Charles West - Lawless Prairie

The Sound of Death

At first Clint could see only three bodies. Then he spotted the woman, bound hand and foot and tied to a tree near the horses.

Satisfied that she was out of the line of fire, he walked into the camp, his rifle ready before him. A short, gap-toothed warrior was the first to discover the sinister visitor. He sat up, childlike in his attempt to brush the sleep from his eyes. The peaceful night was shattered by the crack of Clint’s rifle as a .44 slug smacked into the warrior’s chest.

In rapid succession, Clint leveled the Winchester to pump a fatal shot into each of the other two as they sprang from their blankets. It was all over in a matter of seconds, and the peaceful night was quiet again except for the frightened sounds from the horses. . . .

For Ronda

Chapter 1

“Ballenger, Washburn, Conner—stables!”

Clint Conner looked up in surprise when he heard his name called. This was the second time this week he had been assigned to the horse barn to clean out the stalls. It wasn’t a bad job. It was better than working in the broom factory behind the prison. He tossed the last slug of coffee down his throat and put his cup and tray on the table beside the door, then walked over to the opposite wall to join the two prisoners already standing there. Ballenger and Washburn , he thought to himself as he waited for the guard to secure the short chain between his ankles. Of all the inmates in the forty-cell prison, he couldn’t think of any two he’d less like to work with.

What the hell? he thought, reminding himself that the only way he could prevent his mind from rebelling against imprisonment was to cling to the belief that his mind and spirit were someplace outside these stone walls. With those two as partners, he would probably do most of the work in the stables, but he didn’t care. Working made the day move faster. The more he thought about it, however, the more curious he became. How did a convicted killer like Clell Ballenger manage to get himself assigned to stable detail? Ballenger was already sentenced, and a hanging date had been set for a week from yesterday. A prisoner sentenced to hang was not usually sent to work in the horse barn. That job was typically given to men with lighter sentences, because of a temptation to attempt escape. The prisoners mucking out the stalls were accompanied by only one guard, so the job was routinely assigned to short-timers and trustees. As a rule, men sentenced to be hanged were confined to their cells until execution day. Clint had to assume there had been a payoff to somebody, and he would bet that Nathaniel Boswell, the warden, knew nothing about the arrangement. Boswell was a hard-nosed former U.S. marshal with a reputation as a stalwart enforcer of the law. He would hardly approve of assigning a dangerous man like Ballenger to the stables.

Clint barely glanced at the smirking face of Clell Ballenger as he waited for the guard to finish locking his chains. He knew the notorious outlaw by reputation only. There had been a great deal of talk about the man supposedly responsible for the murders of twelve people during a spree of bank robberies over the last two years. Ballenger’s repute made him somewhat of a celebrity in the recently opened Wyoming Territorial Prison, and he was the cause of much talk and speculation among the prison population. A big man, though not unusually tall, Clell Ballenger possessed an aura that tended to cow other men. With black hair, long and heavy, resting on the back of his collar like a bushy broom, a flat nose, dark eyes set deep under heavy eyebrows, and an almost constant scowl on his lips, the notorious outlaw was thought by some to be Lucifer himself. Ballenger had never sought to discourage that speculation. His hands were unusually large with fingers thick and powerful. It was rumored that he had once strangled two men at the same time, although those present on that occasion would tell you that it was actually a Kiowa woman and her infant son.

There were some, like Clint Conner, who had little use for him, or the man standing beside him for that matter. Bob Washburn was a brainless dolt, doing time for the assault and rape of a thirteen-year-old girl. He had eagerly assumed the role of Ballenger’s personal servant.

Clint had made it a point to avoid the two of them up to this time. He had no fear of either man, or the combination of the two; he just didn’t like their kind in general. He thought about the day the guards had brought Ballenger into the cell block. They seemed to purposely walk him by every cell in the prison to exhibit the notorious killer to all the inmates before locking him in next to Bob Washburn. It was a regular circus parade with four guards escorting the smirking outlaw. But for the most part, instead of demonstrating the punishment coming to those who broke the law, the parade only served to inform everyone that the new prison was now graced by the presence of a famous person. For many of the prisoners, Ballenger was someone to be looked up to for being feared by honest folk throughout Wyoming and Kansas. As far as Clint Conner was concerned, men like Clell Ballenger were little more than scum on the slime of humanity.

Some might be inclined to infer that the kettle was calling the pot black. Clint didn’t give a damn what others might think. He knew the man who dwelt inside his young, muscular body, and he was at peace with him. He had made a mistake as a brash eighteen-year-old, and now, three years later, he was still paying for it. Although the confinement threatened to bring him down at times, he was determined to fight against the longing to escape to the prairies and rugged mountains he loved. Halfway through his sentence, it was getting harder and harder to persevere. Thoughts of escape seemed to visit his mind more frequently with each new sunrise.

“All right, boys,” the guard said, breaking Clint’s reverie, “let’s get moving.” Holding his shotgun up before him, he motioned toward the door with the barrel, then stood watching until the last of the three prisoners filed out before him.

Once they reached the barn, the guard nodded toward the tools propped in a corner of the tack room. “Conner, fetch them pitchforks and a broom.” Clint did as he was told. “Now,” the guard continued, “give one of them pitchforks to Washburn, and you take the other one. Give Mr. Ballenger there that broom.” He cracked a knowing smile. “I expect you’d rather have one of them pitchforks in your hand, wouldn’t you, Ballenger?”

“I might at that,” Ballenger replied, displaying a grin of his own.

“What are you doin’ on this detail, anyway?” the guard asked. “You ain’t supposed to be on any work details at all this close to gettin’ your neck stretched.”

Still displaying a wide grin, Ballenger said, “I ain’t one to lay around doin’ nothin’ when I could be helpin’ you boys out.” He glanced over at Washburn and winked, causing the simple man to break out in a foolish grin.

Not entirely without suspicion, the guard said, “You musta paid somebody off to get sent to the stables today. Nobody shoulda sent you to work here where there ain’t nothin’ between you and the open prairie but this here shotgun. But let me tell you, this shotgun is enough.”

“Ah, come on, Williams,” Ballenger said. “What’s wrong with a man gettin’ a little bit of fresh air and sunshine before they hang him? You wouldn’t fault a man for wantin’ one last day outside before they put him in the ground, would you?”