Charles West - Lawless Prairie

With no display of emotion on his face, Clint replied, “That was damn thoughtful of you.”

Ballenger threw his head back and chuckled. “You’re a cool son of a bitch.”

Although maintaining a calm exterior, Clint could feel the cold pocket of sweat that had appeared under his arms, left by the tense moments of uncertainty when he was waiting to see whether he was about to meet his Maker. His unruffled demeanor convinced Ballenger that it was a good trade-off when he rid himself of the clumsy Washburn. He figured any man who exhibited such cool nerve when facing a .44 with nothing more than a rock in his hand would prove to be damn handy in a bank holdup.

“I’m cuttin’ you in for a full share of a little job Yancey’s lined up in Fort Collins,” Ballenger said. “We’re plannin’ on hitting the bank there day after tomorrow.” He then deferred to Yancey and Skinner. “That all right with you boys?”

Skinner merely shrugged. Yancey answered, “I reckon it don’t make no difference to me. We’d already planned on a four-way split,” he said, although still not sure it wouldn’t have been more desirable to have had the threat of the dream killer eliminated.

“Whaddaya say to that?” Ballenger asked Clint.

“Sounds all right to me,” Clint replied. This was not the time to tell them that he wanted no part in anything the three had planned. Admittedly, he was a fugitive and on the run, but he had no intention of going the way of many an ex-convict. He was not a bank robber or murderer, and he was determined not to become one, no matter how desperate the situation. He had no choice but to seem to play along with them for the moment, however.

“Good,” Ballenger said. “We’ll strike Fort Collins by tomorrow afternoon and look the job over. Yancey says they ain’t got much of a sheriff, but it don’t matter much. The four of us can handle anything they got.”

Clint nodded and returned the smile Ballenger aimed his way. At least, his main problem had been solved. He immediately busied himself with the removal of Washburn’s boots and clothes. The clothes were not a good fit, but they would do. His luck was better when it came to the boots. They were a size larger than Washburn had needed, but just right for Clint. He strapped the gun belt on and then pulled the Winchester from the saddle sling, checked the action, and made sure the magazine was loaded. Satisfied, he turned back to the campfire, feeling a great deal more comfortable.

“Now that you got him skinned,” Yancey remarked, looking at the corpse lying there with nothing but his underwear remaining, “drag him on outta here. He didn’t smell too good before he was dead.” He watched as Clint grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled it away from the camp. “You can pay me for them guns and clothes outta your share of the bank money.”

“I reckon,” Clint answered, looking the ferret-faced outlaw squarely in the eye. He backed toward a shallow gully, dragging the dead man over the rough ground, Bob Washburn’s sightless eyes staring wide up at the sky, his head bumping drunkenly along the rocky stream bank. The world ain’t lost much with him gone , Clint thought as he dumped him into the gully.

Echoing Clint’s thoughts, Clell said, “I never cared much for that boot-lickin’ turd,” as he walked over to his horse to get some tobacco from his saddlebags.

Clint studied the three men he was now associated with. There was no doubt that Ballenger was the leader and Yancey was his lieutenant. Skinner seemed little more than hired help. The ranking had been obvious even in the line of travel, with Ballenger leading astride a chestnut Morgan with a white star on its face. The horse was probably no more than fourteen hands high, and looked even smaller carrying Clell’s bulky figure. Yancey, by contrast, rode a splendid palomino with a white race on its face, and the lean, rangy man rode slumped over in the saddle as if trying not to have his head higher than his leader’s. Knowing his place, Skinner seemed content to ride along behind the other two.

It was early afternoon when they rode into the town of Fort Collins, close by the Cache la Poudre River. Judging by the look of it, Clint surmised that Fort Collins was a thriving place to live, with a church and a school, several stores and saloons, and a bank. On the way in, they had passed a few farms as well. The town seemed to indicate a welcome atmosphere. Clint couldn’t help feeling remorse, knowing what lay ahead for the citizens with money in the bank. It was a helpless feeling as well, for he struggled with the question of whether or not he should try to warn the sheriff, or the manager of the bank, so that they might ready themselves for Ballenger’s visit. It was a dilemma he would wrestle for the balance of that day, for there were several sides of the problem to consider. He truly desired to prevent the holdup of the town’s bank, but he planned to be long gone from Fort Collins before tomorrow dawned. Also to be considered was how the sheriff would react if he warned him of the planned robbery. Since he was an escaped convict, the sheriff might deem it his responsibility to hold him, and Clint had no intention of returning to prison now that he was out. His only desire was to leave the territory and possibly head north to live free in the mountains and prairies of Montana Territory, lose himself somewhere. How was it his responsibility to warn the town, anyway? It would be in his best interest to simply slip out of town that night, and let the sheriff and the bank take care of their problem themselves—the same as if he hadn’t been with Ballenger at all. Damn! he swore to himself, knowing he had to make up his mind.

“God damn,” Skinner exclaimed when they rode past a saloon. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. I swear, my throat’s as dry as a corncob.”

“We’ll take care of business first,” Ballenger said. “I need to take a look at that bank. Then we need to get some supplies. I wanna be ready to ride when that bank opens in the mornin’. After we get everythin’ else ready, then we’ll all have us a drink.” There was no argument. There never was when Ballenger gave orders.

Making a concerted effort to appear ordinary, even though everyone who chanced to glance their way knew they were strangers, the four riders split up into pairs and took a casual walk—Clell and Yancey down the alleyway behind the bank—Clint and Skinner on the boardwalk in front. When they had surveyed the streets and alleys around the building, Clell went inside to get a look at the tellers’ cage and the bank vault. Satisfied that it would offer no real problem, they left the bank then and went to buy supplies.

Using the dun gelding Clint had ridden for a packhorse, they bought food supplies to last them a good while, mainly salt, sugar, coffee, bacon, flour, tobacco, and extra cartridges. That taken care of, Ballenger and Yancey wanted to get rooms in the hotel for the night. Skinner preferred to sleep in the stable with the horses. Seeing it as his only chance to get away, Clint volunteered to sleep with the horses, too.

“Suit yourself,” Ballenger said. “Me, I’m gonna sleep in a bed tonight. Ain’t a bad idea for you two to sleep in the stable, though, so’s you can keep an eye on all them supplies we bought today. Let’s put the horses away and go get us a drink.”

Yancey was not the only one to have dreams. But instead of dreams forecasting death by a stranger’s hand, Ballenger’s dreams were of fancy hotels with the best whiskey and women to do his bidding at the snap of his fingers. And the only road he could see to that end led through one bank after another until he hit a big enough payday to quit.

Chapter 3