Lawless Prairie

by Charles G. West

  “We been on the run for two days now,” he said, “and ain’t nobody come after us. I think it’s time we count that money and split it.”

  “What’s the matter, Pete?” Ballenger replied, joking. “You ’fraid I’m gonna run off with all of it?”

  “I been ridin’ with you too long to trust you,” Yancey said, halfway serious, although there was a smile on his face. “Hell, that’s a lotta money in that sack. I’m wantin’ to know just how rich I am.” It was a big score, maybe the biggest they had ever made, and this time there was only a two-way split, unlike the days when there were as many as half a dozen riding with Ballenger. That was before Clell was caught and sent to prison. Yancey was now anxious to hold his share of the money.

  “All right,” Ballenger declared. “We gotta rest the horses, anyway, so we might as well see how much we got.”

  He took the bag from his saddle and dumped the money out on the ground. “Gawdamn,” he hooted. “Look at that. Ain’t that a sight to rest the eyes?” He raked the banded notes into a stack, and played with them like a child playing with blocks. “Hell, this is twice as much as we took from that bank in Fort Collins.”

  “Let’s count it,” Yancey said.

  It took a while, but Ballenger counted the bundles and arrived at a total of forty-seven hundred dollars. Both men were amazed, never dreaming it would amount to that much. At Yancey’s incessant prodding, Ballenger divided up the money. Since his arithmetic was not to be trusted, he did it by a simple “one for you, and one for me” method until he got down to one last odd bundle, which he divided the same way, one bill at a time.

  Both men sat there awhile, chewing tobacco, spitting, and contemplating their newly acquired wealth. It was a lot of money, and both men afforded themselves the pleasure of thinking of the many things that much money could buy. The two outlaws had ridden together for a good many years, but forty-seven hundred dollars was enough to send the larcenous mind of Clell Ballenger to thoughts of luxuries the money could buy if it were not split down the middle. The idea caused him to glance over at Yancey and smile, wondering whether his partner was thinking the same thing. It was a tempting thought—to put a bullet in ol’ Pete’s head, and ride off with a stake big enough to set him up on easy street. Maybe go to San Francisco or someplace like that, he thought. “I reckon now it was a pretty good thing when that young feller run off with half our supplies,” he said, thinking of the two-way split.

  “There’s plenty more little banks like that one to knock over for two good men like me and you,” Yancey said. “Two’s the right number. We don’t need no more men like we had in the old days.” The bigger share of money wasn’t the only reason Yancey was glad Clint ran out on them. He no longer had to worry about that haunting dream about the .44 bullet heading straight for his eye.

  Ballenger responded with a smile and a nod. He was still thinking about places he could go with all of the bank money. Putting those thoughts aside for the moment, he became restless to get moving again. “Damn, I need a drink of whiskey. Let’s get the hell outta these mountains.”

  “We probably ain’t rested the horses enough yet,” Yancey replied.

  “We can take it easy on ’em for a spell,” Ballenger insisted. “They ain’t ready to lay down and die yet, and we’re almost outta the hills. Hell, they’ll make it.”

  They mounted the tired horses and pushed on, following the canyon until finally the hills were behind them and open prairie grass before them. With the Crazy Mountains to the east of them, they continued in a southerly direction hoping to strike the Yellowstone somewhere around Big Timber. Late in the afternoon, Yancey, who was leading, pulled up short. “Lookee yonder,” he said, pointing toward a small herd of cattle grazing near a tree-lined stream ahead. Ballenger pulled up beside him, and they sat there for a few minutes looking the scene over.

  “I don’t see but one man,” Clell said after a moment more, “unless there’s somebody in the trees by the water. There’s a chuck wagon under them trees. Might be nobody there but the cook.”

  Yancey was looking at the remuda with twenty or more horses grazing off to one side. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’d like to pick up a fresh horse.”

  “That ain’t a bad idea. Let’s ride on in and see if there’s any more men around.”

  Percy Johnson opened his eyes when he heard the horses whinny a greeting to the two horses approaching from the north. Squinting his eyes in an effort to identify the riders, he determined the two to be strangers. “Now, who the hell . . . ?” he mumbled, and got on his feet. Reaching under the seat of the wagon, he pulled his rifle out just in case. It was mostly renegade Indians he was leery of, but two white men called for the same caution.

  Seeing the old man pull the rifle, Ballenger called out, “Hello the camp. All right we come in? We mean no harm.” He commented low to Yancey, “He’s by hisself. Ain’t nobody else around.”

  “Well, come on in, then,” Percy called back. Holding his rifle ready in case of mischief, he watched his visitors approach. The rest of the boys were out bringing in strays, so he wasn’t pleased to be alone to receive visitors, especially two as rough looking as these. “Where you fellers headin’?” he asked when they were close enough for conversation.

  “We’re on our way back toward Big Timber,” Ballenger answered, “just two cowpokes lookin’ to make an honest livin’.”

  “Is that a fact?” Percy said, at once skeptical. Neither man was dressed like a drover.

  “Where’s the rest of your crew?” Yancey asked, and started to dismount.

  Percy brought his rifle up before his chest. “I’ve not asked you to step down,” he stated evenly. “The rest of the boys is close by. I expect ’em any minute.”

  Yancey settled back in the saddle. Ballenger smiled and said, “There’s no call to get cross with us, old man. We’re just travelers on our way to Big Timber. We wasn’t fixin’ to ask you for nothin’ except maybe a cup of coffee and a word or two of friendly conversation. Hell, we can pay you for the coffee.”

  Percy was left in a quandary, not sure whether he was being overly cautious or just plain unfriendly. “Well,” he said, still unsure, “you’re welcome to a cup of coffee, I reckon. You don’t have to pay for it.” He motioned with his rifle. “Pot’s on the fire there, cups on the tailboard, help you-self.”

  “ ’Preciate it, neighbor,” Ballenger said, still wearing a broad smile. “I don’t blame you for bein’ careful. There’s some mean jaspers ridin’ this territory. It pays for a man to be cautious.” He and Yancey helped themselves to the coffee. “This sure hits the spot,” he commented after a sip of the hot liquid. “It’s been a hard day’s ride.”

  Feeling a slight bit guilty for his quick appraisal of the two strangers, Percy said, “I’m fixin’ to start supper for the boys. There’s plenty if you two wanna stay around for somethin’ to eat.”

  “Why, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” Ballenger replied. “Me and my partner here might take you up on that.” He walked over to stand before Percy. “It’s good coffee,” he said, taking another sip. “You know, we might be interested in doin’ a little tradin’ with you. Our horses is pretty much wore out.”

  “I can see that,” Percy responded, “but you’ll have to talk to the boss about that.”

  “That’s too bad, ’cause we could really make it worth your while.” He glanced at Yancey, who was standing behind them now. “How’s our horses, fifty dollars, and a bump sound?”

  Percy’s eyes widened a bit. “Fifty dollars and a bump? Whaddaya mean, a bump?”

  “A bump on the head,” Ballenger said with a grin as Yancey brought the barrel of his pistol down hard on the back of Percy’s skull. Percy slumped to the ground, fighting to retain his senses. “Get that rope yonder,” Ballenger told Yancey, pointing to the wagon. While the injured man struggled helplessly, Yancey quickly tied him hand and foot. “Let’s pick us a couple of good ones and get them saddles o
n.” Walking past the trussed-up cook, Ballenger bent low and whispered, “I was just joshin’ about the fifty bucks and our horses.” There was no possibility he would leave the chestnut Morgan he prized.

  In a short amount of time, they were finished. Riding fresh horses, and leading the Morgan and Yancey’s palomino, they set out for the Yellowstone with at least three good hours of daylight left. After riding about three miles, they spotted a rider driving a few head of cattle back toward the way they had come. Too far to hail, Ballenger took off his hat and waved a salutation. The drover waved back, causing Ballenger to chuckle delightedly. “He ain’t gonna be too happy when he gets back to camp and supper ain’t ready.”

  Two more days’ ride found them at the Yellowstone River where the Boulder River joined it, and the little settlement called Big Timber for the tall cottonwoods there. They decided Big Timber offered everything they needed for the time being: a saloon, a trading post and general store, stables, and a blacksmith. “Looks to me like the very place we’re lookin’ for,” Ballenger commented upon looking the town over. They took their newly confiscated horses to the stable and paid in advance for a double ration of oats. Lem Turner, the owner of the stable, directed them to Maggie Pitts’ rooming house when they informed him that they were desirous of a real bed to sleep on, and they had the money to afford it.

  Clint Conner, fugitive, made his way through Powder River country, following virtually the same path he had taken once before. With little to eat except some strips of dried jerky he found in his saddlebags, he traveled all day and half the night for the better part of a week until he had crossed the Platte River. Feeling the threat of starvation, he took the time to hunt when he came upon a herd of antelope working their way across the grassy prairie. Knowing it wouldn’t be easy, he attempted to stalk the animals anyway. But to his exasperation, they would not let him approach without taking flight. Then, farther away, they would linger and graze until he drew near again. It seemed to him that they knew the range of his Winchester and managed to stay just outside it. Finally in frustration, he decided to give up chasing the beasts, and try an old trick the trappers used to employ, one his father had told him about.

  Leaving his horse at the bottom of a ridge, he crawled to the top where he could see the antelope grazing five or six hundred yards distant. Knowing their eyesight to be keen, he tied his spare shirt to the end of his rifle barrel. Still lying flat on his stomach in the tall grass, he held the rifle in the air and began waving it slowly back and forth. After maybe a quarter of an hour with no response from the nonchalant herd, he was ready to declare the idea nothing more than folklore. But then he realized that a couple of the animals had stopped grazing and now stood alert, their heads turned directly toward him. He hesitated a moment before beginning his circling motion again. Their curiosity aroused, two of the animals began to slowly approach the ridge, and one or two more paused to stare at the strange object waving in the grass.

  “Come on,” he whispered as they cautiously crept closer and closer. “Come on.” Fearing that the skittish animals might suddenly run away, he had all he could do to restrain himself from taking a risky shot. But he forced himself to have patience, waving his rifle even though it seemed to have tripled in weight. The two antelope advanced to the foot of the ridge, some two hundred yards from him, but then stopped and began to prance playfully back and forth. Afraid they might turn and suddenly bolt, he let the rifle fall slowly to his shoulder, sighted on the foremost antelope, and squeezed the trigger. The animal dropped at once while the rest of the herd sped away.

  Getting to his feet, he watched for a moment to make sure the animal was down for sure. Satisfied, he hurried back down to his horse, not wishing to waste any time collecting the carcass. As he rode Rowdy across the ridge to the other side, he could feel his empty belly twisting in anticipation of the fresh meat, but his first concern was to load the antelope on his horse and find a better protected place to skin and butcher it. He didn’t fancy the idea of being caught out in the open by a Sioux hunting party attracted by his rifle shot.

  He rode for more than two miles before finding a place suitable to do his butchering. With water from a narrow stream that found its meandering way down the middle of a ravine, and rambling berry bushes for a screen, it offered the best choice for his camp. He didn’t know if there was already someone on his trail, but he decided that he was going to have to take the chance. He needed to take a day to rest Rowdy and prepare some food for himself. There were enough dead branches from the bushes to keep a reasonable fire going, so as soon as he unsaddled Rowdy, he started the fire and then went to work skinning the antelope. Before quartering the carcass, he sliced strips from the haunch and set them over the fire to eat while he finished the butchering. The first strips were eaten half raw, such was his hunger, for he couldn’t wait for them to cook. Tossing the sizzling meat back and forth from one hand to the other to cool it, he stuffed his belly full. When his appetite was sated, he felt the urge to sleep, but there was still work to do to dry some of the meat to take with him. Several times he interrupted his work to climb up to the brim of the ravine where he would sit for a period watching the prairie around him for signs of anyone approaching. He kept the periodic lookouts until darkness fell upon his ravine.

  When finally he lay down for the night, he pulled his blanket over his tired body, and lay listening to the whispered sounds of the prairie night. Like the mountains at night, the prairie had its distinctive quiet. Anyone who has lain out under the stars to sleep can tell you the difference. When morning came, he ate more antelope, and packed the portion of the animal he intended to carry. With Rowdy rested, he set out again, hoping to strike the Lightning River before dark.

  Pushing on across the prairie, he struck the Belle Fourche two days later, continuing along the same trail he had taken before when he had come upon Joanna. He told himself that it was the only trail he knew through that country, reluctant to admit that it was also a trail that led him closer to her. Common logic told him that he should not return to Frederick Steiner’s farm, that it would be the first place Zach Clayton would expect to find him. Knowing that, he still continued on the same path, rationalizing his decision by deeming the country around the Powder and the Big Horn too dangerous for a white man alone. “I’ll make up my mind when I reach the Yellowstone,” he announced aloud.

  Four days of hard riding brought him to the banks of the Yellowstone River, a few hundred yards upriver from the saloon where he had encountered the two men he had killed. With no desire to see the saloon owner again, he rode farther upriver to find a spot to make camp and think about what he should do.

  He was not entirely comfortable with the longing he felt to see Joanna Becker again. It was a new feeling for him, one that was hard to explain. The closest thing he could relate to the annoying sensation was feelings he had experienced in the past to see the rugged Rocky Mountain country, or the longing he had experienced in prison for the sense of freedom on the outside. This new emptiness he felt was different, and far more compelling. All said and done, he had to conclude that he might be in love with the woman. A hell of a thing, he thought, reacting as if he had caught a disease.

  “She said she would wait for me,” he told a disinterested Rowdy, remembering her embrace when he had left her. “She must feel the same way about me.” Insecure, even though she had promised, he wondered whether now she might have had second thoughts. After all, he was a convict. What if her husband comes back? Who would she choose then? “Dammit to hell!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Bein’ in love is too damn hard on a man.” He stood up and drained the last of the coffee in his cup. I’ll go tell her what’s happened , he decided. I owe her that. Then I’ll head west.

  No more than two days behind him, Deputy Marshal Zach Clayton sat beside a campfire on the Tongue River. He had been moving fast, not attempting to track Clint Conner. He was intent upon gaining the Yellowstone as quickly as possible, knowing where he was go
ing. The boomtowns on the river were the most likely places to find Ballenger and Yancey. By his own admission, it was a hell of a long way to make an arrest, but he had too much personal pride invested to consider limits of jurisdiction.

  Joanna Becker brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face and got up from the milking stool. She had taken over the morning milking from John, since he had the added responsibility of helping build onto the cabin for her father and her. It was not a chore she particularly enjoyed, and her young cousin was laughingly patient when teaching her how. But she had gotten to the point where the cow accepted her clumsy touch and no longer tried to swat her with her tail. She put the stool out of the way, picked up her bucket, and went back to the house to help her aunt Bertha with breakfast.

  As usual, there were thoughts of Clint darting through her head, but on this chilly morning in late August the thoughts seemed constant, and she tried to picture him on the day she last saw him. She never pictured him languishing in a prison cell, because that image upset her. How long, she wondered, would she have to wait? Three years seemed an eternity now, but the marshal had said that it might be less. She would pray for that. “What . . . ?” she asked, aware then that her aunt had said something to her.

  “I said, check those biscuits in the oven,” Bertha said. “I think they might be getting a little too brown.” She paused in her turning of the bacon in the big iron skillet to take a closer look at her niece. “Are you awake yet this morning? You look like your mind is still in bed.”

  “I’m fine,” Joanna answered, laughing. “Just still a little sleepy, I guess.” She glanced up at her aunt’s typical closed-lip smile that seemed to say she understood everything you were thinking. “You know,” she decided, “it’s going to be such a nice day, I think I’d like to take my horse for a ride this afternoon.”

  “It is fine weather for it,” Bertha said. “Any day now the weather is bound to turn cold. Why don’t you do that?”