“Why, no. I think Corrina said they went to the saloon a little while ago.” She displayed an impatient frown. “That’s where they spend all their time when they’re not here.”
Thompson nodded. “I need to see their rooms.”
She shrugged indifferently and led the way up the stairs. “Those two at the end of the hall,” she said, pointing.
“You stay out here in the hall,” he said as he went past her and entered the first room. It didn’t take much of a search to find the money, stuffed in the saddlebags. A clumsy attempt to hide it had been made by cramming some pieces of clothing on top of it. He found much the same in the other room, leaving little doubt that these two were the men who held up the bank. Back out in the hall, he told Maggie to leave the doors closed and not to enter the rooms until he returned. He considered taking the stolen money with him then, but decided it would be safe enough right where it was for a short time. Besides, he had taken a good look, and felt he would be able to tell whether any was missing when he came back for it. The first order of business was to get Ballenger and Yancey in irons. Maggie promised the rooms would not be disturbed.
The two bank robbers were sitting at the back table when Thompson walked in. He glanced at Jake behind the bar when the bartender asked him if he wanted a drink. “Maybe later,” Thompson replied casually, and walked back to the table.
They had been sitting there playing two-hand poker while they worked on a bottle of Jake’s best, hoping the owner of the sawmill would show up for some cards. Clell, his back to the wall, studied the man walking toward them. “Well, now, maybe we got us somebody to get up a little game of cards,” he said to Yancey. To Thompson, he said, “You lookin’ for a little action?”
“You could say that,” Thompson replied, eyeing Ballenger coldly. “Whaddaya say we start with you two puttin’ your hands in the air and standin’ up?” he ordered, pulling his Colt .45.
Momentarily stunned, both men sat bolt upright. It was only for a moment, however, before Ballenger recovered from the surprise. “Now, what’s the trouble, friend?” he said. “Is this a holdup, right here in front of a witness?” He nodded toward Jake, who was equally astonished.
“Nope,” Thompson replied. “This is an arrest for robbin’ the bank in Helena.” He cut his eyes only briefly toward Yancey, who was starting to shift in his chair. “You’d best get your hands up on the table where I can see them,” he warned. “You, too,” he told Ballenger. “I’m not gonna tell you again, so if you don’t wanna get shot right where you sit, get ’em up there.”
“Now, take it easy, there, Sheriff,” Ballenger said. “Ain’t no sense in anybody gettin’ shot. Me and Yancey ain’t gonna cause no trouble.” He placed his left hand on the table, but before following with his right, he grasped the .44 he habitually rested between his legs anytime he played cards. Thompson had no time to react. Automatically recoiling when the pistol exploded under the table, the bullet striking him in the groin, he was in no position to fire before Ballenger and Yancey turned the table over on him, both men pumping bullets into the doomed lawman as he went down on the floor, his life draining from his body.
“Not today, Sheriff,” Yancey hooted excitedly.
Ballenger swung around to level his pistol at the wide-eyed bartender. “Don’t get no ideas about pullin’ that shotgun from under the bar, unless you’re lookin’ to be a dead hero.”
“No, sir!” Jake responded, and immediately slapped both hands palms down on the bar.
Ballenger turned his attention back to the dying lawman on the floor. He reached down and ripped the badge from Thompson’s vest. “Huh,” he grunted. “He ain’t a sheriff, he’s a marshal.” He gave Yancey a disgusted glance. “It might be a smart thing for us to move on.”
“Yeah,” Yancey replied, “and I was hopin’ to stay around here a little longer.”
Leaving the marshal’s body for Jake to dispose of, they sauntered out of the saloon. Seeing Thompson’s horse tied at the hitching rail, Ballenger said, “I don’t reckon the marshal has any use for his horse now. We might as well take it with us.”
Back at the rooming house, Maggie Pitts was on her knees, rifling through Ballenger’s saddlebags. “Gawdamighty!” she squealed. “There must be a million dollars in here!” She hadn’t waited long after the marshal left. As soon as Corrina called from the front window that Thompson was out of sight, she had rushed into Ballenger’s room to verify what she had suspected. “Look in the other room,” she directed her maid. “See if there’s anything in the other one’s saddlebags.” In a few minutes when she heard Corrina’s gasp of surprise, she stuck her head out in the hall and yelled, “That marshal has gone to arrest those two. He ain’t gonna know exactly how much was in these bags. He didn’t take enough time to count it. Take two or three of those little bundles and stuff the clothes back over the rest.”
Both women were so busy with the confiscation of this unexpected treasure that they were not aware they had company until the sound of footsteps in the upper hallway caused both to freeze. Caught red-handed with several packets of bills on the floor at her knees, Maggie could only stare fearfully up at the glowering Clell Ballenger in the doorway. She could find no words to defend herself until Yancey came in behind Ballenger, dragging Corrina by the arm. Clell scowled at the half-breed and grunted, “Huh,” before walking over to stand directly over Maggie.
“We were just cleaning up your rooms,” Maggie whimpered. “We were gonna put everything back.”
“I’ll bet you was,” Ballenger snarled, delivering a sharp backhand that knocked her over on her side. He went immediately after her. “Thinkin’ you was gonna steal from me, was you? And I’d never know the difference. Right?” He administered a steady rain of blows as he scolded until her screams of pain turned to pitiful whimpers and she fell limp. Unable to satisfy his anger, he grabbed her blouse with one hand and held her up while he pummeled her with his closed fist.
Again and again he struck until Yancey finally said, “Hell, Clell, she’s dead. You done beat her to death.”
Half-crazed in his fury, Ballenger turned to look at his partner as if just realizing he was not alone. The rage that had erupted inside him slowly began to ebb like an angry ocean’s tide, and he dropped the lifeless body to the floor. “All right,” he said, calm again. “I expect we’d best pack up and get the hell outta here.” He looked then at Corrina, held firmly in Yancey’s grasp. “I ain’t leavin’ no witnesses,” he said.
“I know it,” Yancey said, “but I ain’t through with her yet. I’m takin’ her with us.”
“The hell you are.”
“The hell I ain’t,” Yancey retorted.
He and Ballenger glared defiantly at each other for a few moments before the big man backed off. In the moment of calm, it occurred to him that he might have use for the woman himself. “All right,” he said. “But you’re gonna keep an eye on her. The first time she causes trouble, I’ll slit her damn throat.” He glared directly at Corrina then. “You understand? The first time.”
“I won’t be no trouble,” the terrified woman quickly pleaded, unable to take her eyes off the mutilated body of her mistress.
“All right, then, pack up!” Ballenger ordered. “I’ll go get our horses. While I’m gone, pack all the food and stuff you can find in the kitchen and anything else we might use.”
Thinking it best that he went alone to the stable, he walked in just as the owner was hurrying out to see what the gunshots on the other end of town were about. Not expecting to see the big man again after the visit from the marshal, Lem Turner managed to suppress his surprise when Ballenger walked in and said he had come for the horses. It was obvious that the marshal’s confrontation with Ballenger and his partner had not gone well for the lawman. He attempted to make casual conversation, but could not accomplish it when facing the outlaw. Ballenger scowled at him when he mentioned extra costs for oats, causing Lem to say, “No extra charge, though. We’ll call it even.”
&nb
sp; When he returned to the house, Clell and Yancey searched for the money they had spent while they were there, especially the fifty-dollar charges for Ballenger’s contracts with Maggie. The search was to no avail until Clell’s temper erupted again and he started smashing the furniture. It was then that the money showed up in a bureau drawer with a false bottom. At Yancey’s direction, Corrina took her pick of the clothes strewn around on the floor and changed into them before Yancey’s leering eyes. Just at dark, they rode out, heading east, with Ballenger leading Thompson’s horse loaded with food and supplies, blankets and ammunition. Yancey followed with Corrina holding on behind him. Ballenger decided to leave the other two horses, not wanting the bother. They would have preferred to wait until morning, but they could not be certain of the little town’s reactions to the killing of the marshal. There was always a chance that somebody might take a shot at them.
When they had ridden far enough to feel safe, they stopped to make camp where a series of gullies broke down to the river. “Might as well stop here,” Ballenger said. “It’s so damn dark we’re liable to break a horse’s leg in these damn gullies.” When they dismounted, he told Corrina to make a fire and fix something to eat. She quickly did as she was told, fearful of triggering her captors’ ire. After feeding them, she submitted to both men’s carnal needs without protest. Afterward, she lay bundled in a quilt taken from Maggie’s bed and waited patiently until both men were snoring contentedly. Hesitating briefly as she tiptoed between the two sleeping men, she considered the possibility of slipping the revolver from Yancey’s holster and shooting both men. The revenge for herself and her mistress would go a long way in repaying the savage pair for their brutality. But the thought of waking them before she could accomplish the deed was enough to prevent her from trying.
Moving quietly then, she tiptoed away from the fire and led the deputy marshal’s horse down along the riverbank, afraid to take the time to steal one of the saddles. Once she was sure she was beyond their hearing, she jumped on the horse’s back and rode away in the night.
Chapter 16
Planning to follow the Yellowstone to the far mountains, Clint Conner made his way westward. He opted to avoid most of the infrequent settlements he encountered along the river, riding around the random clusters of tents and shacks of traders and trappers. The occasional farm bore evidence of the Indians’ departure as a few brave souls moved in to attempt a living in a land still far from civilized. After camping one night near the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Rosebud creeks, he rode on until he struck another creek, where he came upon two men in the process of building a cabin. Inclined at first to ride around them, he reconsidered, thinking the men looked innocent enough.
“Good day to you,” Clint called out as he approached. They were so intent upon their labor that both men were startled.
After quickly moving to stand next to the rifles propped against the knee-high wall of the cabin, they stared back at the stranger for a long moment before one of them returned the greeting. “Good day to you,” he echoed, watching him carefully.
The other man, after scrutinizing him and his packhorse for a few moments, decided that Clint was no more than a lone traveler. “Howdy,” he said. “Where you headin’?”
“West,” Clint answered.
“Any place in particular?” the man’s partner asked.
“Just west,” Clint replied, smiling.
Judging Clint to be friendly enough, the first man said, “How you gonna know when you get there?” Then before Clint could answer, he asked, “You new in this part of the country?”
“Yep,” Clint replied, “but I reckon everybody out here was new sometime.”
The two men looked at each other and laughed. “Step down if you will,” the second man said. “We’re fixin’ to knock off for some dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”
At this particular time the invitation appealed to Clint. “Much obliged,” he said. “I am gettin’ a little stiff in the saddle, and a cup of coffee would taste good right now. I’ll even furnish the coffee.”
It turned out that the men were brothers, John and Julian Tate, and they were the vanguard for two younger brothers who were planning to join them in the spring. “We’re figurin’ on settin’ up a sawmill,” John, the eldest, said. “James and Jeremy will be bringin’ the sawmill with them.” Clint gave his name as Clint Allen, using his middle name for last.
“We’re figurin’ this is a good spot for a town, what with the steamboats comin’ up the river and all,” Julian said. “If you’re just lookin’ for a place to settle down, you might consider this place.”
“You may be right,” Clint said, “but right now I’m just goin’ to see what I can see.”
Soon the coffeepot was bubbling, and the Tate brothers fried up some bacon to eat with biscuits they had made that morning. Taking coffee only, Clint spent a pleasant hour with them before bidding them good luck with the sawmill and their town and climbing back in the saddle.
He continued west along the river for the rest of that day until approaching darkness found him at another creek, this one larger than the one the Tate brothers were building on. It seemed an ideal place to make camp, so he turned off the river track and rode up the creek for a quarter mile or so until finding a place that suited him. With plenty of grass for the horses, as well as water and trees for protection, he set about making his camp for the night.
At morning light, he took his time about leaving, deciding to take a better look around him. When he had made camp the night before, there had been very little light to inspect the spot in which he had landed. The abundance of deer sign caused him to consider exploring the creek a little farther, so he saddled Rowdy and loaded the pinto and followed the creek north.
Fairly wide in places, the creek wound its way through hilly prairie land like a great snake, lined with trees and thick brush. With the presence of deer sign everywhere, the opportunity to find fresh meat replaced thoughts of returning to the Yellowstone right away. Before the end of the day, he was rewarded with an easy shot at a young buck drinking at the creek. Clint thought it a good sign, and decided to make his camp on the spot with plans to further explore the creek.
Julian Tate straightened and gazed toward the edge of the cottonwoods. “John,” he said, “there’s somebody comin’.”
John dropped his ax and turned to follow his brother’s gaze. A lone rider aboard a strawberry roan was approaching at a slow walk. “I swear, it’s gettin’ downright crowded out here,” he said. “That’s the second rider we’ve seen in two days. I wonder if he’s as lost as that other feller.”
Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach Clayton had figured on making it to Little Porcupine Creek to camp that night. He made it with a good hour of daylight to spare, but he didn’t expect to find two fellows building a cabin there. Seeing no need to be overly cautious, he rode on in and pulled up before the two men eyeing him carefully. “Looks like you fellers have got a right fair start on a cabin,” he said.
“We’re workin’ at it,” John Tate replied.
Clayton looked around the clearing, noting the small tent off to the side and the horses hobbled a few dozen yards away. He saw no sign of women or children. Still seated in the saddle, he said, “I’d figured on restin’ my horse and camping close to the creek tonight, but I’ll ride on a ways.”
“What brings you out this way, friend?” Julian asked.
“I’m lookin’ for somebody,” Clayton replied. “I’m a deputy marshal outta Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory.” He opened his coat to display his badge. “Two fellers robbed a bank over at Helena,” he continued. “Pretty bad pair, one big with a flat nose, the other one rangy with a face like a weasel. You seen anybody like that?”
“Cheyenne?” John questioned, ignoring the question. “You know you ain’t in Wyomin’ Territory, don’t you?”
Clayton smiled patiently. “I know,” he said, “but I started chasin’ ’em in Wyomin’. You seen ’em?”
“Except for the last two days,” Julian reminded him.
“That’s right,” John said, “you’re the second feller passed by here in the last two days. We didn’t see nobody for a month before that.”
“ ’Pears like you know where you’re goin’, though,” Julian commented. “That feller we saw the other day didn’t rightly know where he was headed.” He laughed, then added, “He was a nice enough young feller, though.”
The comment struck a chord in Clayton’s mind. He had heard a similar remark from Billy Turnipseed about a stranger he had met back at the Belle Fourche. It would be too much of a coincidence, but he felt compelled to ask, “Was he ridin’ a buckskin dun?”
“As a matter of fact, he was,” John replied. “He a friend of yours?”
“Maybe. How long ago did you see him?”
“Day before yesterday, about dinnertime.”
“Remember his name?”
John shook his head. “No, I swear I don’t. You remember, Julian?”
“Nah,” Julian replied, scratching his head. “Allen somethin’ or somethin’ Allen. I ain’t sure.”
Coincidence was piling upon coincidence. Clayton told himself the stranger they had seen was not likely Clint Conner. He didn’t figure Clint to be traveling west along the Yellowstone. He felt sure the young man would have headed straight for that young lady on the other side of the Tongue River. Still, it was intriguing enough to encourage him to try to pick up his pace in hopes of catching up with the man, just to satisfy his curiosity. He intended to search through every town, trading post, and collection of huts between here and Bozeman on the chance that Ballenger and Yancey might be running this way. If there was no sign of them by the time he reached Bozeman, he would try Butte and maybe Virginia City. He had a feeling they wouldn’t fan out too far from the whiskey mills and whorehouses. They had money to spend. He hadn’t figured on Clint, and he didn’t particularly want to catch up with him if he was the man these two men had seen. He couldn’t resist, however. “Well, I think I’d best get on my way,” he finally said.
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