“We coulda used that horse,” Clell fumed.
“Even if we don’t get a shot at him, at least he ain’t gonna be doggin’ us no more. Why don’t we just ride on now?”
“I want him dead, dammit,” Ballenger insisted. “I don’t wanna look around a month from now and see that son of a bitch on my tail again.”
“He ain’t shot back once,” Yancey said. “Maybe one of them shots caught him.”
“I doubt it,” Ballenger replied, and gave his partner a withering glance. “He’s just got more sense than to waste a lot of cartridges when he ain’t got a likely target.”
Yancey pumped a couple more slugs into the sorrel’s carcass. “I’ve got that horse sighted in,” he said. “If that marshal shows his head, I’ll get him.” As if cooperating to prove Yancey’s point, Clayton eased the rifle over the saddle and took aim at the rim of the ravine. Yancey immediately pulled the trigger, sending a slug to embed in the saddle inches from Clayton’s head. “Hot damn!” Yancey brayed. “I told you I had him! Let him stick his head up there again!”
Clint pulled Rowdy up short, turned his head to face the wind, and listened. There it was again. This time he was sure it was a rifle shot—someone hunting, or someone in trouble. Judging from the sound, it was probably two or three miles away. A few moments passed, and then he heard more shots, too many for a hunter. None of my affair, he thought, and nudged Rowdy into motion again. But he found it difficult to ignore when the shooting continued sporadically. He remembered his father’s warning about Indian activity in the area. Not this close to Cheyenne, he told himself. Finally his conscience called upon him to at least have a look to make sure some settler wasn’t in trouble. He turned Rowdy’s head west and prodded him into a lope.
The gunfire continued as he drew closer until he felt certain it was just beyond a gentle rise that almost formed a ridge between him and the source of the shooting. Knowing he would be silhouetted against the blue sky behind him if he rode over the top of the ridge, he dismounted and left his horses there below the rise. Making his way the remaining distance on foot, he dropped to his knees and crawled the final few feet.
The first thing he saw was a man lying behind his dead horse, obviously pinned down in the open on a flat expanse of prairie. While he watched, he heard a few more rifle shots that sent slugs pounding into the carcass, causing the trapped man to try to lie even flatter. Scanning back a hundred and fifty yards or so, he finally sighted the shooters on the edge of a ravine. After another minute, he decided there were two of them. There followed a few moments of hesitation on his part. What he had stumbled upon, he wasn’t sure, but it was obvious who the victim was. Whether he deserved it or not was impossible to say. He decided the only way he might be able to tell who was in the right and who was in the wrong was to get around behind the two riflemen to get a better look. Could be they were Indians, and they had bush-whacked the man trapped behind the horse. Looking beyond the ravine, he saw that his best chance was to circle all the way around to the base of the hills behind the two shooters.
Pulling slowly away from the top of the ridge, he stayed on hands and knees until sure he could stand up without being seen. Back to his horses, he mounted and nudged Rowdy into a lope once again. It took fully half an hour to make a wide enough circle to position himself directly behind the bushwhackers in the ravine. He pulled his horses up as close as he dared before leaving them in a narrow gully fifty or sixty yards away. Pulling his rifle, he climbed up to the top of the gully and dropped to the ground to look the situation over.
There was nothing but flat open ground between his gully and the ravine, so that was as close as he dared go. He discovered, however, that he had a clear view of the two men lying at the opposite lip of the ravine. They were not Indians. He stared at them for a long moment, still uncertain as to what he should do, if anything at all. Then as he continued to stare, one of the men rolled over on his side to say something to the other, and Clint almost grunted aloud his cry of surprise—Ballenger!
For a moment, Clint was stunned. How could this be? It was almost too much to believe that, in this vast Wyoming prairie, he had once again crossed paths with Ballenger and Yancey. He had thought he would never see the notorious killers again, having assumed that Ballenger and his cohorts were heading down into Colorado. Recovering immediately, he took another long look. There were only two. He searched as much of the ravine as he could see, looking for Skinner, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It was a hell of a turn of events, but one thing he felt sure he could assume—the man pinned behind his horse had to be the innocent party and most likely a lawman after them for robbing the bank in Fort Collins. Without further thought, Clint raised his rifle and sighted it on Yancey. When the rifle spoke, Yancey yelped in pain and rolled over and over. Clint quickly shifted his aim and pulled the trigger again, but Ballenger moved to the side just in time to cause the bullet to miss. Without a clear target now, Clint cranked round after round into the chamber, spraying the side of the ravine with lead.
Caught in a panic of confusion, Ballenger and Yancey scrambled down off the slope amid a hailstorm of slugs zipping by them and ripping up the ground. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” Ballenger yelled as he stumbled down to the bottom of the ravine. Yancey, his left arm soaked with blood from a shoulder wound, needed no encouragement. Without their knowing who, or how many their assailants were, there was no thought beyond escape in the minds of both men. “How bad are you hurt?” Ballenger shouted at his partner as they galloped along the bottom of the ravine.
“Shoulder!” Yancey called back. “I don’t know how bad.”
They followed the ravine to the point where it widened at its origin on a hillside, then made their way, running the horses flat out through a maze of low treeless hills. When the horses began to falter from the strain, they were forced to let up on the weary animals. Looking back over his shoulder, Ballenger said, “I don’t see nobody. I don’t think they saw which way we went.”
Yancey, breathing almost as hard as his horse, winced in pain when he replied, “I say we just keep ridin’. I need to tend to my shoulder.” He wasn’t sure whether Clell was of a mind to circle back to retaliate, but if he was, it was going to be without him.
“The son of a bitch had help,” Ballenger said. “I don’t know how they got around us, but we were damn lucky to get outta there.”
“You were lucky,” Yancey growled as he stuffed his bandanna inside his shirt to try to stop the bleeding.
“They wouldn’ta caught up with us at all if you hadn’t laid around in your blankets this mornin’,” Clell grumbled.
“I didn’t know we were in a by-God hurry till we spotted him this afternoon. Hell, I didn’t notice you up so damn early.”
Ballenger was staring back the way they had just come. “You see anybody?” he asked, forgetting the bickering for the moment.
After a pause, Yancey answered. “We lost ’em. Let’s get movin’ before they start searchin’ these hills.” With no choice but to rest the horses, he started walking, leading his horse.
Clint stood on the side of the gully, reloading his rifle while watching for any sign of the bushwhackers’ return. He waited until he felt sure they had gone before going back for his horses. He was undecided at first about riding down to help the man trapped behind the horse. Chances were he was a lawman chasing Ballenger and Yancey. What if he wasn’t, but an innocent victim of ambush by the two? Even while telling himself that he was a fool to do it, he decided to see whether the man was alive or dead.
His question was answered when he approached to within fifty yards of the lead-filled carcass. Clayton rose to one knee, watching him carefully before standing up to meet him. “Mister,” he said, “I’m mighty glad you came along.”
“You looked like you could use a little help,” Clint said as he pulled up beside him and dismounted. “I don’t think those two will be back. They lit out toward the west.”
“I’m much ob
liged,” Clayton said. “They left me in a fix.” He studied his young Samaritan closely, thinking maybe he had seen his likeness on a poster. Growing more confident in the identification, he casually pulled his vest aside to show his badge. “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal. I was chasin’ those two when they ambushed me.”
“Is that a fact?” Clint replied, careful to maintain an indifferent manner.
Clayton watched Clint’s facial expressions closely as he continued. “Yeah, they’re a couple of bad ones. One of ’em escaped from the territorial prison a few days ago with two other prisoners. I shot one of ’em over in Fort Collins. These two took off up this way, but they musta split up with the other feller because he left the night before.” The picture of a lone rider he had passed on the road into Fort Collins one moonlit night came to his mind, and he had a strong feeling that it was the same man he was now talking to. The thought caused a plethora of conflicting decisions.
Clint was not comfortable with the direction of the conversation. He cursed himself for coming to help the marshal, but he had no choice now but to maintain a calm exterior and hope to bluff his way through. “Well, looks like your man-hunt has hit a snag for now,” he said. “I don’t like to leave a man on foot out here, so I reckon I could let you have my packhorse to get you back to Cheyenne.”
“Why, that’s mighty neighborly of you, Mr. . . . what was your name?”
“Smith,” Clint replied too quickly to come up with something original. “I reckon you’ll be headin’ back to get another horse.”
“Oh, no,” Clayton replied. “My job is to go after those convicts.” He gave Clint a knowing smile. “All of them.” There was an awkward moment of silence while the two stood facing each other. “Now, if I was a bettin’ man,” Clayton went on, “I’d bet that you’d more’n likely answer to the name of Conner instead of Smith.” The sudden tightness of Clint’s jaw told him he was right. He was a little reluctant to take the next step since Clint had just gotten him out of a serious situation. There was a series of acts that indicated Clint Conner was a decent man—saving the prison guard’s life, the warning note about the bank job, and now his own rescue. In view of all that, he could elect to let him go on his way. But Clayton could not turn his back on his responsibility, and Clint was an escaped convict. It was Clayton’s job to bring him to justice. It was as simple as that.
Clint took a backward step toward his horse, and quicker than a lightning flash, Clayton’s hand came up, his .44 leveled at him. He shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, son, but I’m gonna have to take you in.”
“Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch,” Clint responded. “I shoulda left you lying behind that damn horse.”
“I understand how you feel, and I appreciate what you done. I’ll mention it to the judge, and maybe he’ll go easy on you, but I’ve got to do my job. It ain’t up to me to decide the right and wrong of things.” He motioned with his pistol. “Now take your left hand and unbuckle that gun belt. Do it real slow. I don’t wanna have to shoot you, but I sure as hell will if you don’t do like I tell you.”
With no choice but to do as he was told, Clint let his gun belt fall to the ground. “Now you’d best unload that packhorse and put my saddle on him,” Clayton ordered. Clint said nothing, went to the packhorse, and started working on the straps his father had fashioned. When he had untied one of the large canvas packs, he backed away from the horse, holding the pack in his arms, pretending to look for a place to set it down. “Just drop it on the ground,” Clayton ordered impatiently.
“It’s got flour and such in it. I don’t wanna spill it,” Clint said.
“Jesus!” Clayton scoffed. “Whaddaya care? You ain’t gonna be usin’ it.” He stepped forward and reached out to jerk one end of the pack out of Clint’s hands. “Drop the damn thing.”
In one swift move, Clint shoved the canvas sack into Clayton’s chest, launching his body after it. The deputy’s reflexes caused him to pull the trigger, but the thrust of Clint’s shoulder drove Clayton’s arm down and the bullet went into the ground between them. In desperate combat, Clint grabbed Clayton’s wrist before he could bring the pistol to bear again and drove him to the ground. As the two men wrestled for control of the weapon, Clayton learned that he had underestimated the strength of the quiet young man. With his neck in a headlock that threatened to break his spine, he was forced to release the pistol. Clint quickly grabbed it, and like a cat, rolled off the stunned lawman, and was on his feet.
With the pistol leveled at Clayton, Clint gave the orders. “Now we’re gonna sing the same song, but with a different verse,” he said. “Pick up that pack and tie it on again.”
“You’re makin’ a helluva big mistake,” the deputy marshal said, rubbing the wrist that Clint had almost broken.
“I believe you’re the one who made the mistake, seein’ as how I’m the one holdin’ the gun. Now hurry up and tie that pack on.”
Clayton, believing he had judged the man accurately, continued to balk. “You ain’t a killer. You’re not gonna shoot me, so why don’t you just hand over the gun?”
Clint stood gazing at the cocksure lawman for a long moment. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. And before Clayton could form the confident smile he intended, Clint struck him hard on the chin with the weapon, knocking him to the ground. “Now get up and do what I tell you. And make no mistake, I will shoot if I have to.”
Clayton took a minute to clear his head before climbing to his feet a more subdued man. Clint took the opportunity to quickly buckle on his gun belt again. When the pack was secure once more, Clint picked up Clayton’s rifle and stepped up in the saddle. “You’re the one who chose to play the game this way,” he lectured the deputy. “I’ve paid enough for the mistake I made three years ago, and I’m not goin’ back to that prison. It’s about fifteen miles back to Cheyenne, just a good stretch of the legs.” He glanced around, looking for a spot. “See that low mesa over there? I’ll leave your guns over near the base of it.”
“You’d best shoot me,” an angry Clayton spat, “if you don’t wanna see me again, ’cause I’ll hunt you down if it takes the rest of my life.”
“Mister, I hope you’ve got better things to do with your life,” Clint said in parting.
His first camp after leaving Marshal Zach Clayton on foot was beside Horse Creek. It was not lost on him that he was no more than forty miles or so from the Wyoming Territorial Prison where he had spent the last three years of his life. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he was anxious to get an early start in the morning to be on his way, seeking to leave Wyoming behind him. He thought about his confrontation with Clayton. The deputy marshal should have completed his walk back to Cheyenne by then, and no doubt sent wires to every town that had a telegraph pole. In view of that, he planned to avoid towns of any size. He would cross the Chugwater tomorrow and head northwest, planning to cut between the Laramie Mountains and Fort Laramie. Once across the Platte, he would head in a more northeasterly direction, hoping to avoid Sioux or Cheyenne war parties.
Two days of steady riding found him in camp by the north fork of the Laramie River near the base of the rugged Laramie Mountains. Riding up into hills dotted with pines and evergreens, he doubled back to check on his back trail to make sure no one was following him. It was strictly precaution, for he didn’t expect to see anyone. But since he had accidentally run into Ballenger and Yancey, he thought it best not to leave anything to chance. It was only after another day and a half, when he crossed the Platte a few miles east of Fort Fetterman, that he discarded his concern over being followed. Turning Rowdy a little more toward the east while keeping a general northern course, he rode over rolling grassland with distant horizons in all directions. One man, alone in a seemingly endless prairie, he at last felt free of civilization’s restraints. There was no sign of mankind, white or savage. He imagined he felt as Adam had before God sent Eve to keep him company. Maybe the only difference was a wide prairie instead of a Garden of Eden.
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Chapter 6
Joanna Becker paused to listen to a bird calling outside the back window. It was an odd call, she thought, unable to identify the species. It sounded like a meadowlark, but she had never seen a meadowlark in these hills. She swung the large iron pot away from the fire and stirred the rabbit stew with a long wooden spoon. Swinging the pot back over the fire, she paused again when she heard the bird once more, this time on the other side of the cabin.
“Want me to set the table?” her mother asked as she sat by the front window, sewing a patch on her father’s shirt.
Knowing her mother wanted to finish the shirt so he could wear it the next day at the sluice box, Joanna replied, “No, it can wait. Daddy and Robert won’t be back for at least an hour yet.” The afternoon was fading rapidly, and soon there would be little light coming through the open window. She gave her mother a smile. “This stew isn’t going to be ready before then, anyway, as slow as it’s cooking.” Her husband, Robert, had told her that morning that he and her father planned to move the box upstream about a hundred yards, and would probably be home a little later than usual.
The two men had been working hard for the past four months to get the cabin ready for winter while trying to work a mining claim at the same time. When they came to the Black Hills from Omaha in the early spring, Robert had boasted about the plentiful game close to the cabin. “We’ll never have to worry about havin’ meat on the table,” he promised. The problem was he never had time to hunt for fresh meat. Joanna and her mother had fashioned a trap that had caught the rabbit now simmering in the iron pot. She smiled when she thought about the surprised look she would see on Robert’s face when he came home expecting more salt pork.
Robert, she thought with a concerned smile. The quest into the Black Hills to search for gold had sounded so adventurous when they started out from Omaha. It had turned out to be an unrewarding labor from dawn to dusk as the men worked to build a rough cabin while filling a sluice box with colorless dirt. The only other choice was to go to Montana Territory with her uncle and two other families in hopes of creating a farm community. The search for gold had seemed much more compelling. Joanna honestly believed that had not Robert been excited about the prospect of striking it rich, her father would most likely have chosen to go to Montana with his brother.
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