Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Clayton stopped abruptly, his hand on the doorknob. He turned about and returned to the bar. “What’s your name, mister?”

“Sam Crowder,” the bartender replied.

“Well, Sam, help me out here. All right?” When Sam nodded, Clayton questioned him extensively about the appearance of the two men he had seen, their behavior, and how much money they had spent.

“Oh, they was well-heeled,” Sam said, “flashin’ money around, all night. They had a good time for theirselves. I kinda hated to see ’em leave, but they was gettin’ the itch—the big feller, especially—to go down by the river to Sophie’s.” He shook his head and chuckled just thinking about it; then he abruptly frowned at Clayton. “And you think them fellers might be the same ones that robbed a bank in Helena?”

“Maybe,” Clayton allowed. “I can’t say for sure till I find ’em.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong. Them fellers spent a lot of money in here. I’ve been lookin’ for ’em to come back ever since.”

“Yeah, they’re a lovable pair, no doubt about it,” Clayton said, and left the bartender still shaking his head in wonder as he walked down toward the river and Sophie’s tent.

“A lawman? Well, I’ve done business with more’n a few lawmen,” Sophie Beasley said, smirking, “but I don’t give no discounts to lawmen or lawyers.”

“I ain’t a customer,” Clayton informed her. “I’m here on business. I wanna ask you a few questions about a couple of your recent customers.”

“I don’t talk about my customers,” Sophie insisted. “How long do you think I’d stay in business if I talked about my customers?”

“Have it your way,” Clayton said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I was hopin’ to save you some hurtin’. These two I’m lookin’ for have killed a couple of women like you.” He thought he was lying, unaware of the recent fate of Maggie Pitts. His bluff worked, however.

Sophie’s face suddenly took on a serious look, and she paused to let his comment sink in as she thought about the imposing bulk of Clell Ballenger. “Well,” she reconsidered, “I get paid by the hour,” she said, “talk or wrestle, I get paid for my time.”

“I got no money for prostitutes,” Clayton said, and made motions as if about to leave. “I hope, for your sake, you ain’t one of the unlucky ones that has to deal with Clell Ballenger.”

Her face blanched at the sound of the name. “Clell!” she exclaimed. “That was the big fellow’s name. The other one was Pete. They didn’t offer no last names, and I didn’t ask for any.”

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Clayton said. His normally slow pulse quickened a bit as he realized that he might be close to Ballenger and Yancey. “Do you know where they went when they left here?”

“I don’t know where they went, but they said they was comin’ back in a day or two.”

“Good,” Clayton said. “I appreciate your help.” He started to leave.

“Wait a minute!” Sophie blurted. “Ain’t you gonna stay around to protect me? I don’t wanna do no business with a pair of murderers.” His warning had taken deep effect upon her.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I’ll be watchin’ for ’em.” Then he grinned. “I was just japin’ about them killin’ whores.”

“You son of a bitch,” she growled as he left.

After two days of hunting and exploring along Big Porcupine Creek, Clint decided to return to his original plan to follow the Yellowstone west. Impatient now to reach the high mountains he had always longed to see, he pushed on over rolling, tumbling prairie that seemed to stretch endlessly away from the winding river. A day and a half’s travel brought him to the confluence with a river he guessed to be the Big Horn, based upon the description he had received from John Tate.

The last few mornings had been quite chilly, even though the days were still mild, comfortable in fact. But the cool mornings were fair warning that the mild afternoons would be few in number from now on. Winter was never far away on the high plains, a fact that caused him to seek the protection of the mountains even more, and preferably in time to build a suitable winter camp. With these thoughts in mind, he welcomed the sight of a small trading post on the south shore where the Big Horn joined the Yellowstone. When he first spotted it, he wasn’t certain it was, in fact, a trading post. There was no solid structure, house or log cabin. Instead, a tipi, painted with tribal symbols, sat before a small corral with a rough shed for a barn. There was a board attached over the entrance to the tipi that proclaimed JIM CROSS—TRADER. It did not show promise of a permanent business. It was enough to engage Clint’s curiosity, however.

As Clint approached, a strapping bear of a man emerged from the tipi, dressed in buckskins and Indian moccasins. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, was worn long, and tied with a single strand of rawhide, so that it lay across his back like a great mane. His full beard was solid black except for a streak of white running from each corner of his mouth, giving the appearance of two long fangs. Though demonic at first impression, his face transformed to one of welcome as soon as he smiled and greeted Clint.

“Good afternoon, friend,” he said. “My name’s Jim Cross. Step down and rest yourself a spell.”

“Afternoon,” Clint returned, pulling Rowdy up before the tipi. He threw a leg over and stepped down. “If your sign means what it says, I’ll be needin’ a few things.”

Jim’s smile widened, displaying teeth whiter than Clint had ever seen before. “Well, if I’ve got what you’re needin’, I’ll do my best to skin you properly.” He laughed heartily at his joke. “What is it you’re a’needin’? I’ve got some flour and coffee beans, dried beans and salt, if it’s food you’re wantin’.”

“What I’m lookin’ for is somethin’ to keep me warm. Winter’s comin’ on and I need somethin’ more than the wool coat I’m carrying.”

Jim Cross nodded his understanding, then stepped back and took a sidelong look at Clint’s packhorse and the few mule deer hides tied across his packs. His expression was not one of great expectation. “What have you got to trade?” he asked. “If you’re thinkin’ about a bearskin coat or somethin’, them hides there ain’t hardly enough to get you a sleeve.”

“I’ve got three hides,” Clint replied. “I need to keep one of ’em. So I can trade two, but I’ve got a shotgun, some rifles, and a couple of pistols to trade, too.”

Jim’s eyes lit up at this. “Well, now, that’s different. It sounds like you and me can talk some trade. Hold on a minute.” He turned his head slightly toward the tipi. “Spring Flower, come on out here and make us some coffee.” He turned back to Clint, his smile still in place, and said, “We might as well have a little somethin’ to warm our bellies while we talk.” He paused a moment while a slender Indian woman emerged from the tipi and went to the fire to fetch the coffeepot. “This here’s my woman, Spring Flower, full-blood Crow. Come on inside and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

Clint followed the huge man inside, noticing the rifle propped next to the flap where the woman had evidently stood covering her husband until sure that Clint was intent only upon trading. On one side of the lodge, he saw a bed and some cooking utensils. The rest of the tipi was filled with stacks of furs, kegs of molasses, barrels of flour, sugar, beans, and other supplies. Clint was taken aback at the sight of so much merchandise packed inside the small dwelling. He turned to Cross and commented, “You’re gonna need to build you a house.”