west along the Yellowstone. He felt sure the young man would have headed straight for that young lady on the other side of the Tongue River. Still, it was intriguing enough to encourage him to try to pick up his pace in hopes of catching up with the man, just to satisfy his curiosity. He intended to search through every town, trading post, and collection of huts between here and Bozeman on the chance that Ballenger and Yancey might be running this way. If there was no sign of them by the time he reached Bozeman, he would try Butte and maybe Virginia City. He had a feeling they wouldn’t fan out too far from the whiskey mills and whorehouses. They had money to spend. He hadn’t figured on Clint, and he didn’t particularly want to catch up with him if he was the man these two men had seen. He couldn’t resist, however. “Well, I think I’d best get on my way,” he finally said.

“You’re welcome to light and camp here tonight,” John said.

“Much obliged, but I think I’ll push on a ways yet. There’s a good hour before dark. Maybe I’ll see you fellers on the way back.”

The Tate brothers nodded good-bye and watched Clayton as he headed west along the river, then went back to work on their cabin. Clayton held his horse to a steady walk, knowing the roan was already tired, but he figured it wasn’t too hard on him to go a little farther before resting. When dark caught up with him, he made a hasty camp by the river.

The next morning, he did not linger by the fire. Downing the last of the coffeepot, he was soon in the saddle and heading west. Making good time, he crossed Big Porcupine Creek before noon, and continued on toward the Big Horn. Traveling light, and with no packhorse, he was making good time, but the rider the Tates had told him about had too much of a start on him for Clayton to know whether he was catching up or not. Discouraging also was the absence of recent tracks that he could even speculate upon as being those left by Clint Conner.

Three days without sighting anyone brought him to the thriving settlement of Coulson. It had grown a great deal since he had last traveled this part of the country. The recently signed treaties with the Sioux had opened the land along the river to development, and there was already a rush of settlers to claim newly surveyed land for farms outside the town. Clayton was amazed at the new buildings when he rode into the town. A two-story hotel was under construction to add to several saloons, a post office, a general merchandise store, and a telegraph office. Someone had also set up a ferry across the river.

It was the kind of place two outlaws like Ballenger and Yancey might find to their liking. Clayton decided to stable his horse and stop over long enough to keep a watch on the saloons and the large tent he spotted near the ferry landing that was obviously a whorehouse. If Ballenger and Yancey were anywhere in the vicinity, they would most likely show up before long. I could use a little rest myself , he thought as he guided the roan toward the stable. A day or two out of the saddle and a drink of whiskey would go pretty well right now .

After stabling his horse, he took a walking tour of the town, stopping at the telegraph office first to wire Cheyenne that he was still alive and working. Afterward, he checked the saloons and talked to the bartenders. No one had seen two men matching Ballenger’s and Yancey’s descriptions. The last saloon he visited was the River House, and this was where he decided to have his drink.

“These two fellers you’re lookin’ for,” the bartender asked, “they friends of yours?”

“Hardly,” Clayton replied, sipping his drink. “Have you seen ’em?”

“You a lawman?”

“That’s right,” Clayton answered.

“What did they do?”

“Well,” Clayton replied impatiently, “lately they robbed a bank up in Helena. Along the way, they’ve murdered and stole all over Nebraska, Kansas, and Wyoming.”

“Dang!” the bartender exclaimed quietly. “And you think they’re around here?”

“I don’t know if they are or not. I’m just tryin’ to find out. Have you seen anybody that fits that description?” Clayton was beginning to lose his patience with the man.

“Ain’t that somethin’,” the bartender said, shaking his head in wonder. “So we’ve got law in town now. I didn’t even know that. How long have you been here?”

“Jesus Christ, man!” Clayton exploded. “I’m not the local law here. As far as I know, there ain’t no law in Coulson. I’m a U.S. deputy marshal out of Cheyenne, Wyomin’, and I’m tryin’ like hell to find two outlaws that might be headed this way.”

“Cheyenne? That’s a helluva ways from here, ain’t it?”

“It ain’t far enough,” Clayton replied, his patience shot. He tossed the last of his whiskey down and promptly walked out.

As he reached the door, the bartender called after him, “I think them two fellers mighta been in here night before last.”