Lawless Prairie

by Charles G. West

  “What the hell?” he roared. “I reckon I can stand up to a bath this late in the season.”

  Intrigued by the idea of a tryst with a rich man’s prostitute, Ballenger presented himself to the washroom where Corrina was busily filling a huge wooden tub with water heated on the stove. Yancey accompanied him, not as a participator, but merely a spectator, his gaze constantly upon the half-breed woman as she came back and forth with her bucket. When the tub was filled, she dropped a washcloth and a bar of soap in the water and left the room saying, “Holler when you need rinsin’.”

  “Ain’t you gonna scrub my back?” Ballenger joked.

  “Let him do it,” the stoic cook replied as she closed the door.

  Enjoying the novelty of it, Ballenger used the soap and cloth to scrape away some of the layers of trail dust and grit. Yancey watched and made warning comments about the dangers of too much bathing and its potential for weakening a man’s constitution. Ballenger just laughed at his partner’s concerns, convinced that he was strong enough to stand up to any amount of soaking. “Hell, most women do it two or three times a month,” he allowed, “and it don’t appear to hurt them none.”

  When he was ready, he called for Corrina and she carried in a couple of large buckets of clean water to rinse him. He stood proudly in the tub while she stood on a stool and poured the water over him. “Now, don’t you be jealous of your mistress, girl,” he teased, receiving nothing more than a bored grunt in reply. Dried and in a clean robe supplied by Corrina, he was ready to proceed to the madam’s bedroom when the maid doused him with some scented water. “What the hell did you do that for?” Clell demanded. “I just took a bath.”

  “Miss Maggie likes it,” was the simple reply.

  Shaking his head, hardly believing his partner’s willingness to subject himself so blatantly, Yancey remained in the washroom, purportedly to help Corrina empty the large tub. After the water was emptied, he transacted a contract with the stoic maid that was executed right there in the washroom for a sum considerably less than his partner paid for the royal treatment. Following a short period of quick spasms resembling the mating of a pair of rabbits, he walked away satisfied and content to await his partner.

  With the definite feeling that he had stepped up into a level of society that he had never experienced before, Clell Ballenger was content. Leaving Maggie’s room afterward, he went upstairs to dress, where he found Yancey waiting for him. “Ain’t you gonna dip your wick?” Ballenger asked.

  “Done done it,” Yancey said with a grin. “Been waitin’ for you for half an hour.”

  Ballenger chuckled. “I swear, you could make do with a knothole in a wooden fence.”

  “If it ain’t an ugly fence,” Yancey replied matter-of-factly.

  “Partner, I could get used to this. I ain’t ever been tended to like I was tonight,” Ballenger said as he pulled on the same dirty clothes he had ridden in with. “I’m thinkin’ I’m ’bout ready to find us a card game.”

  “That’s just what I was thinkin’,” Yancey said.

  They walked past the stable toward a newly built frame building, the lumber no doubt milled at the sawmill at the edge of the cluster of shacks and tents. “How ’bout walkin’ on the downwind side of me?” Yancey requested. “You smell like one of them French trollops.”

  “It oughta blow offa me in this wind,” Ballenger said, already regretting the dousing he had received. “There won’t be none of that next time. That’s for damn sure.”

  They stepped up on the small stoop and Yancey opened the door wide. A plank-topped bar ran across the upper end of the room with three tables near the opposite wall, although there was plenty of space for more. The establishment could not have been there very long. New buildings like this one would most likely be appearing more frequently since most of the Indians were now on reservations or had fled to the north.

  Walking with the air of one who had recently struck it rich, Ballenger strode up to the bar and addressed the bartender. “Gimme a bottle of the best you got, and don’t try to slip any of that cheap stuff in a different bottle by me.”

  Like most men who met Ballenger the first time, the bartender knew right away that he didn’t want any trouble with him or the wiry, sly-looking man with him. Still, he had a reputation to protect, so he responded in kind. “Mister, I don’t sell cheap or watered-down stock here. I stand behind the whiskey I sell.”

  Ballenger responded with a faint smile, amused that the man had gotten his hackles up. “Well, good,” he said, “then we won’t have no trouble, will we?” He was in a good mood, having decided he was going to hang around the little settlement for a spell. “Who are the three gents settin’ at the back table?”

  The bartender put a bottle on the bar with two glasses. “The one facin’ this way is Tom Pullen, owns the sawmill. The other two, I don’t know. They’re just passin’ through on their way to Bozeman.”

  “Looks to me like we got us enough to have a little game, partner,” Ballenger said to Yancey. “You got a new deck of cards?” he directed back at the bartender.

  When Clell pulled out a roll of bills to pay, the bartender’s eyes suddenly opened wide. “Yes, sir, gentlemen,” he said. “I think they were just wishin’ they had a couple more players.” He slapped an unopened deck of cards on the counter and escorted the two strangers to the table. “Tom,” he said to the sawmill operator, “these two gents are lookin’ for a friendly little game of cards.”

  “That a fact?” Tom replied. “Well, I was just talking to these two fellows about that very thing. Set yourselves down.”

  While Ballenger and Yancey pulled a couple of chairs over, Pullen glanced at the bartender, who nodded slowly and cut his eyes over toward Clell. Understanding, Pullen nodded back and started to make introductions.

  Yancey cut him short. “We don’t need to know nobody’s name. Just deal the cards and let’s play some poker.”

  “There’s a real poker player,” Pullen said, laughing. “All right, then, let’s cut for deal.”

  Ballenger watched the sawmill owner and the way he shuffled the cards. He’d be the one to watch, he decided. The other two were a surly pair, drifters. Clell had ridden with many a man just like them. They most likely didn’t have enough money to stay in the game long.

  They started out with a dollar limit, and the first half dozen hands went along quiet enough. One of the drifters won a hand, Clell and Yancey won a couple, and Pullen won one. Pullen suggested they up the limit to five dollars and everyone agreed. After a few more hands with Clell and Yancey both doing all right, one of the drifters, a stocky cur of a man, became dark and brooding as he saw his money rapidly disappearing. He folded for the second hand in a row and sat sulking, his eyes fixed on Ballenger, who had just raised. Glancing at his partner across the table, he quirked one corner of his mouth in a surly smile. Then he began to sniff, exaggerating the act like a dog on the scent of something wild. He sniffed in Pullen’s direction; then he sniffed in Ballenger’s direction, sticking his nose close up to Ballenger’s face. Across from him, Yancey sat back holding his cards close to his vest, a huge smile spreading across his narrow face, anticipating the fun about to begin.

  “Damn if I don’t believe it must be the time of month for one of you ladies,” the drifter drawled. “Which one of you sweet things is it?”

  “I reckon it’s me,” Ballenger said evenly. He put his cards facedown on the table while the drifter smirked spitefully. In the next instant, the drifter’s cheek was split from the corner of his eye to the point of his chin, the result of Ballenger’s pistol barrel laid forcefully against the side of his head. He went sprawling from his chair with the big man on top of him before he hit the floor. Again and again Ballenger hammered the hapless man with the butt of his pistol until the drifter finally lay still.

  The other drifter started to get up when his partner was first struck, but sat back down when Yancey stuck a gun in his ribs. “Clell gets riled easy,” Yancey
said. “You’d best keep your seat.”

  Ballenger got up from the unconscious man, and glaring at the other drifter, advised, “You better drag his sorry ass outta here while I’m still in a good mood.” As the battered man’s partner struggled to pull him out of the saloon, Pullen started to rake his money from the table, only to receive a menacing stare from the angry man. “Hold on there a minute,” he commanded. “Let’s see them cards.” Pullen turned over two pair, kings and nines. Ballenger turned his cards faceup. “Three fives,” he said, and started to rake the money.

  “Wait just a minute,” Yancey said, and turned over a low straight. Smiling with gratification, he pulled the pot over to him.

  “Why, you low-down snake in the grass,” Ballenger snarled. “You was layin’ back all the time, lettin’ us do the bettin’.”

  “Well, gentlemen, it’s gettin’ late,” Pullen blurted nervously. “I expect I’d best be gettin’ home.” He glanced at an equally nervous bartender. “I think I’ll use the back door, Jake. It’s closer to my horse.”

  “Sure you don’t wanna hang around?” Ballenger asked. “We could play some three-man poker.”

  “Thank you just the same, but I expect my wife’s wonderin’ where I am.” He grabbed his coat and hurried out the back.

  “We’ll most likely be around for a few days,” Ballenger called after him. He then turned to Yancey. “Grab that there bottle. I reckon we might as well go, too.”

  Yancey, having seen a fair share of barroom fights, picked up the bottle. “You reckon one of them jaspers is waitin’ outside with a rifle?”

  “I would,” Ballenger replied with certainty, “if it was the other way around. I expect it’d be a good idea if one of us went out the back.”

  “I’ll go out the front,” Yancey volunteered. “I doubt they’ll shoot until they see us both come out, especially you. You go around the back and see if you can catch ’em before they can get off a shot.” He didn’t tell Ballenger that he wasn’t worried about getting shot because neither one of the drifters looked like the assassin in his dream.

  Just as they suspected, the drifters were lying in wait outside. Yancey had to dive for cover when a rifle shot ripped a sizable chunk out of the door frame only inches from his head. Scrambling on hands and knees, he made it to the protection of the low stoop. Ballenger, sneaking around the building, arrived at the front of the saloon in time to see the rifle blast from the corner of the stable. He immediately returned fire with his pistol. The range was a little too great for accuracy with a pistol, but the repeated fire from Ballenger was enough to surprise the bushwhackers, and they decided not to push their luck. In a few seconds, Ballenger heard the sound of horses galloping away in the night. “Come on, Yancey!” he yelled as he ran after them, trying to load his pistol on the run. A man his size on foot was no contest for two fast horses, so it wasn’t much of a contest. The drifters contented themselves with that one shot, and then wisely headed for parts unknown.

  Chapter 15

  Deputy Marshal Mack Thompson paused to take a precautionary look at the chuck wagon parked beside Fiddler’s Creek. A modest-sized remuda was roped off near the wagon and a couple of men were standing near the campfire. They did not notice the lone rider approaching them from the other side of the creek until he had advanced to within a hundred yards.

  “Uh-oh,” Percy Johnson said, and hurried to the wagon to get his rifle.

  “Who the hell is that?” Floyd Berry asked, squinting in an effort to identify the rider.

  “It ain’t one of our boys,” Percy said, “and I ain’t takin’ no chances after them last two.” He walked over to position himself behind a corner of the wagon. Taking the hint, Floyd took cover at the front of the wagon.

  “Hello the camp!” Thompson called out. “I’m comin’ in.”

  “Come on, then,” Percy replied, and held his rifle ready to fire at the first indication of foul play.

  When Thompson came closer, he identified himself. “I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Mack Thompson.”

  Floyd relaxed a bit, but Percy still held his rifle ready before him, watching the stranger closely as he pulled up next to the wagon and dismounted. “Howdy, boys,” he said, and pulled his coat open to show them his badge. “Is there any coffee left in that pot?”

  “Why, sure, Marshal,” Percy replied after seeing the badge. “I’ll fetch you a cup.” While he pulled a cup from his cupboard, he went on to explain. “Sorry we didn’t show you much hospitality, but the last strangers that come into my camp left me with a mighty sore bump on the back of my head.”

  This immediately snared Thompson’s interest. “Much obliged,” he said when Percy handed him his coffee. “I’m trailin’ two outlaws that I’m guessin’ mighta come this way. They held up the bank in Helena.”

  “Well, I expect you’re on the right trail,” Percy responded. “It was two fellers that jumped me, and they was ridin’ some wore-out horses—stole two of our horses after they sneaked up behind me and knocked me in the head.”

  “Can you tell me what they looked like?” Thompson asked, already feeling certain that it was Ballenger and Yancey.

  “Sure. One of ’em, the one that did most of the talkin’, was a big feller with black bushy hair in the back. Had a kinda flat nose, like somebody had slammed a board across it.” Thompson nodded. Percy continued. “The other’n was a lanky, kinda skinny feller that didn’t say much, but looked like he’d eat your liver if you gave him a chance.”

  Thompson was certain that Percy had just described Ballenger and Yancey. His description was pretty much the same given by the witnesses at the bank. “That sounds like the two I’ve been trailin’,” he said. “Which way did they go?”

  “Yonder way,” Percy said, pointing toward the southeast. “They had me hog-tied, but I seen ’em ride off.” Then he remembered what Ballenger had said when they first rode up. “They said they was headin’ to Big Timber. I don’t know if they was or not.” He shook his head and added, “I mighta knowed they was bank robbers or somethin’.”

  “Yep, that they were,” Thompson said. “They managed to get away from the sheriff and a posse outta Helena. I guess I was just lucky to scout out this way for ’em.” He finished his coffee quickly and stepped up in the saddle. “Much obliged, boys. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “I hope you catch the son of a bitches,” Percy called after him as he rode out past the remuda.

  “I ain’t takin’ another bath, and that’s for damn certain,” Clell blurted. “It’s downright unhealthy for a man to take two baths in four days.”

  “Then don’t come scratchin’ around my door,” Maggie replied stubbornly. “I don’t want you rubbin’ your dirt off on my sheets.”

  “To hell with you and your sheets,” Clell shot back. “I ain’t takin’ no bath, and I ain’t payin’ no fifty dollars for a ten-dollar tussle with you, either. You done made enough money offa me.”

  Incensed, but also reluctant to lose the recent source of money, Maggie shot back, “Well, you’re not gettin’ a free one if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “Hell, I ain’t thinkin’ about a free ride. You’re lookin’ kinda flabby and wrinkled. Maybe you oughta be payin’ me.” It was not the money alone that had smothered Clell’s flame of passion. He had been eyeballing Corrina more and more, and the half-breed woman looked a hell of a lot younger than her mistress. The fact that it would save him a considerable sum of money was a bonus. He figured like Yancey now, they all looked the same with their skirts up. “You can keep that old thing you’re so proud of till it dries up,” he said in parting.

  “Why, you ol’ flat-nosed son of a bitch,” Maggie fumed, “I wouldn’t let you have no more if you offered a hundred dollars!”

  Chuckling to himself, he headed for the kitchen in search of the maid. Finding the kitchen empty, and no sign of the woman out the back door, he went upstairs to look for Yancey. Finding Yancey’s door locked, he banged on it and yelled for hi
m.

  “What is it?” Yancey yelled back.

  “Open the damn door,” Ballenger replied impatiently.

  “In a minute,” Yancey came back. “I’m ’bout finished.” True to his word, in a little more than a minute, he came to the door, pulling his trousers up. The door opened and Corrina slipped by him, and hurried down the hall.

  “Damn,” Ballenger grunted. “That takes care of that.” Then he called after her, “I’ll be talkin’ to you later on this evenin’.” He turned back to Yancey. “Get your pants on and we’ll go get us a drink and maybe scare up a card game.”

  Lem Turner had seen the solemn deputy marshal on a couple of occasions when Thompson had passed through the little settlement before. Once he had boarded his horse in Lem’s stable and slept in the stall with it. “Yep, Marshal, them four in the corral, the chestnut and that palomino, and the black and the gray belong to two fellers that rode in a few days ago. They’re stayin’ with Maggie Pitts.” In answer to Thompson’s question, he replied, “A big man with a flat nose, and his skinny sidekick. Tom Pullen said they pistol-whipped some feller pretty bad in the saloon a couple of nights ago.”

  “Much obliged,” Thompson said, and went on his way, confident that he had caught up with the bank robbers.

  His next stop was Maggie Pitts’ rooming house where he found the proprietor setting the table for supper. She turned around and gasped slightly when she was startled by the sudden appearance of the gaunt lawman standing right behind her. “My stars!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He pulled his coat aside to show the badge on his vest. “I’m interested in two of your boarders,” he said, “name of Ballenger and Yancey.”

  “Well, I don’t have but two guests right now, but their names are Mr. Johnson and Mr. Smith.”

  “Are they here now?”