Charles West - Lawless Prairie

There was one question in Clayton’s mind now: Where is Pete Yancey? He automatically took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure there was no one behind him. He heard the woeful voice of Sophie again as she pleaded, “Don’t, Clell, you’re hurting me.” It was enough to make Clayton decide to move in before the woman was hurt badly. He would have to take the chance that Yancey was not with Ballenger.

In one swift move, he thrust the curtain aside and burst into the room, and immediately knew he was a dead man. There was no one on the bed. Grinning wickedly at him on the other side of the bed, Ballenger stood in nothing but his underdrawers, one arm around Sophie’s neck, holding her before him as a shield. With the other hand, he aimed a pistol at the surprised deputy marshal.

“Well, if it ain’t my old friend, Deputy Zach Clayton,” Clell drawled smugly. “This time it looks like I got the jump on you, don’t it?”

“Hello, Ballenger,” Clayton replied. “Where’s that other cockroach you ride with?” Still reeling from the shock of walking into a trap, he realized that the only reason he was not dead was the cruel outlaw’s fondness for gloating. He quickly considered the odds of getting off a shot without hitting Sophie, but decided there was not much chance for one in a lethal spot. The best he could do was to hit him in the arm or leg, and Clell would simply shoot him for his trouble.

Answering Clayton’s question, Ballenger said, “Yancey? Oh, he’s around here somewhere, probably asleep in the kitchen. He always gets sleepy after he’s had a tussle with a woman.” Without taking his eyes off Clayton, he called, “Yancey! Come see what I caught sneakin’ in the tent.” There was no response to his call.

Knowing the only chance he had was to keep the gloating monster amused, Clayton attempted to jape him. “I gotta admit that was pretty slick. How the hell did you know I was out there?”

Ballenger responded with a bellow of a laugh. “Got you dead to rights, didn’t I?” He was almost gleeful in turning the tables on the deputy. “Sweet ol’ Sophie here needs a thicker curtain. When the sun shines through that open tent flap, it throws a shadow on the curtain. You just happened to come in when I was just fixin’ to get down to business.” Irritated then that Yancey had failed to respond, he turned his head toward the kitchen curtain and yelled louder, “Yancey! Wake the hell up!”

Clayton didn’t hesitate. He figured it was the only chance he was going to get. When Ballenger turned to call Yancey, he gave Clayton a target for one shot. Though only half his face was exposed, when he turned back to face the deputy, Clayton fired his rifle. The bullet caught the huge man in the jaw, ripping through his mouth and out the other cheek. In shock, Ballenger staggered backward, releasing Sophie. He tried to return fire, but was off balance enough to spoil his aim. The result of his shot was a bullet hole through Clayton’s coat just below the armpit. He didn’t have time for a second shot. Clayton dropped to one knee when Sophie fell to the floor, and cranked three more slugs into Ballenger’s chest, causing the huge man to release his pistol and drop to his knees. He remained on his knees long enough to mutter, “You’ve kilt me.” Then he fell face forward on the floor.

“I reckon,” Clayton replied, and immediately turned his rifle toward the kitchen curtain, expecting shots from Yancey. But there was no sound from that quarter.

With no more than a glance at the terrified woman, Clayton edged over toward the curtain, mindful of the surprise he had received when he came from the parlor. When Sophie’s sobbing became distracting, he growled, “You ain’t hurt. Put your clothes on and be still.” With still no sound or motion from the kitchen, he decided it was now or never, so he grabbed one end of the curtain, and with one violent move, he ripped it halfway across. At the same time, he knelt again with his rifle ready, only to confront an empty room. He stood frozen for a few moments, staring at a gaping rip in the outside canvas where Yancey had hastily fashioned a rear exit to Sophie’s tent.

In full flight, Pete Yancey was running for his life, having just been startled from a sound sleep by a sudden eruption of rifle fire that sounded as if it were right under the chair he dozed in. When the gunfire rattled his slumber, his first instinct was to escape. Without knowing who or how many had attacked Ballenger, he stumbled away from the kitchen table and sliced a hole in the back wall of the tent with his skinning knife. His one objective at the moment was to gain the protection of the sawmill.

Back in the tent, Clayton peered through the opening Yancey had cut in the back wall just in time to see the outlaw scurrying over a pile of logs. There was no shot, but he took it anyway, hoping for some luck. The slug ripped a chunk from a log, but Yancey got away. Knowing he couldn’t afford to let him escape to take cover in the town, Clayton plunged through the tear in the tent, faced with the prospect of making it across the fifty yards of open ground without getting shot.

Running as fast as he could while trying to zigzag to present a more difficult target, he felt a rifle slug kick up dirt beside his foot. It told him that Yancey took the shot while still running. In a matter of seconds, he reached the cover of the log pile Yancey had escaped behind. Breathing hard, he paused to consider his next move. Looking beyond the logs to the saw shed, he could see very little cover available to Yancey. Then, too late to get off a clear shot, he caught a glimpse of the rangy fugitive as he ran toward the general store. “Damn!” Clayton cursed. There were too many places in town that offered Yancey the opportunity to wait in ambush.

Inside the River House Saloon, Clint was talking to Sam Crowder. Sam was in the midst of answering Clint’s questions about the two strangers recently in his saloon. Before he could, however, the sound of gunshots rang out from the direction of Sophie’s. Both men ran outside, looking toward the river. As they stood there puzzling over the shooting, a man ran around the general store and stopped at the corner of the building, obviously preparing to ambush someone.

Clint felt a cold sensation grip his stomach. The man looked like Pete Yancey, but Clint was not certain. Regardless, Yancey or not, he was apparently waiting to shoot someone chasing him. Clint cocked his rifle and started walking toward the store. So intent upon the person chasing him, Yancey was unaware of the danger behind him. With his pistol ready, he peeked around the corner, waiting. When within a dozen yards of him, Clint called out, “Yancey! Drop it!”

Yancey’s reactions were lightning fast, but his aim was high as he whirled around and fired. His bullet went through the crown of Clint’s hat, knocking it off his head. Any other time, Yancey would have been fast enough to have gotten off another shot, maybe two more. But this time, when he spun around, it was to confront the face he thought he had seen in his dream, the clean-shaven, youthful face with the single lock of hair dropping across the forehead. The shock caused him to freeze long enough for Clint to fire back. No one could know of Yancey’s fateful dream in which he thought he actually saw the bullet that killed him, but in that fatal instant, Clint’s rifle slug slammed into Yancey’s forehead, dead center.

The last two shots, right between the store and the saloon, caused the unwise outpouring of people from other buildings, anxious to see what had happened. Clint, his heart still pounding from the near-death encounter, backed away slowly, uncertain of what he should do, if anything. He had just killed a man, but it was certainly good riddance. His uncertainty was short-lived, however, because Zach Clayton suddenly appeared around the corner. I should have known it was Clayton , he thought.