Charles West - Lawless Prairie

Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach Clayton walked along the west bank of the tiny stream, studying the tracks leading away from the ashes of a campfire. The trail he had followed to this point had generally led south, toward Colorado. It was an easy enough trail to follow, five horses and riders. They had made good time, but evidently felt no pressure to ride through the night. Standing near a clump of willows where the tracks left the water, he paused and gazed out toward the open prairie. The hoofprints led to the west, but he was confident they would turn south again—Fort Collins, most likely. Clayton had spent enough years tracking fugitives from the law to know how to anticipate their actions. He had gained enough experience over the years to know the typical thinking of an outlaw on the run—and of this one in particular. Clell Ballenger was probably the meanest, most cold-blooded killer he had ever hunted. But Ballenger was also possessed of a fun-loving nature. He loved his whiskey and his women, and he had a passion for gambling. For that reason, Clayton felt certain that Fort Collins would likely be Ballenger’s first destination, instead of heading for the wild country in hopes of disappearing altogether. A patient man, Zach Clayton was in a position to know Ballenger better than most. He was the marshal who dogged Ballenger’s trail until he ran him down near Scotts Bluff in Nebraska and brought him to trial. Clayton had a personal interest in Ballenger’s recapture, and he had been vocally critical of the inmate’s ridiculously easy escape from prison.

Crossing the stream again, he returned to the campsite where his horse, a broad-chested sorrel with three white stockings, stood patiently waiting with reins on the ground. Before mounting, Clayton walked over to the gully once more to reassure himself that the underwear-clad corpse was the inmate named Bob Washburn. Based on the description given him by the warden, he was pretty sure of the identification. He knew it wasn’t Conner, for Conner was a much younger man—and he certainly knew what Clell Ballenger looked like. So he figured he could mark Washburn off his list. The poor bastard had evidently exhausted his usefulness.

So he was now trailing four men, two of whom he couldn’t identify. But if he had to guess, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to assume they were two of Ballenger’s old gang. Pete Yancey came to mind. He had ridden with Ballenger from the beginning, and was damn lucky to have escaped when Clayton had surprised Ballenger in a whorehouse.

Of curious interest was the young horse thief, Clint Conner. According to the prison guard, Williams, Conner saved his life by pretending to cut his throat. Clayton considered that as he prepared to step up in the saddle. It just proved the man was not a murderer, but he was still a horse thief and an escaped prisoner. Clayton’s job was to bring him in, along with Ballenger, and if he was lucky, the other two who arranged the escape. That thought triggered another, and Clayton shook his head when he recalled how astonished he was when told that Clell Ballenger had somehow drawn stable duty, a job usually performed by trustees and short-timers. Warden Boswell was still fuming about that. Clayton snorted half a chuckle when he pictured the angry warden. “One of my guards has just come into a little extra money,” he had said. Well, that’ll be the warden’s problem , Clayton thought. I’d best get about mine. Anxious to close the distance between himself and the fugitives, he struck out across the stream at a lope. He was still betting on Fort Collins as the first place the four would light. If he wasted no more time, he should reach the town sometime after dark.

“I need another drink,” Clell Ballenger snorted. “Go get us another bottle.” He gestured in Clint’s direction.

“I don’t have any money,” Clint replied.

Ballenger laughed. “Give Mr. Conner some money, Yancey. I need another drink. I need somethin’ else, too,” he added with a wink, and nodded toward a well-endowed woman talking to the bartender. Perceiving Ballenger’s obvious interest, the buxom lady sent a smile in his direction. The smile more closely resembled a sneer, but it contained the proper message, and Clell motioned for her to join them.

“It’s a good thing we’re makin’ a withdrawal tomorrow,” Yancey uttered under his breath, “ ’cause we’re spendin’ it like it warn’t nothin’ tonight.”

“That’s right, partner,” Ballenger replied, his eyes remaining upon the woman approaching the table. “I got a lot of catchin’ up to do.” He reached over and dragged a chair from the table next to theirs. “Set yourself down, darlin’, and have a drink with us.” While she settled her generous backside in the chair, Ballenger poured her a drink and slid it over toward her. Making lewd reference to the lady’s over-abundance of breasts, he joked, “Don’t slide that glass too close to her—she won’t be able to see it.” He roared with laughter for his joke while Yancey looked at him, puzzled, having missed the point.

Upon closer inspection, the woman, who introduced herself as Violet, exhibited the obvious signs of hard winters and rough riding. But through the magical powers of alcohol, she was transformed into an innocent dove in Ballenger’s drunken eyes. Sufficiently under rye whiskey’s spell, Yancey found himself likewise affected, and asked if she knew of another virgin like herself. Clint slowly nursed a drink while watching the negotiations between the worn-looking lady of the evening and his two partners . Although Skinner seemed to show no interest in joining the party that was being planned in the hotel, he was obviously no less inebriated. Skinner, Clint surmised, was a dedicated drunk, interested only in drinking himself into a stupor and sleeping it off.

Finally, at around eight o’clock, the drinking party came to a close. Skinner was already nodding drunkenly in his chair, and Ballenger and Yancey had settled their price. Ballenger got to his feet and pushed back his chair. “Come on, Rose,” he said to Violet. “It’s time for beddy-bye.” He grinned foolishly at the puffy-eyed woman, who by then was too drunk herself to remember which flower she was named for. Turning to Clint, he said, “You don’t look as drunk as I feel. Good thing, I reckon, ’cause I ain’t sure Skinner can even find the stable on his own.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Clint assured him.

“All right,” Ballenger announced. “Let’s go, then.” For a moment his smile faded. “Keep an eye on them supplies, and go easy on that bottle. Tomorrow’s a workin’ day.”

Clint was happy to see that Skinner was to be no problem as far as his escape was concerned. It was all he could do to keep him on his feet long enough to reach the stable. As soon as they got there, Skinner curled up in a pile of hay in the corner of a stall, hugging a half-empty bottle of whiskey to him as a child hugs a teddy bear. Clint spread his saddle blanket over him and could see that he was out for the night.

In no hurry now, Clint saddled the horse Washburn had ridden and then helped himself to extra ammunition and supplies. After taking another look at Skinner, he led the horse out of the stable and climbed in the saddle. He rode out into an empty street, the town having gone to bed except for the hangers-on at the saloons up at the far end. Walking the horse slowly, he went past the sheriff’s office, looking it over carefully to make sure there was no one there. Satisfied that the sheriff and his deputies were home in bed, he pulled up in front of the office. About to dismount, he realized he had nothing to write with. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to just forget it or not. His conscience got the best of him, and he turned his horse toward the hotel beyond the saloon.