Charles West - Lawless Prairie

The stable’s owner and blacksmith were one and the same, a cheerful fellow named Farley James. He was shoeing a chestnut Morgan when Clint pulled Rowdy up in front of the stable door. Giving Clint no more than a glance, Farley continued nailing a new shoe on the Morgan’s hoof until it was finished; then he dropped the hoof to the ground and straightened up to greet the stranger.

“How do?” he said. “You needin’ somethin’? Stable or smithy?”

“Howdy,” Clint replied. “I think my horse is gettin’ ready to throw a shoe.”

“Well, let’s take a look,” Farley said. “Just let me put this horse back in the stall.” He led the chestnut to a wide stall in the rear of the stable and put him in with another horse. He returned and lifted the leg indicated by Clint. “It’s loose, all right. It’s pretty worn, too. If all of ’em are this worn, it wouldn’t hurt to replace ’em all.”

Clint was not surprised. “I expect they are,” he said. “And I expect you might as well replace ’em.”

“What about your packhorse?” Farley asked. “Is he in the same fix?”

“He’s an Indian pony. He ain’t wearin’ no shoes.”

Farley grunted his disappointment. “All right, then,” he said, “I’ll get right on it. You can stand around and wait, or leave ’em here and come back in about an hour.”

“I reckon I’ll wait,” Clint said, and stepped back out of the way.

He watched for a while until he became bored with it, and then walked back through the stable toward the corral behind, always interested in horses. Near the back door, he passed the stall Farley had led the Morgan to. He glanced at the horse, just noticing the palomino in the stall with him. He paused for a moment to admire the showy palomino, then started to walk on. He stopped and went back to the stall, a startling thought frozen in his mind. Looking harder at the two horses—a chestnut Morgan and a palomino—he muttered, “The Goddamn world ain’t that small.” Taking a closer look, he noted the faces of the two horses, the palomino with a white race, the Morgan with a white star. Ballenger and Yancey! He was struck dumb for a second or two, unable to believe that he had crossed their path again, but he was certain he correctly remembered the horses the notorious pair rode.

He quickly walked back to the front of the barn. “Those two horses in the back stall, who do they belong to?”

“I don’t know,” Farley replied, “two fellers ridin’ through town.”

“One of ’em big with a flat nose?” Clint asked. “The other one tall and kinda skinny?”

“I couldn’t say,” the blacksmith responded. “I was gone to dinner when they brought ’em in. They left ’em with Edgar. He’s the boy that helps me out around here. Edgar didn’t say nothin’ about what they looked like. They gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said to shoe ’em, they’d go get a drink and come back for ’em. So I shoed ’em.”

Clint didn’t say anything more for a long moment while he considered the possibility that this was merely a coincidence. But what if it wasn’t? Hell , he thought, it’s mighty long odds. Most likely it’s not the same pair. Feeling the probability that the horses belonged to someone other than Ballenger and Yancey, he nevertheless considered riding out of town to avoid the improbable encounter. His curiosity got the best of him, however, and he decided he had to see for himself. “Your boy didn’t say where the two of ’em went for a drink, did he?”

“Nope,” Farley replied, pausing in his work to wonder now about Clint’s profound interest in the two men. “I doubt he asked, but the closest saloon is Sam Crowder’s place.” He pointed toward the south end of the street. “The River House.”

“I’ll be back for my horses,” Clint said as he drew his Winchester from the saddle sling. “Maybe I’d better pay you now. I might be in a hurry when I come back.”

“Maybe you’d better,” Farley said, dropping Rowdy’s hoof and wiping his hands on his apron. It seemed like the smart thing to do, judging by the stranger’s questions and the way he checked his rifle.

While Clint talked to the smithy, Zach Clayton sat sipping his bitter coffee at a back table in the River House. It wasn’t long, however, before his patience ran out on the waiting as well as the overcooked coffee. Finally he got up and went to the bar, where Sam was busy cleaning shot glasses with a rag that looked as if it had been used on the floor. “Those two men I asked you about,” Clayton said, “did they give you any idea when they might be back?”

“Them two?” Sam replied. “Hell, they was already in here ’bout thirty minutes before you came in.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Clayton roared.

Sam appeared truly astonished by the question. “You never asked,” he responded.

Thoroughly disgusted with the halfwit, Clayton came close to going over the bar after him. “I’ve been sittin’ back there waitin’ and all that time you coulda told me they’d already been here. I’ve got a good mind to . . .” He stopped short of threatening the man’s life.

Sam backed away from the bar, confused by the sudden outburst, and concerned for his safety. “Well, damn,” he said, “they just went down to Sophie’s—most likely still there—ain’t been that long.”

Wasting no more time with the simple bartender, Clayton charged out the door. Pausing only long enough to draw his rifle from the scabbard, he ran toward the river, leaving his horse tied at the rail. When he got to the sawmill, roughly fifty yards upstream from the long tent that served as Sophie’s place of business, he ducked inside the shed that housed the steam engine. The mill was standing idle with no one in the engine shed or the long shed where logs were stacked, awaiting the saw.

Making his way around a stack of recently sawn boards, he knelt on one knee while he studied the entrance to Sophie’s, taking note of the fact that there was no back entrance. He was not sure the information just gotten from Sam Crowder was, in fact, accurate. There were no horses tied at the front of the tent, and from the point where he knelt, he couldn’t see the other side. He remained there for a quarter of an hour, waiting to see whether anyone came in or out. Finally when patience began to ebb, he decided to make his move and assume Ballenger and Yancey were both inside.

Running in a slight crouch, his rifle ready to fire in an instant at the first sign of a target, he covered the ground between the sawmill and the tent quickly. Pulling up beside the front flap of the tent, he paused a moment to catch his breath and listen before slipping inside.

There was no one in the front part of the tent that served as Sophie’s parlor. Stepping carefully on the board floor so as not to make a sound, he moved across the tiny room to the curtain that served as a wall between the parlor and the bedroom. Having been there before, Clayton knew that there were only three compartments in the tent. The third was Sophie’s kitchen. From the sound of labored breathing, he knew that Sophie was in the midst of a business deal. A moment later he heard conversation that told him he had run his prey to ground.

“Damn you, what the hell’s the matter with you? You look like a scared rabbit,” a gruff male voice complained. “If you don’t loosen up and give me the ride I paid for, I’ll take my money back.”

“I’m sorry, Clell,” Sophie pleaded fearfully. “I’m doin’ the best I can.” On the other side of the curtain, Clayton could well imagine why Sophie was tense. He was to blame.

“By God,” Clell said, “you was a helluva lot more worth the money last time.”