Clint rode last in the single file of riders, his knees bent like a jockey’s in the short stirrups, a hailstorm of conflicting thoughts swirling in his head. He had never considered himself an outlaw, but he was damn sure one now. He could turn around and hightail it back. Ballenger might shoot at him, but probably wouldn’t chase after him, and maybe he could square things with the warden, explain the situation as it had occurred, leaving him no choice. The guard, Williams, would surely vouch for him. The problem was, running free again across an open prairie, he didn’t want to return to the stone walls and his tiny cell for another three years. The three he had already served were killing his soul day by relentless day until he had come to the point where he feared he might one day explode.
I’ve given them enough of my life, he decided as he followed the outlaws down a grassy draw and across a shallow stream. Three years was enough for the crime that he had committed. His thoughts then went back to recall the reason he had been sentenced to six years in prison. His troubles all started with the purchase of a horse—six horses, actually. Clint’s father had made an especially good trade for the horses with a Texas cattleman who sold off his remuda after a cattle drive. Among the six, the most valuable one was an Appaloosa gelding that caught young Clint’s eye at once. He worked with the horse every day, and a bond between horse and rider was soon created, as Clint spent every second of his free time training the spirited mount.
Clint’s eye was not the only one attracted to the handsome gelding. Judge Wyman Plover, who owned a stable of fine-bred horses, spotted the unusual breed when Clint rode into town one Sunday morning. Immediately coveting the horse, the judge wasted little time before riding out to Arthur Conner’s ranch, determined to own the Appaloosa. Arthur Conner was not a wealthy rancher, and the offer Judge Plover extended was too much to pass on—even knowing it would deeply distress his son to lose the horse.
Clint understood his father’s position, and tried to make the best of it. He resigned himself to the loss of the Appaloosa until he happened to witness the treatment the horse was subjected to at the hands of Plover’s foreman. Clint tried to tell the brutal foreman that the horse responded to a gentle touch. “I’ll gentle the son of a bitch with an ax handle,” the foreman responded, and ordered Clint off the property.
Clint, concerned for the horse, went to see the judge to protest the foreman’s rough treatment. “Mike Burke has been training horses since before you were weaned,” the judge said. “I expect he knows better than you how to train a horse.”
“Not from what I saw today,” Clint had responded heatedly. “He’s gonna break that horse’s spirit.”
His patience with the young man having run out, Judge Plover dismissed him abruptly. “Well, at any rate, I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours, so I’d advise you to mind your own business.” When Clint turned on his heel to leave, Plover called after him, “And don’t be coming around here anymore.”
“You ain’t fit to own a horse,” Clint had muttered in parting.
During the past three years, he had often thought about the price he was paying for his rash actions that followed his confrontation with the judge. He earned his conviction as a horse thief when he removed the Appaloosa from Plover’s corral. And he added the charge of assault when he broke an ax handle across the foreman’s back when Burke tried to stop him. The only satisfaction Clint enjoyed was in knowing the Appaloosa gained his freedom. Hell, he thought as he guided the dun after the four riders preceding him, I’d do the same thing if it happened today.
Bringing his thoughts back to the present, he considered the situation in which he now found himself. One thing he knew for certain was that he must extricate himself from Ballenger and his friends at the earliest opportunity. However, he was reluctant to strike out on his own without weapons and supplies. It might be necessary to ride along with the men until there was some way to equip himself to go it alone. He had to consider himself a real horse thief now, since he was riding a horse stolen from the prison barn. But at the moment, the dun was his only possession. He had no gun, no clothes other than the prison-issued garments he wore, no supplies, and no money. There seemed little chance he could acquire these things lawfully.
As the riders slowed their horses in order to file down through a rocky draw, Clint glanced over at Washburn to catch the brooding simpleton glaring back at him. What in hell did I do to make an enemy out of him? Clint asked himself. I’m liable to have trouble with that one before this is over.
Chapter 2
Pete Yancey stood for a moment, thoughtfully watching the last-minute addition to their small party as Clint adjusted the stirrups on his worn-out saddle. He commented to Ballenger, “I don’t know about that one. Maybe we shouldn’ta brought him along. I got a funny feelin’ about him.” He stopped short of telling Ballenger why he had this feeling about the quiet young man who had immediately volunteered to slit the guard’s throat. Yancey never confided in anyone about the one fear that had haunted him since he was eighteen. Shortly after joining the Confederate army to escape a prison sentence, he had been visited by a black angel in a dream one night. In his dream, the angel had told him that he could not be killed by anyone but one man, and then that man had appeared. Yancey could still see the man’s face clearly after waking. It was a broad, youthful face, and it was distinctive in that a single lock of light brown hair hung down on the assassin’s forehead. In the dream, the killer pointed his pistol directly at Yancey’s head, and Yancey could see the bullet coming straight at his eye as if suspended in flight, deadly and certain. It had seemed so real that he had determined it to be a prophecy. After the dream, he had survived several major battles without a scratch while men were falling all around him, reinforcing his belief that he could not be killed except by that one man. The critical thing for him was to always keep a sharp eye for that man, and kill him before he had a chance to fulfill the prophecy.
But now this familiar face had appeared unexpectedly, looking very much like the face in his dream. He might not have thought that much about it except for the single lock of hair that fell across Clint’s forehead when he removed his prison cap. Coincidence, he told himself, but the man worried him. He decided to keep a close eye on him.
Ballenger shrugged indifferently after Yancey’s comment. “Hell, I expect he’s in the same boat as the rest of us.”
“Whaddaya know about him, anyway? What was he in for?”
Ballenger reached for the coffeepot resting on the coals of the campfire. “Horse thief is what I heard,” he answered. “Don’t know much more. I didn’t have that much to do with him.” He paused to consider what he had just said, then added, “Like Bob said, he didn’t have much to do with anybody. Just kept to himself mostly.”
“I reckon we’ll find out when we get to Fort Collins,” Yancey said. “Might be better if we run him off before somebody spots him in that getup, though.”
“Might at that,” Ballenger allowed, turning to gaze at Clint again. There had been no plan to bring along two extra men on his escape from prison. He had gotten word to Yancey that there would be one other, Washburn. Consequently, Yancey brought weapons and clothes for Ballenger and Washburn only. Now he was looking at Clint in his prison stripes and wondering whether Yancey might be right. There was no sense in advertising the fact that they were escaped convicts.
“Hell,” Yancey cursed, becoming more convinced that Clint’s presence might bring them bad luck, “we can’t ride into that town with him in that damn jail suit. Somebody’s likely to shoot on sight.” The plan, known only to Ballenger, Yancey, and Skinner to this point, was to hit the bank at Fort Collins. Yancey figured that Washburn would be included since he had supplied part of the bribe that got him and Ballenger on stable detail. He was wondering now what use the extra man might be, especially since he didn’t even have a gun. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he wasn’t going to agree to a five-way split on the bank job. “We got one more
man than we need,” he said to Ballenger.
“I expect you’re right,” Ballenger replied. “We’d best get rid of him.” They didn’t know that Bob Washburn was already working himself up to take care of their problem.
In Washburn’s mind, Lady Luck had placed him in the cell next to that of Clell Ballenger. To Bob, it was the answer to a longing to be associated with greatness. Clell Ballenger was a living legend among outlaws. At least that was his picture of the notorious murderer, and he was honored to have been the one inmate allowed close contact. He was avoided by the other inmates because of the crime for which he was sentenced. And now, when they referred to him at all, they called him Ballenger’s lackey. But he didn’t see himself as Ballenger’s lackey. He thought he was Ballenger’s friend and confidant. After all, wasn’t he the only inmate privy to the famous outlaw’s escape plan? Now the presence of Clint Conner made him fear that his status as Ballenger’s friend might have suffered.
The more thought he gave it, the more he suspected Conner’s intention of moving in to take his rightful place as Ballenger’s right-hand man. Why, he wondered, had Ballenger let Clint kill the guard? I coulda done it, he thought. That would have proved to Ballenger and Yancey that he was worthy of their respect. Maybe they thought that because he was imprisoned for raping a child, he didn’t have the nerve necessary to kill. He needed to prove to them that he could.
Suddenly everything about Clint made Washburn angry, and his resentment toward Clint swelled up inside until he felt about ready to burst. When Washburn could stand it no longer, he approached Ballenger with a suggestion. “I don’t think we need that son of a bitch, Clell.” Washburn spoke in a low tone, all the while eyeballing Clint coldly. “He ain’t no good to us, and he’s gonna draw attention to us in them prison stripes.”
Ballenger looked mildly surprised. “Why, me and Yancey was just talkin’ about that. We was sayin’ we got one more man than we need. We’re figurin’ on hittin’ that bank in Fort Collins, and four’s an easier split than five—and four of us is plenty to take that little bank.”
“I knowed it!” Washburn exclaimed. “I figured Clell Ballenger would have a job all picked out!” Like a child, Washburn could not conceal his excitement at the prospect of robbing a bank with Clell Ballenger. He then jerked his attention back to the situation with Clint. “Why don’t I take care of Mr. Smart-ass Conner for you?” he suggested. “We don’t want him around messin’ up our plans.”
Ballenger grinned. “Why don’t you do that, Bob? Do us all a favor.” He glanced over at Yancey and winked.
Seated at the edge of the creek where they had made camp, Clint looked up to notice that three sets of eyes were focusing on him. He glanced over his shoulder at Skinner, who was evidently taking the opportunity to get a little shut-eye. Looking back again at the other three, he sensed that something was about to happen, something that involved him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Being the odd man, he had already given thought to the possibility that he might be eliminated. He was anxious to take his leave of the four, but not this way.
He put aside the saddle he had been working on when Washburn took a couple of steps in his direction. There was a smug expression on the simpleton’s fleshy face and he walked with an exaggerated swagger. Never taking his eye off the three outlaws, Clint casually reached behind him, feeling around until his hand rested on a sizable rock. Then, after another fleeting glance to make sure Skinner was oblivious of it all, he waited, watching Washburn carefully. Whatever the play, it appeared that it was to be Washburn’s alone, for Ballenger and Yancey seemed content to hang back and watch the show.
The only weapon he had was the rock his hand rested upon, not much to rely on when facing the six-gun riding on Washburn’s hip. He was thinking that it could amount to a swift execution if Washburn had brains enough to simply pull the pistol and shoot him. He was gambling upon the notion that the bumbling child molester would want to gloat over his position of dominance to satisfy his jealous ego.
Clint was accurate in his judgment of the man. Washburn swaggered up to stand a couple of yards from him. His feet spread wide, his hand resting on the handle of his holstered pistol, a mocking smile quirked slowly across his broad face. After taking a few moments to enjoy the situation, he spoke. “This here’s the end of the line, Mr. Smart-ass. It’s time for you to cash in your chips.” He took his time pulling the revolver, to give Clint plenty of time to think about it. Unable to understand why there was no desperate look of fear showing in Clint’s face, he thought he had to explain what he was about to do. “You dumb son of a bitch, I’m fixin’ to shoot you.”
“I figured,” Clint replied calmly. Another quick glance confirmed that Ballenger and Yancey were spectators only. His fingers tightened around the rock.
Disappointed to the point of dismay that his victim showed no signs of fear or panic, Washburn took another step closer and pointed the pistol at his head. “Damn you! I’m gonna put a hole in your head. How do you want it? Sittin’ there, or standin’ up?”
“Well, if you’re givin’ me a choice, I think I’ll take it standin’ up.”
Washburn took a step back to give himself room, still baffled by the victim’s calm acceptance of his execution, but he misjudged the quickness of the man he sought to kill. Clint’s moves were slow and deliberate until he rose to one knee. From there, however, he sprang up in a fraction of a second, hurling the heavy rock into Washburn’s face. The startled man could not help but flinch when the stone smashed his nose. It was all the time Clint needed to clamp down on the wrist of Washburn’s gun hand and jerk back on his arm with such force that the man’s shoulder popped out of joint. Washburn’s scream of pain brought Skinner up from a dead slumber. “Let ’em be!” Ballenger yelled at Skinner as the confused man drew his weapon.
With his right arm useless, Washburn was unable to hold on to his weapon. Clint easily wrestled it from him and cracked him upside the head with the barrel. Dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes, Washburn lay still, his eyes glazed, his mind a jumble of confusion. Clint backed away, far enough to gain a field of fire that could include the two men on his left and Skinner on his right. Aiming the pistol toward Ballenger and Yancey, he waited for them to make a move.
Still grinning, Ballenger held up his hand. “Take it easy there, son. Ain’t nobody gonna shoot ya.” He walked over beside Washburn, who was still lying on the ground. Still talking to Clint, he said, “I like the way you handle yourself, young feller.”
His head clearing somewhat, Washburn struggled up to his hands and knees. “Damn, Clell,” he whined, “I think he broke my arm.”
“That don’t matter none,” Ballenger replied. “You ain’t gonna need it.” When Washburn looked up, still confused, Ballenger explained, “Like I said, we got one too many.” With that, he pulled his revolver and put a bullet in Bob’s head. Looking back at Clint, he said, “Looks like you got yourself an outfit. You can shuck them clothes offa him. I shot him in the head so’s not to put a hole in his shirt.”
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 answere
d, “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.”
Lawless Prairie Page 2