Badlands Legend

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  He saw the older man’s head whip around, his mouth a hard, tight line of disapproval. “Have you been going around behind our backs, Cara?”

  “Oh no, Pa.” She looked at her father, then away. “But Yale’s right. I…do have feelings for him.”

  His hand snaked out, grasping her arm, forcing her to look at him. “Just tell me if you’ve acted on those feelings.”

  “Pa!” Her cheeks grew as red as the coals on the hearth. “How could you even ask such a thing?”

  “All right.” Eyes narrow, he released her and turned to Yale. “Go home now, boy. And don’t ever let me see you sniffing around here again.”

  “You don’t understand. Maybe you think I’m just a boy. But I’m a man, Mr. McKinnon.” Yale reached a hand to his pocket and withdrew a fistful of money. “I’ve been saving this to buy some land and build a cabin. I promise I’ll take good care of Cara, if you’ll give us your blessing.”

  “My blessing? My blessing? What the hell are you thinking, boy?” The words were tight. Clipped.

  Yale glanced toward Evelyn McKinnon, who had risen from her chair to stand beside her husband. It occurred to him that these two had formed a wall of resistance, determined to end this unexpected intrusion into their orderly lives as quickly as possible.

  Remembering the present, Yale reached into his pocket and handed it to Cara. “I bought this for you today at Swensen’s. I know, by the way you were admiring it, how much you like it.”

  Before she could unwrap it, her father tore it from her hand and tossed it at Yale’s feet. “And just how did you come by the money to buy my daughter a present? I’ll tell you how. The same way you came by the rest of your money. By gambling. By spending all your time in the Red Dog with drunks and gamblers. I won’t allow my daughter to accept a gift from the likes of you. Now get out. Before I’m forced to throw you off my land.”

  Anger burned in Yale’s eyes, and in his throat. He looked over at Cara and saw that all the color had drained from her face. Without thinking he touched a hand to hers. “Don’t cry, Cara. I’ll make this right, somehow.”

  For her father, that was the last straw. He caught Yale by the back of the shirt and spun him around.

  Reflexively Yale’s hands fisted, ready to fight back. His voice, when he spoke, was so cold he hardly recognized it. “Take your hands off me this minute, Parker McKinnon, or you’ll live to regret it.”

  At the fierceness of his tone, Yale had the satisfaction of seeing the older man back up a step.

  Yale turned to Cara. “I thought…I thought I could make your father see I’d be good to you. But he’s like everybody else in this town. They see what they want. So I’m leaving. Not just this house, but this town. Are you coming with me, Cara?”

  She glanced from Yale to her parents, who wore matching looks of absolute disbelief at his rashness.

  With tears filling her eyes, she slowly shook her head. “I can’t, Yale. I just…can’t leave my father and mother.”

  His eyes were hot with fury as he spun on his heels and strode out the door.

  As he pulled himself onto the back of his horse, he looked up to see Cara standing in the doorway, lantern light spilling over her in a yellow pool, the pretty jeweled comb clutched to her chest, the paper it had been wrapped in drifting around her feet.

  With a furious oath her father tore it from her hands and tossed it out into the dirt. She was still weeping when her father reached around her and slammed the door.

  It was an image that was burned into Yale’s memory.

  By the following morning he’d turned his back on his family, and on the town of Misery.

  He’d never looked back.

  He blinked, erasing the bitter memory. Even now, after a dozen years, it still had the power to churn his gut and twist a knife in his heart.

  He folded the thousand dollars he’d won and stuffed it in his pocket before turning and walking back into the saloon. He’d thought he had his fill of this place. But he had a sudden need for another shot of whiskey. Maybe he’d just stick around and stir up a little more excitement before hitting the trail.

  He wasn’t in the mood for his own company right now.

  Chapter Two

  Yale slowed his mount as he crested a hill. Down below was a string of mustangs in a corral. He’d been pushing his horse to the limit, ever since he’d had to hightail it out of Elmerville after beating the sheriff out of a high-stakes jackpot. The saloon keeper had warned Yale about the sheriff. As corrupt as they come. Figured his title as a lawman gave him the right to lose and still keep his money by threatening gamblers with jail. When he’d tried that line on Yale, he’d met his match. The entire saloon had been stunned by the fire in Yale Conover’s eyes.

  “I don’t take orders from spineless scum who break the rules, then hide behind a tin badge.” In the blink of an eye Yale had wrapped a muscled arm around the sheriff’s throat, while pressing a sixgun to his temple. “To my way of thinking that makes you worse than any outlaw. You’re flaunting the very law you claim to uphold.”

  The men in the saloon had gone eerily quiet. It wasn’t just the way this gambler used his gun. It was the fire in his eyes. And the deadly softness of his voice that spoke of suppressed rage.

  He’d made his point, and had been allowed to ride out of town. But he knew, by the icy fingers along his spine, that a posse wasn’t far behind.

  He needed a fresh horse if he intended to keep one step ahead of Elmerville’s corrupt lawman.

  He slid to the ground and quickly removed the saddle and bridle, turning his horse loose. From a position on the ridge he watched as his horse trotted toward the corral, in search of food and water.

  Minutes later a grizzled old man, hearing the sound of hoofbeats, stepped out of a crude cabin and looked the horse over before opening a gate. Yale stayed where he was, watching intently as the old man poured water into a trough before returning to his shack.

  Yale had fully intended to help himself to a fresh horse and be on his way. But the sight of the old man triggered something in him. Something so deep, so primal, he couldn’t walk away. This man in this deserted cabin, on the edge of the Badlands, could possibly know about his father. Could, in fact, be his father. Though he knew the odds against it, he couldn’t leave until he found out one way or the other.

  Tossing the saddle over his shoulder he made his way down the hill and crept toward the shack. Once there he peered through the cracks of the log wall, hoping for a glimpse of the old man’s face.

  Just as he crouched in the grass, he felt the press of a gun’s barrel against the back of his head, and a raspy voice called, “You so much as breathe hard you’ll be dead, stranger.”

  Yale froze.

  “Toss your gun aside real slow.”

  He did as he was told, then lifted his hands and turned to find the old man aiming a rifle at his chest. “Thought you’d help yourself to my mustangs, did you?”

  Yale nodded. “Just one of them.”

  “I figured, when I saw that horse all lathered and dust-covered, somebody around here needed a fresh mount.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you just offer to buy one of my horses? Got no money?”

  “I’ve got enough.” Yale gave one of his lazy grins. “But it’s just not my nature to pay for what I can get for nothing. Besides, it was a fair exchange. My horse for one of yours.”

  “If you believed it was fair, you’d have come here like a man and offered, instead of planning to steal from me.”

  Yale nodded. “You’re right, old man. I guess I’ve been on the wrong side of the law so long, I’ve forgotten how to play by the rules.” He studied the figure before him, trying to find something that even remotely stirred a memory. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Yale gave a negligent shrug. “Just wondered if we’d met before.”

  “If we had, I’d remember.” The old man spat a stream of yellow tobacco juice. “Th
e law says I have the right to shoot a horse thief.”

  Yale chuckled. “You don’t waste any time, do you, old man?” He lifted his hands, palms up. “All right then. Fire away.”

  The old man took aim, watching Yale’s face. Seeing no fear he slowly lowered the rifle. “You’re a cocky one. A man ought to have a healthy fear of dying.”

  Yale shook his head. “Not me, old man. I don’t care if I live or die, as long as I’m free to make my own rules along the way.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve lived the same way all my life.” The old man stuck out his hand. “My name is Otis Conley. What’s yours?”

  “Yale. Yale Conover.” He waited a beat, to see if the name triggered a response. Seeing none, he sighed. “I was told my father came to the Badlands about twenty years ago. His name was Clay Conover. You ever hear of him?”

  The old man thought a minute before saying, “Sorry. Can’t say I have. You want to bargain for a horse? Or you still thinking of stealing one?”

  Again that slow, lazy smile as Yale reached into his pocket. He peeled off a couple of bills and said, “I’ll want the best of the lot.”

  Otis Conley’s eyes lit as his fingers closed around the money. “You can have your pick. That black stallion is the fastest. But he’s also the meanest. You don’t want to get behind him or he’ll knock you clear back to Oklahoma Territory.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Yale looked over the herd, then lassoed the black and tied him to the gate while he saddled him. Minutes later he rode off, lifting his hat in a salute as he did.

  As he disappeared into a dense woods, he found himself wondering about the conflicting emotions churning inside. He certainly hadn’t wanted that grizzled old man to be his father. Had he?

  Why then this emptiness each time another encounter ended without a resolution?

  For twenty years now he’d been looking into the eyes of every man of a certain age, wondering if this one might turn out to be Clay Conover.

  He muttered a rich, ripe oath and urged the stallion into a gallop. What the hell did he need with an old man? He’d been taking care of himself for years now. And doing just fine, thank you. Finding a father now would just be a complication in his life. And that was something he could do without.

  Footloose and free. That was the way he liked it. No woman to tie him down. Nobody checking up to see when he got home, when he left, or where he was headed.

  He brushed aside the dull edge of memory and urged his horse faster. It didn’t matter where he was headed. Just so he never had to look back.

  The day had been long, the trail rough. Thanks to that crooked lawman, Yale had left Elmerville in such a hurry, there’d been no time to make provisions for a journey. His canteen was nearly empty. There was no food in his saddlebags. And he hadn’t caught sight of any game along the way. On top of that, there was the relentless sun, causing the sweat to run in rivers down his back and under the brim of his hat. Not even a whisper of a breeze stirred the air as dust clogged his lungs and burned his eyes.

  At the first sound of gunshots he reined in his mount. Slipping from the saddle he tethered the stallion and crept around a mountain of boulders to stare at the scene below him.

  A man, obviously wounded, lay slumped behind the cover of a rock. Up ahead were more than a dozen horsemen, fanning out to surround him. Whenever one got too close the wounded man would fire off a shot. But it was obvious that before long he would be overcome by the sheer number of his adversaries.

  Thinking quickly Yale pulled himself into the saddle and, keeping to the cover of rocks, made a wide circle until he was behind the group of horsemen. Then, knotting the reins around the pommel, he gave a nudge of his knees, urging the stallion into a run. With his rifle in one hand and his pistol in the other, he charged in with both guns blazing.

  Caught by surprise, the horsemen scattered. Though several returned his gunfire, they were too startled to stick around to see just how many men were after them.

  Within minutes they’d disappeared over a hill, with only the sound of their horses’ hooves retreating in the distance.

  In the stillness that followed Yale cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “You can put away your guns. They’ve gone.”

  The man behind the rock made no reply.

  He shouted louder, “I’m tossing aside my weapons. I come in friendship.”

  Again there was only silence.

  Though he shoved the rifle into the boot of his saddle, and returned his pistol to his holster, he kept his hand there just in case he had to draw fast.

  When his horse rounded the boulder, he realized why the wounded man hadn’t responded. He lay still as death in an ever-widening pool of blood.

  Yale was out of the saddle and feeling for a pulse. Finding one, he worked as quickly as possible to stem the flow of blood. While he did, he felt the slow, feeble heartbeat, and heard the almost inaudible moans of the wounded man.

  It took more than an hour to remove the bullet from the man’s shoulder and dress the wound. After wrapping him in a blanket, Yale started a fire, then spent the next hour searching for food and water. As darkness settled over the land, he sat by the hot coals and rested his back against his saddle while he ate the remains of the rabbit he’d killed. In a blackened pot nestled in the coals steam rose from the broth that was simmering.

  From the stranger’s saddlebag Yale had rescued a bottle of whiskey. He helped himself to a healthy swig, then corked it, figuring the wounded man would need some when he woke up and had to deal with the pain.

  He studied the sleeping man, wondering who he was. There had been nothing in his saddlebags to give a clue. But the very fact that he was traveling so light made Yale think he was a drifter.

  Since the stranger was sleeping in his only blanket, he had no choice but to curl up close to the fire for warmth. His stomach full from the rabbit meat, his blood warm from the whiskey, and his mind at peace that he’d done what he could, he fell into a deep sleep.

  It was the sound of the man’s moans that woke him. For a minute Yale lay still, struggling to get his bearings. Then, by the light of the moon, he made his way to where the stranger was thrashing around, trying to untangle himself from the confines of the blanket.

  “This what you’re looking for?” Yale held the man’s pistol in his hand.

  “Yeah.” The voice was weak, raspy. “Feel naked without it.”

  Yale nodded, understanding. “I just didn’t want you shooting me first, and asking questions later.”

  The man smiled before hissing in a breath of pain. “Can’t say I blame you.” He nodded toward his saddlebags, lying nearby. “I could use some whiskey.”

  Yale uncorked the bottle and held it to the man’s lips.

  When he’d had his fill, the man lay still a moment, studying him intently. “Why’d you get involved in my fight?”

  Yale shrugged. Grinned. “I didn’t like the odds. Figured I’d at least give you a fighting chance.”

  “I’m obliged.” The man nodded toward the bottle and Yale helped him drink more before corking the bottle and setting it aside.

  The stranger lay back, taking in shallow breaths until the pain subsided. “My name’s Justin Green-leaf.”

  “Yale Conover.”

  “What makes you think I was worth saving, Yale Conover?”

  Yale gave him a slow, easy grin. “Didn’t figure it was any of my business. Like I said, I just wanted to even the odds.”

  “You got anywhere you have to be, Yale?”

  He shook his head. “Just so it isn’t Elmerville. There’s a lawman there I’d rather not run into for a while. I figure he’s just a few miles behind me by now.”

  Justin Greenleaf seemed to think about that a moment before saying, “I’d know a thing or two about lawmen. My name’s on Wanted posters from here to Oklahoma Territory. The last thing I want to run into is the law. I’m on my way to join some friends in the Badlands.
Want to come along?”

  Yale considered. “What kind of friends live in the Badlands?”

  “Friends like you and me who want to avoid the law. Interested in joining us?”

  Yale took his time crossing to the fire where he poured broth into a cup before returning to hold it to Justin’s lips. While the man drank, he thought about the posse that would probably catch up to him by morning. If he left now, he could stay one step ahead of them. Of course, he’d be leaving this stranger at their mercy. And since he’d already had a taste of the sheriff’s brand of justice, he’d be condemning Justin Greenleaf to jail. But if he took him along, Justin could direct him to a hideout in the Badlands, where no posse would ever dare to follow.

  But there was an even more compelling reason to ride along with this stranger. The very thought of the Badlands had Yale’s heart racing. His father. Clay Conover had disappeared in that very place, more than twenty years ago, never to return.

  Maybe one of Justin’s friends would be able to fill in the missing piece of his life. Though it was a long shot, if there was even the slightest chance that he could learn about his father, he had to risk it.

  His lips curved into a smile. He’d never been able to resist a gamble. “I think I might be interested. How soon can you ride?”

  They were in the saddle before dawn. And by the time the sun was high in the sky, they had long ago crossed into the forbidding landscape considered so dangerous, that the Sioux called it mako sica, bad land, and nervous French trappers dubbed it les mauvaises terres a traverser, bad lands to travel across. There were few travelers brave or foolish enough to risk survival in this place of granite mountains, dizzying pinnacles, and huge, yawning caverns. But it was notorious for offering shelter to gangs of reckless men who had chosen to live outside the law.

  Despite his wounds, Justin Greenleaf was able to lead the way across high ridges and barren mesas, until they came to a narrow gorge carved between massive rock formations. A man holding a rifle suddenly appeared on the very top of the ridge.

  Justin gave a whistle and the man returned the signal. Minutes later several more men came riding toward them, rifles at the ready.