Lawless Prairie

by Charles G. West

  “How do?” Steiner greeted him, and waited for Clayton to state his business.

  “Howdy,” the deputy returned. “Is Clint around?”

  “Clint?” Frederick responded, surprised. “You know Clint?”

  “Sure do,” Clayton answered. “Is he around?”

  “Why, I think he’s in the barn,” Frederick said, not really sure where Clint was. His son, hearing his dad talking to someone, came out on the porch. Frederick turned to him and said, “John, go out to the barn and fetch Clint.” John nodded and jumped off the porch. Back to Clayton, Frederick asked, “You ride out from the settlement?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Why don’t you come on in the house and sit down while John fetches Clint? Maybe we’ve got some coffee still in the pot.”

  “Why, that would be real nice,” Clayton said with a warm grin. It was the first time he had ever used this approach in making an arrest, but he was confident that he knew his man. Conner was not a killer. He was convinced that he was a decent man who had just taken a step in the wrong direction. It was fairly obvious that these folks had no inkling of Clint’s past. As for confronting Clint, Clayton felt the best place to keep the arrest from getting nasty was in the midst of the family who had evidently taken him in. He figured Clint would not want to involve the family in any violent action.

  Following Frederick inside, he nodded to Karl and the two women, all with puzzled expressions to greet him. Totally confident in his assessment of the man he was there to arrest, he graciously accepted the cup of coffee offered by Joanna and answered yes when asked if he wanted sugar. When she brought the sugar, he reached for it, causing his coat to gap slightly, enough so that she glimpsed the shiny metal object pinned to his shirt. She froze, spilling some of the sugar on the table. Guessing that she had seen his badge, and by her reaction, maybe knowing Clint was in trouble, he quickly smiled and took the sugar bowl from her hand. “No need to bother,” he said, “I’ll just brush it off with my hand.”

  “Clint ain’t there,” John said as he returned from the barn. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He was there a minute ago,” Karl said. Like Frederick and Bertha, he was curious about the purpose of the stranger’s visit to see Clint. Their curiosity was transformed into alarm in the next few seconds.

  “Damn!” Clayton uttered, and sprang up from his chair, suddenly realizing he had been recognized. He rushed to the door and ran toward the corral. The puzzled family followed him out to the porch, astonished by his actions, and stood watching as he charged toward the barn.

  “That’s far enough,” Clint warned when Clayton appeared in the barn door. Rowdy, already saddled, stood between him and the deputy marshal, Clint’s Winchester resting across the saddle and aimed at Clayton.

  Clayton stopped at once. “Hello, Clint,” he said, a friendly smile upon his face. “Here you are, pointin’ a rifle in my face again.” He took a couple of steps more, but stopped when Clint cocked the rifle. “The last time I saw you, you helped me out of a jam, and then made me take a helluva long walk. My feet were sore for a week.”

  “You shouldn’t have come after me,” Clint said. “Why the hell couldn’t you just leave me alone?” Glancing behind the lawman, he was disappointed to see Joanna and the others come in behind him. The expressions of alarm and dismay in their faces brought a feeling of great regret to his troubled mind.

  Reading Clint’s expression, Clayton took a quick glance to confirm what he suspected. They didn’t know, with the possible exception of the young woman, of Clint’s past. Knowing their presence here now was to his advantage, he made an attempt to reason with the fugitive. “I don’t know how much you’ve told these nice folks here, so I’ll spell it out for ’em. You’re an escaped prisoner from the Wyoming Territorial Prison.” There was a distinct gasp from Bertha and a grunt of surprise from both men beside her. Clayton continued. “That’s the reason I had to come track you down. But I’m ready to tell these folks that I know you’re a good man. You made a mistake when you weren’t much more than a boy, stole a horse, but you only served half your sentence. If you come back with me peaceable, I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I figure I owe you that, seein’ as how you saved my neck back there north of Cheyenne. I’ll testify about that to the judge, that and that little stunt you pulled to save the guard’s life.” He gestured toward the stunned gathering behind him. “Your friends here probably don’t know you had no choice about escapin’ with Ballenger. I’ll remind the judge of that, too.”

  Clint was not ready to surrender. “I’ve served enough time for freein’ one horse from the treatment Judge Plover gave it. I ain’t goin’ back.”

  “You know I’m bound to take you back,” Clayton said, his voice still calm. “What are you gonna do? Shoot me?” He shook his head slowly. “You ain’t no murderer, Clint. And you don’t wanna be on the run for the rest of your life. You’ve already served half your time, and I’m thinkin’ the judge will shorten the rest of your sentence when I testify for you. The best thing for you to do is to wipe the slate clean with the law, come out in a short time a free man.” Although the Winchester was still pointed at him, he thought he detected a hint of indecision in Clint’s eyes. “Let’s talk about it. I don’t want this to come to bloodshed, but I’ve got no choice in what I have to do. I just hate to see you make a mess outta your life.”

  Clint was torn with anguish; he wished that he had more time to think about it. There were other factors that entered into his decisions now, the most important of which was Joanna. He had seen a glimmer of what might have been, and at this moment, he knew that it could never be if he was constantly on the run. He took his eyes off Clayton long enough to cast an inquiring glance in her direction. Her face, filled with distress, answered his unspoken question with a nod of her head, and she mouthed the silent words I’ll wait for you. Still uncertain, he pulled the rifle down from his saddle. They were all startled by what happened next.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere with him!” John Steiner stated forcefully as he stepped up behind Clayton with a shotgun leveled at the deputy’s waist. “We’ll ride up in the badlands where nobody can find us.”

  There followed a few minutes of chaos as Frederick exclaimed, “John!” and started toward his son. John waved him and his mother back while keeping the shotgun trained on Zach Clayton.

  Realizing the consequences that were sure to follow John’s actions, and the certain ruination of the young boy’s life, Clint knew what he had to do. “John,” he said, “the deputy’s right. Put the gun down. It’s best I go back and clear this mark against my name.”

  “But we can make it, Clint,” John pleaded. “I’ll help you.”

  “I know you would, and I appreciate it, but it ain’t the right thing to do. You heard what Clayton said. I won’t be gone long, and your pa needs you here.” He waited until the boy lowered the shotgun, then turned to Clayton. “I reckon you win.” There was a sigh of relief from everyone.

  “I expect it would be best to go ahead and get started,” Clayton said. He could see little sense in lingering there where there might be too many things to cause Clint to have a change of heart. He held out his hand for Clint’s rifle.

  “Whatever you say,” Clint replied, surrendering the weapon. “I’m ready.”

  “If we run into any Injuns, I’ll give it back,” Clayton said. “Might as well let me hold that pistol, too.” Then he extended his hand again, this time to shake Clint’s. “I’ll give you my word that I’ll do everything I can for you in court, and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me yours that you won’t cause me any trouble on the way back.” Clint nodded and shook on it.

  It was a strange turn of events, a parting unlike any the deputy marshal had ever experienced before while in the process of making an arrest. Bertha quickly gathered some food for them to take and Karl filled a sack with oats for the horses. Clayton did not tie Clint’s hands or feet. It was more like two frie
nds starting out for home after a visit. He stood by his horse while Clint spoke his final farewells.

  After Clint thanked Frederick and Bertha for their hospitality, he shook hands with Karl, who told him he was doing the right thing. Next he shook young John’s hand, and charged him with the responsibility of taking care of his horses and the guns and ammunition he had acquired after the confrontations with the Sioux and the two bushwhackers from the saloon. “When I get back,” he said, “we’ll go up in the hills across the river and get us an elk.”

  Joanna held back while he said good-bye to the others. When he turned to find her, she stepped forward and much to the astonishment of the males in her family, threw her arms around Clint’s neck. Pulling his head down to her, she kissed him with all the ardor she held in her heart. Astounded, Karl and Frederick could only look at each other and gape. When Joanna finally released him, she whispered, “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  “I’ll surely be back,” he promised, then turned and led Rowdy out of the barn. Taking one last look at Joanna, he turned the buckskin toward the road and left at a fast walk. Clayton tipped his hat politely to the two women, nodded to the men, and urged his horse to lope until he caught up with his prisoner. Side by side, they settled into a comfortable walk and headed to Cheyenne.

  Chapter 12

  Covering thirty to forty miles a day, they drove a steady pace down through the Powder River valley, riding until they exhausted daylight, in an effort to pass through the still dangerous territory. The great village of Sioux and Cheyenne that had annihilated Custer on the Little Big Horn had long since splintered off in many different directions. But there was always the good possibility that many were still in the area, causing both men to watch constantly for any sign of hostile groups. At night the campfire was kept low, out of sight in a gully or other defile where possible so as not to attract any curious Lakota hunter. Since the trip would take better than a week and a half, there was plenty of opportunity for the two men to get to know each other a little better.

  The first night out, Clayton had tried to sleep with one eye open. He trusted Clint at his word, but there was the nagging thought that he might change his mind after being away from that little lady back in Montana. There was no sense in taking a chance on losing him again. He finally threw precaution to the wind after the fourth day when he developed stomach cramps from eating the last of the meat Bertha had given them, the meat having spoiled after that length of time. They lost half a day’s travel when Clayton was too sick to get out of his blankets. Clint had the opportunity to do pretty much whatever he wanted, but he chose to help the stricken man as best he could, never giving any thought to escape. After that, Clayton gave Clint’s rifle and pistol back, saying, “Hell, if you didn’t run off when I was laid up pukin’ like a dog, I reckon your word’s as good as gold.”

  Trying to make up for lost time, they pushed the horses hard the following day, never stopping until it was almost too dark to see. “Let’s head for those hills over yonder,” Clayton said, pointing toward a pair of buttes with a line of trees between them, indicating the presence of a stream. Guiding the horses down a rocky path cut by the narrow spring, they selected the best spot they could find in the growing darkness, and made their camp. After they’d taken care of the horses, there was little time spent sitting by the fire before turning in for the night. Clint roasted a little jerky for his supper. Clayton, his stomach still a bit tender after his bout with the tainted meat, settled for coffee alone.

  The notch between the two buttes ran east to west, so the first rays of the morning sun shone directly down it, lighting tiny sparkles that danced upon the water. It was a peaceful place. Clayton opened his eyes to find himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol, pointed directly at his head. He froze, helpless to react fast enough and knowing he was a dead man.

  “Don’t move,” Clint warned softly.

  Clayton heard the ominous sound of the hammer cocking seconds before the revolver roared. Stunned, unable to believe Clint had missed at point-blank range, he rolled out of his blanket, trying to scramble to his feet, his mind a whirl-wind of chaotic thoughts. When he managed to get his gun out, he stopped, puzzled by Clint’s calm, smiling face as he pointed toward Clayton’s bedroll and the five-foot rattle-snake lying dead beside it. “Maybe we oughta be a little more careful where we make our beds,” Clint said, and holstered his pistol.

  Clayton was stricken dumb for a few seconds, gaping wide-eyed, first at the snake and then at Clint. Then he finally found his voice. “Goddamn!” he exhaled. “Goddamn!” He shook his head over and over as if trying to rid it of his alarm. “I came mighty damn close to shittin’ the rest of that meat in my britches. Why couldn’t you just wake me up and tell me?”

  Clint shrugged. “Tell you the truth, that snake musta crawled up between you and the fire to get warm, but I was afraid if you moved, it mighta struck. Besides, it wasn’t that close. He musta been six or seven inches from your head.”

  “Oh,” was all Clayton replied, but he knew for sure that he had not misjudged the character of the man he was taking back for trial.

  They made the trip in eleven days with half a day lost because of Clayton’s sick spell, and two delays when Sioux hunting parties were spotted. Bypassing Fort Laramie, they retraced the trail Clint had taken on his way to Montana weeks before.

  “Where are you taking me?” Clint asked one evening by the fire. “Laramie?”

  “No,” Clayton replied. “I’m supposed to take you to Cheyenne. You’ll have to go to trial there since that’s where you were sentenced. Then I expect you’ll be sent back to Laramie as soon as the trial is over.” He watched Clint’s face closely, wondering whether, now that they were within a couple of days’ ride, he might be getting cold feet about returning to prison. “Maybe they’ll give you your old cell back,” he said in an effort to lighten his spirits. “It’ll be like comin’ home.” He chuckled. “But I don’t expect you’ll be put on stable duty again.”

  Clint laughed. “I don’t reckon.” Stable detail was for men who were not at risk of attempting escape. “It’s the broom factory for me.”

  “Judge Wingate is a reasonable man,” Clayton said. “I think when he hears all the facts in your case, you’ll be outta there before that little gal of yours has a good chance to miss you.”

  “What’ll happen to my horse and the rest of my stuff?” Clint asked.

  “Well, your guns and saddle will most likely go to the sheriff’s office till they decide somethin’ else to do with ’em. They’ll put your horse in the stable—for a while, anyway. Then they may ship him to Laramie. I ain’t really sure.”

  “These guns and the saddle belong to my pa, the horse, too. Any way he can claim them?”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton said. “I’ll find out.”

  Clint had not spent a great deal of time thinking about the problem. Now he wished that he had ridden one of the Indian ponies he had captured, and left Rowdy in Montana. He didn’t like the thought of the buckskin being turned out with a bunch of prison horses.

  Sheriff Quinton Bridges took delivery of Clayton’s prisoner and locked him in a cell to await trial. Clayton informed the sheriff that Clint was a good man, and warned him that he’d better damn sure treat him proper. He came back to check on Clint that same day.

  “I’ve notified Judge Wingate’s office, and wired the prison over at Laramie that you’re in custody,” Clayton said. “They promised me that Judge Wingate would try the case within a couple of days, so you shouldn’t be here too long.” He paused to look hard at Clint. “You all right?”

  “Yep,” Clint responded, “I’m all right. I’ve been in jail before.”

  Clayton nodded. “Okay then.” He got up from the stool he had pulled over next to the bars. “I’ll be back to see how you’re doin’.” On his way out, he spoke to the sheriff. “I’ll see you later, Quinton. Take care of my boy in there.”

  “I will,” Bri
dges replied. He walked back to the cell and spoke to Clint. “Son, you must have somethin’ on ol’ Zach. I ain’t ever seen him worry about a prisoner like this before. More times than not, they’re pretty bloody when he brings ’em in.”

  The trial date was set, and on the scheduled day, Sheriff Bridges handcuffed the prisoner and escorted him across the street to the courtroom. As Bridges led him to his seat, Clint nodded to Zach Clayton on the other side of the room. Seated in the noisy room of curious spectators, they awaited the arrival of the judge. After a delay of nearly half an hour, the court clerk called out, “All rise.”

  Sitting stoically to that point, Clint suddenly felt a jolt throughout his whole body when the judge entered the room. It was Judge Wyman Plover! He started to surge forward, causing the sheriff to grab him and pull him back. “Whoa, boy, where’re you goin’?”

  “That’s that son of a bitch, Plover,” Clint blurted. “It’s supposed to be Judge Wingate!”

  “Plover’s fillin’ in for Wingate,” Bridges said, unaware that it made any difference to the prisoner. “Judge Wingate came down ill yesterday and Judge Plover rode in this mornin’ to try the case for him.”

  Judge Wyman Plover called for the courtroom to be seated, then glared at the sheriff and Clint over the top of his spectacles. “Settle your prisoner down over there.”

  It would be one of the shortest trials Sheriff Bridges could remember. The entire proceedings were finished in less than an hour. When Deputy Marshal Clayton was called to the stand, he asked to speak to the court on behalf of the prisoner. Judge Plover instructed him to respond to his questions with answers of yes or no. When he tried to testify on the cooperation of the prisoner and his willingness to risk his life to save that of the deputy, Clayton was told that his testimony was irrelevant to the charges against Clint. “We’re here to decide whether the defendant escaped from the Territorial Penitentiary or not, and you’ve already testified that he did. Added to those charges is assault with intent to kill prison guard Otis Williams.” When Clayton protested, the judge threatened him with contempt and ordered him to step down.