“Still hard to sneak up on ol’ Ned.” The voice came low and soft. Arthur stopped in his tracks, stunned and confused. “Evenin’, Pa. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Clint?” Arthur gasped. “Clint? Is that you, boy?” The hand holding the lantern was shaking with excitement now.
“Yessir,” Clint replied. “It’s me. I didn’t wanna slip in here like this, but I had to watch the house for a bit before I rode in. I wanted to make sure you were alone.”
“My God in heaven,” Arthur exclaimed, and strode forward to meet his son. “I can’t believe it’s you.” He held the lantern up so he could look at him. “I swear, you don’t look none the worse for three years in prison. I believe you’ve growed into a man.” He reached out and gave his son a one-armed bear hug, then stepped back and demanded, “And why the hell wouldn’t I be alone?”
“Well,” Clint said, hesitating, “there might be somebody lookin’ for me.”
“Done come and gone,” Arthur replied. “Sheriff’s deputy came out from Cheyenne yesterday lookin’ for you.”
“You already know I broke out, then,” Clint said.
“Yeah, I know. Come on, put your horse in the barn, and we’ll go in the house and fix you somethin’ to eat. You hungry? I ain’t never known you when you wasn’t.”
“Pa, I didn’t have no intention of breaking out of prison. I was bound to serve my time, but I got caught in a situation where I had to run with those other fellers, or be left behind with a bullet in my head.”
“You don’t owe me no explanation, son. You’ve always tried to do the right thing. And that includes when you took that Appaloosa from Judge Plover. I don’t blame you none, never did. They ought’n to sent you to prison for that. That man ain’t fittin’ to own horses.” He watched until Clint pulled the saddle off and filled a bucket with oats for his horse. “Come on and I’ll find you somethin’ to eat.” He led the way to the house.
Before stepping inside, Clint paused to pet the dog for a few seconds. “Now after makin’ all that fuss, you want your ears scratched,” he said. “Maybe you remember me after all, huh, boy?” He gave Ned a couple of dismissal pats and followed his father into the house. As soon as he entered the room, he felt a shiver of emotion run through his entire body as he looked around the familiar scene after an absence of three years.
Watching his son carefully, Arthur said, “Ain’t much changed since you’ve been gone. I finally built a new table. That’s about all, I reckon.”
Clint followed his father’s eye to the kitchen table. He nodded, but did not comment. His father had threatened to build a new table for years to replace one that wobbled precariously from two mended legs. It was a job that no one had the time to get around to, and one that always caused his father to swear every time a cup of coffee or a pan of fresh milk was caused to slop over when someone leaned too hard on one end or the other. “She’s solid now,” Arthur said, and smacked the table with the palm of his hand. Feeling awkward in his attempt to make small talk, he decided to cut right to what he really wanted to know. “How come you broke out, son?”
“Like I said, I didn’t really have a choice,” Clint replied. He then went on to relate the details of his escape with Clell Ballenger and Bob Washburn, and his subsequent split with the outlaws.
“Did you kill anybody?”
“No, sir,” Clint answered.
Arthur nodded his head thoughtfully. He was satisfied that as long as Clint hadn’t taken anyone’s life, he could be forgiven for anything else that might have happened. “Well, what are you plannin’ to do now? Like I said, the sheriff’s deputy was already out here. I expect he’ll be back. It might go easier on you if you turned yourself in instead of waitin’ for them to come lookin’ for you again.”
“I ain’t goin’ back, Pa. I just stopped by to see you before I head up to Montana Territory. I aim to lose myself up in the high country, maybe go on to Canada. It liked to killed me being locked up for three years. If I go back now they’re bound to add time to my sentence. I ain’t goin’ back.”
Arthur didn’t know what to say. He had always been a law-abiding man, but he understood his son’s feelings. Clint had always been a child of the forests and hills, more at home under the stars instead of a cabin roof. It was indeed cruel and unjust punishment to keep his son incarcerated, punished for his compassion for a mistreated horse. Knowing it unlikely that Clint’s mind could be changed once he had decided upon something, he shrugged to signal the issue settled. “It ain’t exactly a good time to be ridin’ up to Powder River country,” he warned. “I don’t know how much you heard, being locked up in that prison, but there’s been a lot of trouble with the Sioux and Cheyenne durin’ this whole last year.”
“I heard about it,” Clint said. “I intend to stay clear of any Indians.” He hesitated a moment before broaching a subject that had bothered his conscience. “Pa, I know you were probably countin’ on me to help you here when I got out of prison, and I’m sorry I’m not gonna be here to do it.”
“Don’t fret about it,” Arthur said. “I’m doin’ all right. I’ve got Charley Simpson workin’ for me. And to tell you the truth, Charley ain’t good for nothin’ but ranch work. So I don’t know what ol’ Charley would do if you came back and I had to let him go.” Deciding the matter closed, he went to the stove and picked up the coffeepot. Handing it to Clint, he said, “Go fill this with some water while I grind up some coffee. I’ve got some corn bread left from supper, and I’ll see if I can find somethin’ else for you to eat.”
“I need to swap these clothes I’m wearin’ for somethin’ better,” Clint said. “You didn’t throw out all my old clothes, did you?”
“They’re in your room, right where you left ’em,” Arthur replied.
“Good, ’cause I can’t wait to shuck these I got on.” It had disgusted him to have to wear Bob Washburn’s shirt and pants, and he was anxious to discard them. He was not surprised to find that his old clothes were a trifle tight across the chest and shoulders, but he could still wear them. Feeling more at ease then, he sat down at the table again to eat.
They talked late into the evening like two old friends instead of father and son. Arthur was aware of the change in his son that prison had wrought, whether good or bad he couldn’t say, but there was a sense of quiet maturity that was not in the boy when he was sent to prison. Arthur decided that Clint was doing the right thing; he had no business in prison. Arthur went to bed that night believing that justice had at last been served.
Up before sunup, Clint was in the barn saddling his horse when Arthur came from the house. “Morning,” he said when his father walked in. “I thought I’d get outta here before Charley comes to work. No need to let anybody know I was here.”
“Hell, Charley wouldn’t tell anybody,” Arthur said. “He won’t be here till noon, anyway. I’da been up before this, but we stayed up a long time past my bedtime last night.”
Clint smiled. His father had always considered it a matter of pride to be the first one up in the morning. And he always had an excuse for those times when he wasn’t. “I wouldn’t have been up so early myself, but I guess I was havin’ a hard time gettin’ used to a soft bed again.” In truth, Clint had learned to sleep anywhere after three years on a straw tick spread over a board frame.
Arthur held his lantern up as he looked Clint’s horse over, a habit brought on from years of raising horses. “Where’d you get him?” he asked while looking in the gray’s mouth. “Kinda long in the tooth, ain’t he?”
“He’s stolen,” Clint answered. “One of the prisoners I broke out with stole him from the prison corral.”
“Damn, that ain’t good,” Arthur involuntarily uttered.
“I know, but he’s all I got right now, and I’ll be takin’ him a long way from here.” He cast a critical eye at the flea-bitten gray horse and shook his head. “At least he’s better than the one I was ridin’ before him.”
Arthur thought abou
t the situation for a moment more. “He might be all right for a packhorse, and you’ll be needin’ a packhorse.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
Arthur interrupted. “I got a horse for you.” With Clint about to protest, his father started toward the corral. “Come on,” he said. A faint streak of morning light snaked over the hills to the east, and Arthur set the lantern down at his feet. “That buckskin dun over there next to the trough—I bought him off a fellow about a month ago. He’s saddle-broke and stout—got a little bit of rascal in him, too, plumb rowdy sometimes. Day after I brought him home, he was nippin’ at the other horses in the corral just to see ’em run round and round. He’ll make a fine horse for you.”
Even in the dim morning light, Clint couldn’t help but admire the horse, but it seemed like an awful lot to expect from his father. “I appreciate it, Pa, but that horse probably cost you a pretty penny, and I can make do with the gray.”
“There ain’t gonna be no discussion about it,” Arthur insisted. “You can’t go ridin’ off to Montana on that old buzzard-bait. Besides, I figure I owe you for that Appaloosa you loved so much. If I hadn’t sold that damn horse, you wouldn’t have gone to prison. I want to get rid of that damn buckskin, anyway, before he runs the other horses ragged.”
His father’s statement caused him to think. He had never blamed his father for his arrest, and it had never occurred to him that his father might feel in some part responsible. “Hell, Pa, the reason I got sent to prison was because I did a damn fool thing. It wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine.”
“I want you to take the horse, anyway.”
The horse wasn’t the only thing he gained by visiting his father. By the time he left, Arthur had loaded the packhorse with supplies and utensils, as well as insisting that he trade the old model Winchester for his dad’s ’73 model. He rode away from the little ranch southwest of Cheyenne well mounted, well armed, well supplied, and with a little money in his pocket. “I’ll be seein’ you one day,” he said in parting. “Maybe I’ll find me a place to raise some cattle and horses up in the high country, and you can move up there with me.”
“That would suit me fine,” Arthur said, knowing in his heart that he might never see his son again.
It was well past sunup when Clint said his final farewell and pointed the buckskin north. There was a feeling of sadness over leaving his father again, but at the same time a sense of relief, as if his soul was free to start on a clean slate. Intending to pass to the east of Cheyenne, he planned to head toward Fort Laramie, possibly following along the route of the old cattle trails that led from Cheyenne to Montana Territory. From there, he planned to follow whatever urge struck him at the time. Happy to be rid of Clell Ballenger and his sidekicks, he could now look forward to discovering a new country where thoughts of prison and outlaws were left far behind him.
His father had been accurate in his evaluation of the buckskin dun. The horse seemed willing and strong as the two new partners crossed the railroad tracks east of Cheyenne, and by the time they reached Lodgepole Creek, he was thinking over names for the horse. Remembering what his father had said about the spirited gelding, he decided to call him Rowdy. “Rowdy,” he pronounced. “I like it.” He patted the buckskin on the neck. “How do you like it?” The horse snorted and tossed his head. “I’m gonna consider that a yes.”
By midafternoon he felt reasonably certain that he had struck the Shawnee Trail. There were enough signs that revealed evidence of the old cattle trail that had extended the Goodnight-Loving Trail beyond Cheyenne. He was on his way to Montana, unaware of the dark cloud that shadowed him from Colorado.
Chapter 5
Zach Clayton stuck doggedly to the trail he had followed from Fort Collins. He had held his horse hard to a fast pace, but had not, so far, gained any ground on Ballenger and Yancey. It did not discourage him. He knew that he would eventually catch up to them, as sure as the sun rose and set every day. He had never failed to run down any man he chased. His patience and determination were well-known among lawmen and outlaws alike throughout the territory.
The outlaws had stopped to rest their horses on Owl Creek, some five or six miles south of Cheyenne. Clayton sat on his heels by a burnt-out campfire and stirred the ashes with his finger. They were not that far ahead of him now, judging by the warmth of the ashes. They had rested their horses before moving on. He found their tracks on the other side of the creek, veering toward the east, obviously intending to skirt around the town. He had made up some ground on them, but his horse was in need of rest. He decided on a short rest for his horse; then they could both walk for a couple of hours in an effort to make up a little more ground. He pulled the saddle off and let the sorrel graze while he sat with his back against a cottonwood. He had hoped the two outlaws would ride straight into Cheyenne, where there was always a fair chance they would get slowed down by a saloon, making his job easier. At least their tracks were easily followed. Late afternoon found him saddling his horse again. Picking up the tracks on the east side of the creek, he started out leading the sorrel, figuring he had a few hours of daylight left before being forced to stop for the night.
The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to follow the tracks, he was in the saddle again. He found their next campfire around noon about fifteen miles north of Cheyenne. The ashes were still smoking when he stirred them. He was close. He stroked the sorrel’s neck and said, “It’s time to make you work a little, boy.” Stepping up in the saddle, he gave the horse a little kick with his heels, starting out at a lope.
“I knew it, dammit!” Yancey blurted. “I had a feelin’ we weren’t done with that son of a bitch. I’ve been in this business too damn long not to know when I’m being dogged by a lawman.”
Ballenger, kneeling by the tiny stream that meandered down through a narrow ravine spotted with sage and berry bushes, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rose to his feet. “Whaddaya lookin’ at?” he asked.
“That damn marshal, Clayton,” Yancey replied heatedly. “Dammit, Clell, I told you he’d be doggin’ us. I’d bet my share of the money that Clint Conner was the son of a bitch that tipped them off.”
“Well, you’ve been lookin’ over your shoulder ever since we left Colorado,” Ballenger said, less concerned, but interested if the rider was indeed Zach Clayton. “You probably drawed him to us, you was lookin’ so hard.” He climbed up to the top of the ravine beside Yancey and looked in the direction his partner pointed. “I expect it’s him, all right,” he said, although the lone rider was little more than a tiny figure on the treeless prairie behind them. The feeling in his gut was enough to verify it.
“It’s him,” Yancey stated emphatically.
“He’s rode a long way to get killed,” Ballenger said. He turned to look back down the ravine where the horses were drinking. “And this looks as good a place as any. Come on.” He started back down the side of the ravine to get his rifle. “Better tie the horses to a bush so they don’t run off when the shootin’ starts.”
Back up at the rim of the ravine, the two gunmen picked their spots to lie in wait for the unsuspecting lawman. Lying flat on their bellies, they watched as Clayton drew near, waiting for him to come within range. “I got ten dollars that sez my shot is the one that hits him first,” Ballenger said.
“You got a bet,” Yancey replied with a confident grin. “You ain’t seen the day you could outshoot me.”
Clayton eased his horse back to a slow walk after having held the sorrel to a steady lope for some time. The trail, now leading over a series of cuts and ravines at the base of a low butte, was easily identified because of the tall grass on this side of the hills. There remained two distinct trails left by Ballenger and Yancey, fresh enough so that the grass had not yet recovered. From prior trips through this part of the territory, Clayton knew that this was a small area of tall grass. The tracking might not be as easy on the northern side of the hills. But if he was in luck, he figured he might catch up to them by sund
own. He discovered in the next few minutes that his progress had been even greater than he had figured.
He heard what sounded like zip-thunk, moments before he heard the crack of a rifle. The sorrel screamed in pain, and before Clayton had time to react, a second bullet thudded into the horse’s chest. He tried to turn the frantic animal, but the horse’s instincts told it to run. It tried to gallop off to one side, but staggered and stumbled. Clayton came out of the saddle just as the mortally wounded horse crashed to the ground.
With bullets ripping the ground all around him, he scrambled quickly to take cover behind his fallen horse while angrily cursing himself for riding blindly into an ambush. One look at the sorrel’s wounds and he knew the horse was gone. He apologized earnestly for causing the faithful animal’s death as he ended the sorrel’s misery with his pistol.
Lying on the ground behind the carcass, he looked behind him, then to each side. He had been caught on open prairie with no apparent cover readily available. His horse would have to do. Pulling his rifle from the saddle sling, he tried to pinpoint the source of the attack. He soon figured out that his assailants were firing from the rim of a ravine about a hundred and fifty yards away. I guess I’m just lucky they didn’t wait till I got a lot closer, he thought.
Sharing Clayton’s thought, Clell Ballenger expressed his displeasure. “Dammit, Yancey, why the hell couldn’t you wait till he got in decent range? Now we got no choice but to waste a helluva lot of ammunition, tryin’ to get a lucky shot.”
Too anxious to win his bet with Ballenger, Yancey could only offer a lame excuse. “Hell, I thought I could hit him.” He shrugged. “At least we got him pinned down. He can’t move from behind that horse.”
Lawless Prairie Page 5