Clint nodded and returned the smile Ballenger aimed his way. At least, his main problem had been solved. He immediately busied himself with the removal of Washburn’s boots and clothes. The clothes were not a good fit, but they would do. His luck was better when it came to the boots. They were a size larger than Washburn had needed, but just right for Clint. He strapped the gun belt on and then pulled the Winchester from the saddle sling, checked the action, and made sure the magazine was loaded. Satisfied, he turned back to the campfire, feeling a great deal more comfortable.
“Now that you got him skinned,” Yancey remarked, looking at the corpse lying there with nothing but his underwear remaining, “drag him on outta here. He didn’t smell too good before he was dead.” He watched as Clint grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled it away from the camp. “You can pay me for them guns and clothes outta your share of the bank money.”
“I reckon,” Clint answered, looking the ferret-faced outlaw squarely in the eye. He backed toward a shallow gully, dragging the dead man over the rough ground, Bob Washburn’s sightless eyes staring wide up at the sky, his head bumping drunkenly along the rocky stream bank. The world ain’t lost much with him gone, Clint thought as he dumped him into the gully.
Echoing Clint’s thoughts, Clell said, “I never cared much for that boot-lickin’ turd,” as he walked over to his horse to get some tobacco from his saddlebags.
Clint studied the three men he was now associated with. There was no doubt that Ballenger was the leader and Yancey was his lieutenant. Skinner seemed little more than hired help. The ranking had been obvious even in the line of travel, with Ballenger leading astride a chestnut Morgan with a white star on its face. The horse was probably no more than fourteen hands high, and looked even smaller carrying Clell’s bulky figure. Yancey, by contrast, rode a splendid palomino with a white race on its face, and the lean, rangy man rode slumped over in the saddle as if trying not to have his head higher than his leader’s. Knowing his place, Skinner seemed content to ride along behind the other two.
It was early afternoon when they rode into the town of Fort Collins, close by the Cache la Poudre River. Judging by the look of it, Clint surmised that Fort Collins was a thriving place to live, with a church and a school, several stores and saloons, and a bank. On the way in, they had passed a few farms as well. The town seemed to indicate a welcome atmosphere. Clint couldn’t help feeling remorse, knowing what lay ahead for the citizens with money in the bank. It was a helpless feeling as well, for he struggled with the question of whether or not he should try to warn the sheriff, or the manager of the bank, so that they might ready themselves for Ballenger’s visit. It was a dilemma he would wrestle for the balance of that day, for there were several sides of the problem to consider. He truly desired to prevent the holdup of the town’s bank, but he planned to be long gone from Fort Collins before tomorrow dawned. Also to be considered was how the sheriff would react if he warned him of the planned robbery. Since he was an escaped convict, the sheriff might deem it his responsibility to hold him, and Clint had no intention of returning to prison now that he was out. His only desire was to leave the territory and possibly head north to live free in the mountains and prairies of Montana Territory, lose himself somewhere. How was it his responsibility to warn the town, anyway? It would be in his best interest to simply slip out of town that night, and let the sheriff and the bank take care of their problem themselves—the same as if he hadn’t been with Ballenger at all. Damn! he swore to himself, knowing he had to make up his mind.
“God damn,” Skinner exclaimed when they rode past a saloon. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. I swear, my throat’s as dry as a corncob.”
“We’ll take care of business first,” Ballenger said. “I need to take a look at that bank. Then we need to get some supplies. I wanna be ready to ride when that bank opens in the mornin’. After we get everythin’ else ready, then we’ll all have us a drink.” There was no argument. There never was when Ballenger gave orders.
Making a concerted effort to appear ordinary, even though everyone who chanced to glance their way knew they were strangers, the four riders split up into pairs and took a casual walk—Clell and Yancey down the alleyway behind the bank—Clint and Skinner on the boardwalk in front. When they had surveyed the streets and alleys around the building, Clell went inside to get a look at the tellers’ cage and the bank vault. Satisfied that it would offer no real problem, they left the bank then and went to buy supplies.
Using the dun gelding Clint had ridden for a packhorse, they bought food supplies to last them a good while, mainly salt, sugar, coffee, bacon, flour, tobacco, and extra cartridges. That taken care of, Ballenger and Yancey wanted to get rooms in the hotel for the night. Skinner preferred to sleep in the stable with the horses. Seeing it as his only chance to get away, Clint volunteered to sleep with the horses, too.
“Suit yourself,” Ballenger said. “Me, I’m gonna sleep in a bed tonight. Ain’t a bad idea for you two to sleep in the stable, though, so’s you can keep an eye on all them supplies we bought today. Let’s put the horses away and go get us a drink.”
Yancey was not the only one to have dreams. But instead of dreams forecasting death by a stranger’s hand, Ballenger’s dreams were of fancy hotels with the best whiskey and women to do his bidding at the snap of his fingers. And the only road he could see to that end led through one bank after another until he hit a big enough payday to quit.
Chapter 3
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 a
s 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.
There was a night clerk behind the counter, fast asleep in a chair tilted back against the wall. Clint considered waking him, but decided against it, preferring to help himself to pen and paper. Tearing a back sheet from the guest register, he wrote a simple note. The bank is fixing to get robbed this morning. Thinking that was warning enough, he walked quietly out of the hotel and returned to the sheriff’s office, where he slid his note under the door. Satisfied that he had done his part for the people of Fort Collins, he climbed back in the saddle, and under a full moon, slow-walked his horse back toward the road he and the three outlaws had taken into town.
With no particular destination in mind, he started back toward Wyoming, undecided about stopping on his way north to visit his father. It might be a risky thing to do. His father’s little ranch might be the first place the law would look for him. He decided to think on it while he rode north. This would most likely be the last chance he could have to see his father again, because he planned never to return to his home once he reached Montana.
Zach Clayton caught himself nodding off in the saddle as his horse plodded slowly along the road leading to Fort Collins. He tried to shake the sleep from his head and stood up in the stirrups to stretch his legs. He and the sorrel were tired of traveling and both looked forward to something to eat and a bed. With the light of a full moon, he could almost read the time by his watch, but not quite. One thing he knew for sure, however, it was getting on toward bedtime. He wondered whether it was too late to drop in on his friend Jim Popwell.
Jim was the sheriff in Fort Collins, and he had worked with Zach before on a few searches. Zach knew he would be welcome to stay with him overnight, so he decided he’d ride straight through town to Jim’s place on the river.
He reached in his saddlebag and pulled out a piece of beef jerky to quell the demands of his empty stomach. A mile later, he saw the faint lights of Fort Collins. Maybe it was later than he thought, for the town showed few signs of life on the north end. One lone rider was the only person he saw, traveling to meet him on the dark road. Probably ran out of drinking money and heading home, Clayton thought as the rider approached.
“Evenin’,” Clayton offered as the rider rode past him.
“Evenin’,” the rider returned with a nod of his head.
Neither man bothered to look back as the distance between them increased to the point where they faded into the moonlit evening. Clayton cast little more than a glance toward the sheriff’s office as he walked his horse up the middle of the lonely street. It was obvious that there was no one in the office. Must not have anyone in jail, he thought. At the far end of the street, he found the only signs of life in the sleepy town, as the saloons were still going strong. He thought about taking a look inside in case he spotted the men he trailed, but decided to wait until he talked to Jim.
“Who is it?” Popwell demanded from the other side of the closed door of the simple frame house.
“I’m bringin’ the word of God to save all the hard sinners,” Clayton replied. “And somebody in town gave me your name.”
“You what?” Jim sputtered. “Who the hell sent you out here?” he demanded as he opened the door and th
rust a lantern up before him to reveal the grinning face of the deputy marshal. His deep frown turned instantly to a wide grin. “Zach Clayton!” he roared then. “What in the hell . . . ? Come on in, man!” He threw the door open wide. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, and the last son of a bitch to save anybody’s soul.”
Clayton grabbed his friend’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically while slapping him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Good to see you, Jim. Glad to see you’re still standin’ up. I thought somebody mighta shot you by now.”
“Hell, man, Fort Collins is a peaceful town. We ain’t got no trouble here. What are you doin’ down here, anyway? You chasin’ somebody? You’re ridin’ mighty late at night.”
“Yeah, I’m on somebody’s trail, and it looked like they were headed your way, but I ain’t sure.” He hung his saddlebag over a chair back. “Thought I’d drop in on you for tonight, if it’s all right.” He paused to look around the tiny room. “You ain’t took up with a woman since I last saw you, have you?”
“Hell no,” Jim replied. “I ain’t found one that’d stay for more’n a night, and had to be paid for that.” He pulled a chair back from the table. “Set yourself down, Zach, and I’ll put on a pot of coffee. You hungry?”
“Well, I could eat, if you’ve got somethin’ handy. Let me take care of my horse first.”
Popwell carved a couple of slabs of meat from a haunch of venison he had butchered that afternoon, and while Clayton was eating, he filled him in on the reason he was in town. “Well, no, I can’t really say,” Jim answered when Zach asked whether he had seen anyone resembling the four men he was after. “Like I told you, I took the last two days off to go huntin’ since everything’s been so quiet. But we can take a look around in the mornin’.”
Lawless Prairie Page 3