Charles West - Lawless Prairie

There was no choice other than to run. Seeing that Clayton was distracted by the discovery of Yancey’s body, Clint turned and hurried toward the stable, passing curious citizens of the town as they ran to the scene of the shooting. He met Farley James, as the smithy ran from his barn.

“What happened?” Farley yelled when he saw Clint.

“Feller got shot,” was Clint’s simple reply. “I need my horses.”

“In the front stalls,” Farley called back over his shoulder as he ran toward the street.

Chapter 18

“What did he look like?” Clayton asked Sam Crowder.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Sam replied. “I mean, he was a fairly young feller, clean shaven, ’bout your height, I reckon, maybe a little more husky.”

“Did he give his name?” Clayton pressed, having dealt with Sam’s inane testimony before.

“Nah,” Sam replied, and shrugged it off. “I never asked him.” Then a spark of thought lit his eyes. “He was mighty interested in this feller and the other’n, though. Asked me all kind of questions about ’em.”

“I know his name,” one of the spectators volunteered and stepped forward. “I own the stable and blacksmith shop. I shoed his horse about an hour ago. His name’s Allen. At least, that’s what he said it was.”

Clayton almost smiled. “Allen, huh? Was it Clint Allen?”

Farley shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.

“You know where he is now?” He asked the question knowing that it was useless.

“He took off,” Farley answered, “got his horses and left, not thirty minutes ago.”

“Damn!” Clayton cursed, knowing he had been this close to sewing up the entire affair. Half an hour’s start, he was tempted to just forget about Clint Conner, alias Clint Allen. Instead of arresting him, I ought to give him deputy’s pay for killing Yancey. The fact was not lost upon him that Clint had probably saved his neck again. To further complicate things, he had two bodies to take care of as well as retrieving what bank money they still had. He had no intention of hauling Ballenger and Yancey all the way back to Cheyenne. “Is there a doctor in town?” he asked. When told that there was not, he asked, “What about an undertaker?”

“Elmer Brady usually takes care of that,” someone replied. “He’s the barber.”

Clayton turned to find the barber at his elbow. “Are you Brady?”

“Yes, sir,” Brady replied. “I can take care of him for you. You want a plain pine box? For a little more money, I can fancy it up a little.”

“There’s another body down at the whore’s tent,” Clayton replied coldly. “I don’t give a damn if you just dig a hole and throw ’em in it. The territorial governor ain’t likely to pay for a fancy coffin for the likes of these two.” He turned back to the stable owner then. “You got their horses?” When Farley replied that he did, Clayton told him he’d meet him at the stable in a few minutes. Turning again to Elmer Brady, he said, “I need you to write death certificates for the two of ’em.”

“Death certificates?” Elmer replied. “I don’t know nothin’ about no death certificates. Around here, if we put ’em in the ground, folks assume they’re dead.”

Clayton maintained his patience, even though Clint’s lead was increasing with every wasted minute. “I need verification that the two of ’em are dead, since I ain’t toting no bodies back with me. It doesn’t have to be an official certificate. Just write it out on a piece of paper, date it, and sign it as undertaker.”

“I don’t even know their names,” Elmer protested, not overly fond of having to bother with paperwork.

“I’ll give you the names,” Clayton said, his patience exhausted.

After searching both bodies, Clayton picked up the death certificates and went to the stables, where he collected the weapons and saddlebags with the remainder of the money stolen from the bank in Helena. He decided to take Ballenger’s chestnut Morgan to carry the extra baggage, leaving the showy palomino in Farley’s care. With matters taken care of in Coulson as well as could be expected, Clayton was at last ready to go after Clint. It would have been easy to let the fugitive go, but Clayton knew that he had to follow him to put an end to the affair.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea which way he went when he left here,” Clayton said to Farley.

“Well, no,” the smithy replied. “Like I said, I was on my way to see what the shootin’ was about. But I expect I can find his tracks easy enough.” Without hesitating, he walked out to the front of the barn and started staring at the many hoofprints in the dust. Almost immediately he stopped and straightened up. “There you go,” he said. “That’s him right there.”

“How the hell do you know those tracks are his?” Clayton asked, somewhat skeptical.

“Easy,” Farley answered sheepishly. “I hadn’t finished filin’ down those new shoes before I ran up to the saloon.” He pointed to the tracks. “See that burr on that shoe? And there’s another’n on that one there.” He looked up at Clayton proudly. “And if that ain’t enough, there’s the tracks of that Indian pony he’s leadin’ that ain’t got no shoes.”

Clayton couldn’t help but smile. “That oughta be enough,” he said, “if I can catch up to him before those burrs wear off.”

With no real destination, Clint rode north, away from the river, pushing Rowdy hard, knowing that somewhere back there, Clayton would be coming after him. The farther away from the river he rode, the rougher the terrain got as he made his way through treeless expanses of uneven prairie. As he rode, periodically looking back over his shoulder, he questioned his decision to kill Pete Yancey. In truth, he had not planned to shoot Yancey. He had just thought to prevent him from ambushing someone. As he heard his horses’ labored breathing and reasoned that he had to rest them, he thought it might have been better if he had let Yancey shoot Clayton. Now he was left with three choices: ambush, surrender, or run. Since he had no intention to surrender, and no desire to ambush the deputy marshal, he was left with no choice but to run.

The immediate problem, however, was his tired horses, so as soon as he came upon a small creek, he dismounted. While the horses drank, he climbed up to the top of a low mesa and looked back over the way he had come. There was no sign of anyone on his trail so far. From now on, he decided he’d better take more pains to hide his tracks. The prairie he looked out upon was broken with many low hills and grass-covered ravines like the one his horses were now grazing in. Since leaving Coulson, he had ridden straight north. It might be best if he veered from that course. It was time for another decision.

The mountains he had seen in the distance when he arrived in Coulson were to the west. His initial intention had been to gain the safety of those mountains and hide out until he felt it safe to return for Joanna. But it seemed that his destiny had been written to cross trails with Zach Clayton no matter where he went. He had made up his mind that he would not be taken alive by Clayton again to be returned to prison. And the thought of being eventually tracked down and killed in the far mountains without seeing Joanna again was not one he could accept. The woman was on his mind almost constantly.

His decision was made. He had met only one woman in his life whom he knew he truly loved, and his existence seemed empty without her. After the horses were rested, he would turn to the east. If he was lucky, he might lose Clayton. If not, he was determined to see Joanna once more before he faced the deputy to kill or be killed. He sat Indian-style on the mesa for over an hour, watching the empty prairie before he went back to the horses and started out again, this time to the east.