Lawless Prairie

by Charles G. West

  “Well, I see you came back to see us,” Sam Crowder said when the marshal walked in the door. “You need a little drink of whiskey?”

  Clayton thought it over for a moment before deciding. “No,” he said, his mind still on whether to hang around the town another day or to move on to the next one. “Have you got any coffee?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a pot on the stove over there. I made it first thing this mornin’, so it might be a little stout about now.”

  “Hell, that’s all right,” Clayton said. “I like it a little burnt.” Suddenly feeling tired, he took the cup Sam offered and took it over to a table when another patron walked up to the bar. Ballenger had told the bartender they’d be back. Clayton knew that didn’t necessarily guarantee their return, but they might return, so he decided to wait for a while. If they had left town already, it was going to be another chore to find them, not knowing whether they went east or west.

  He could see a cluster of buildings ahead as he guided Rowdy around a series of gullies that ran to the river. In the distance, he could see the faint outline of a range of mountains. The sight made his heart quicken as he realized that he might reach them in a day or so. He had planned to avoid towns of any size, like the one he could see ahead, but Rowdy’s left front hoof had somehow managed to loosen the shoe and Clint wanted to fix it as soon as possible. So in that sense, he guessed it was lucky he came to a town.

  The stable’s owner and blacksmith were one and the same, a cheerful fellow named Farley James. He was shoeing a chestnut Morgan when Clint pulled Rowdy up in front of the stable door. Giving Clint no more than a glance, Farley continued nailing a new shoe on the Morgan’s hoof until it was finished; then he dropped the hoof to the ground and straightened up to greet the stranger.

  “How do?” he said. “You needin’ somethin’? Stable or smithy?”

  “Howdy,” Clint replied. “I think my horse is gettin’ ready to throw a shoe.”

  “Well, let’s take a look,” Farley said. “Just let me put this horse back in the stall.” He led the chestnut to a wide stall in the rear of the stable and put him in with another horse. He returned and lifted the leg indicated by Clint. “It’s loose, all right. It’s pretty worn, too. If all of ’em are this worn, it wouldn’t hurt to replace ’em all.”

  Clint was not surprised. “I expect they are,” he said. “And I expect you might as well replace ’em.”

  “What about your packhorse?” Farley asked. “Is he in the same fix?”

  “He’s an Indian pony. He ain’t wearin’ no shoes.”

  Farley grunted his disappointment. “All right, then,” he said, “I’ll get right on it. You can stand around and wait, or leave ’em here and come back in about an hour.”

  “I reckon I’ll wait,” Clint said, and stepped back out of the way.

  He watched for a while until he became bored with it, and then walked back through the stable toward the corral behind, always interested in horses. Near the back door, he passed the stall Farley had led the Morgan to. He glanced at the horse, just noticing the palomino in the stall with him. He paused for a moment to admire the showy palomino, then started to walk on. He stopped and went back to the stall, a startling thought frozen in his mind. Looking harder at the two horses—a chestnut Morgan and a palomino—he muttered, “The Goddamn world ain’t that small.” Taking a closer look, he noted the faces of the two horses, the palomino with a white race, the Morgan with a white star. Ballenger and Yancey! He was struck dumb for a second or two, unable to believe that he had crossed their path again, but he was certain he correctly remembered the horses the notorious pair rode.

  He quickly walked back to the front of the barn. “Those two horses in the back stall, who do they belong to?”

  “I don’t know,” Farley replied, “two fellers ridin’ through town.”

  “One of ’em big with a flat nose?” Clint asked. “The other one tall and kinda skinny?”

  “I couldn’t say,” the blacksmith responded. “I was gone to dinner when they brought ’em in. They left ’em with Edgar. He’s the boy that helps me out around here. Edgar didn’t say nothin’ about what they looked like. They gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said to shoe ’em, they’d go get a drink and come back for ’em. So I shoed ’em.”

  Clint didn’t say anything more for a long moment while he considered the possibility that this was merely a coincidence. But what if it wasn’t? Hell, he thought, it’s mighty long odds. Most likely it’s not the same pair. Feeling the probability that the horses belonged to someone other than Ballenger and Yancey, he nevertheless considered riding out of town to avoid the improbable encounter. His curiosity got the best of him, however, and he decided he had to see for himself. “Your boy didn’t say where the two of ’em went for a drink, did he?”

  “Nope,” Farley replied, pausing in his work to wonder now about Clint’s profound interest in the two men. “I doubt he asked, but the closest saloon is Sam Crowder’s place.” He pointed toward the south end of the street. “The River House.”

  “I’ll be back for my horses,” Clint said as he drew his Winchester from the saddle sling. “Maybe I’d better pay you now. I might be in a hurry when I come back.”

  “Maybe you’d better,” Farley said, dropping Rowdy’s hoof and wiping his hands on his apron. It seemed like the smart thing to do, judging by the stranger’s questions and the way he checked his rifle.

  While Clint talked to the smithy, Zach Clayton sat sipping his bitter coffee at a back table in the River House. It wasn’t long, however, before his patience ran out on the waiting as well as the overcooked coffee. Finally he got up and went to the bar, where Sam was busy cleaning shot glasses with a rag that looked as if it had been used on the floor. “Those two men I asked you about,” Clayton said, “did they give you any idea when they might be back?”

  “Them two?” Sam replied. “Hell, they was already in here ’bout thirty minutes before you came in.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Clayton roared.

  Sam appeared truly astonished by the question. “You never asked,” he responded.

  Thoroughly disgusted with the halfwit, Clayton came close to going over the bar after him. “I’ve been sittin’ back there waitin’ and all that time you coulda told me they’d already been here. I’ve got a good mind to . . .” He stopped short of threatening the man’s life.

  Sam backed away from the bar, confused by the sudden outburst, and concerned for his safety. “Well, damn,” he said, “they just went down to Sophie’s—most likely still there—ain’t been that long.”

  Wasting no more time with the simple bartender, Clayton charged out the door. Pausing only long enough to draw his rifle from the scabbard, he ran toward the river, leaving his horse tied at the rail. When he got to the sawmill, roughly fifty yards upstream from the long tent that served as Sophie’s place of business, he ducked inside the shed that housed the steam engine. The mill was standing idle with no one in the engine shed or the long shed where logs were stacked, awaiting the saw.

  Making his way around a stack of recently sawn boards, he knelt on one knee while he studied the entrance to Sophie’s, taking note of the fact that there was no back entrance. He was not sure the information just gotten from Sam Crowder was, in fact, accurate. There were no horses tied at the front of the tent, and from the point where he knelt, he couldn’t see the other side. He remained there for a quarter of an hour, waiting to see whether anyone came in or out. Finally when patience began to ebb, he decided to make his move and assume Ballenger and Yancey were both inside.

  Running in a slight crouch, his rifle ready to fire in an instant at the first sign of a target, he covered the ground between the sawmill and the tent quickly. Pulling up beside the front flap of the tent, he paused a moment to catch his breath and listen before slipping inside.

  There was no one in the front part of the tent that served as Sophie’s parlor. Stepping carefully on the board floor so as
not to make a sound, he moved across the tiny room to the curtain that served as a wall between the parlor and the bedroom. Having been there before, Clayton knew that there were only three compartments in the tent. The third was Sophie’s kitchen. From the sound of labored breathing, he knew that Sophie was in the midst of a business deal. A moment later he heard conversation that told him he had run his prey to ground.

  “Damn you, what the hell’s the matter with you? You look like a scared rabbit,” a gruff male voice complained. “If you don’t loosen up and give me the ride I paid for, I’ll take my money back.”

  “I’m sorry, Clell,” Sophie pleaded fearfully. “I’m doin’ the best I can.” On the other side of the curtain, Clayton could well imagine why Sophie was tense. He was to blame.

  “By God,” Clell said, “you was a helluva lot more worth the money last time.”

  There was one question in Clayton’s mind now: Where is Pete Yancey? He automatically took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure there was no one behind him. He heard the woeful voice of Sophie again as she pleaded, “Don’t, Clell, you’re hurting me.” It was enough to make Clayton decide to move in before the woman was hurt badly. He would have to take the chance that Yancey was not with Ballenger.

  In one swift move, he thrust the curtain aside and burst into the room, and immediately knew he was a dead man. There was no one on the bed. Grinning wickedly at him on the other side of the bed, Ballenger stood in nothing but his underdrawers, one arm around Sophie’s neck, holding her before him as a shield. With the other hand, he aimed a pistol at the surprised deputy marshal.

  “Well, if it ain’t my old friend, Deputy Zach Clayton,” Clell drawled smugly. “This time it looks like I got the jump on you, don’t it?”

  “Hello, Ballenger,” Clayton replied. “Where’s that other cockroach you ride with?” Still reeling from the shock of walking into a trap, he realized that the only reason he was not dead was the cruel outlaw’s fondness for gloating. He quickly considered the odds of getting off a shot without hitting Sophie, but decided there was not much chance for one in a lethal spot. The best he could do was to hit him in the arm or leg, and Clell would simply shoot him for his trouble.

  Answering Clayton’s question, Ballenger said, “Yancey? Oh, he’s around here somewhere, probably asleep in the kitchen. He always gets sleepy after he’s had a tussle with a woman.” Without taking his eyes off Clayton, he called, “Yancey! Come see what I caught sneakin’ in the tent.” There was no response to his call.

  Knowing the only chance he had was to keep the gloating monster amused, Clayton attempted to jape him. “I gotta admit that was pretty slick. How the hell did you know I was out there?”

  Ballenger responded with a bellow of a laugh. “Got you dead to rights, didn’t I?” He was almost gleeful in turning the tables on the deputy. “Sweet ol’ Sophie here needs a thicker curtain. When the sun shines through that open tent flap, it throws a shadow on the curtain. You just happened to come in when I was just fixin’ to get down to business.” Irritated then that Yancey had failed to respond, he turned his head toward the kitchen curtain and yelled louder, “Yancey! Wake the hell up!”

  Clayton didn’t hesitate. He figured it was the only chance he was going to get. When Ballenger turned to call Yancey, he gave Clayton a target for one shot. Though only half his face was exposed, when he turned back to face the deputy, Clayton fired his rifle. The bullet caught the huge man in the jaw, ripping through his mouth and out the other cheek. In shock, Ballenger staggered backward, releasing Sophie. He tried to return fire, but was off balance enough to spoil his aim. The result of his shot was a bullet hole through Clayton’s coat just below the armpit. He didn’t have time for a second shot. Clayton dropped to one knee when Sophie fell to the floor, and cranked three more slugs into Ballenger’s chest, causing the huge man to release his pistol and drop to his knees. He remained on his knees long enough to mutter, “You’ve kilt me.” Then he fell face forward on the floor.

  “I reckon,” Clayton replied, and immediately turned his rifle toward the kitchen curtain, expecting shots from Yancey. But there was no sound from that quarter.

  With no more than a glance at the terrified woman, Clayton edged over toward the curtain, mindful of the surprise he had received when he came from the parlor. When Sophie’s sobbing became distracting, he growled, “You ain’t hurt. Put your clothes on and be still.” With still no sound or motion from the kitchen, he decided it was now or never, so he grabbed one end of the curtain, and with one violent move, he ripped it halfway across. At the same time, he knelt again with his rifle ready, only to confront an empty room. He stood frozen for a few moments, staring at a gaping rip in the outside canvas where Yancey had hastily fashioned a rear exit to Sophie’s tent.

  In full flight, Pete Yancey was running for his life, having just been startled from a sound sleep by a sudden eruption of rifle fire that sounded as if it were right under the chair he dozed in. When the gunfire rattled his slumber, his first instinct was to escape. Without knowing who or how many had attacked Ballenger, he stumbled away from the kitchen table and sliced a hole in the back wall of the tent with his skinning knife. His one objective at the moment was to gain the protection of the sawmill.

  Back in the tent, Clayton peered through the opening Yancey had cut in the back wall just in time to see the outlaw scurrying over a pile of logs. There was no shot, but he took it anyway, hoping for some luck. The slug ripped a chunk from a log, but Yancey got away. Knowing he couldn’t afford to let him escape to take cover in the town, Clayton plunged through the tear in the tent, faced with the prospect of making it across the fifty yards of open ground without getting shot.

  Running as fast as he could while trying to zigzag to present a more difficult target, he felt a rifle slug kick up dirt beside his foot. It told him that Yancey took the shot while still running. In a matter of seconds, he reached the cover of the log pile Yancey had escaped behind. Breathing hard, he paused to consider his next move. Looking beyond the logs to the saw shed, he could see very little cover available to Yancey. Then, too late to get off a clear shot, he caught a glimpse of the rangy fugitive as he ran toward the general store. “Damn!” Clayton cursed. There were too many places in town that offered Yancey the opportunity to wait in ambush.

  Inside the River House Saloon, Clint was talking to Sam Crowder. Sam was in the midst of answering Clint’s questions about the two strangers recently in his saloon. Before he could, however, the sound of gunshots rang out from the direction of Sophie’s. Both men ran outside, looking toward the river. As they stood there puzzling over the shooting, a man ran around the general store and stopped at the corner of the building, obviously preparing to ambush someone.

  Clint felt a cold sensation grip his stomach. The man looked like Pete Yancey, but Clint was not certain. Regardless, Yancey or not, he was apparently waiting to shoot someone chasing him. Clint cocked his rifle and started walking toward the store. So intent upon the person chasing him, Yancey was unaware of the danger behind him. With his pistol ready, he peeked around the corner, waiting. When within a dozen yards of him, Clint called out, “Yancey! Drop it!”

  Yancey’s reactions were lightning fast, but his aim was high as he whirled around and fired. His bullet went through the crown of Clint’s hat, knocking it off his head. Any other time, Yancey would have been fast enough to have gotten off another shot, maybe two more. But this time, when he spun around, it was to confront the face he thought he had seen in his dream, the clean-shaven, youthful face with the single lock of hair dropping across the forehead. The shock caused him to freeze long enough for Clint to fire back. No one could know of Yancey’s fateful dream in which he thought he actually saw the bullet that killed him, but in that fatal instant, Clint’s rifle slug slammed into Yancey’s forehead, dead center.

  The last two shots, right between the store and the saloon, caused the unwise outpouring of people from other buildings, anxious to see what h
ad happened. Clint, his heart still pounding from the near-death encounter, backed away slowly, uncertain of what he should do, if anything. He had just killed a man, but it was certainly good riddance. His uncertainty was short-lived, however, because Zach Clayton suddenly appeared around the corner. I should have known it was Clayton, he thought.

  There was no choice other than to run. Seeing that Clayton was distracted by the discovery of Yancey’s body, Clint turned and hurried toward the stable, passing curious citizens of the town as they ran to the scene of the shooting. He met Farley James, as the smithy ran from his barn.

  “What happened?” Farley yelled when he saw Clint.

  “Feller got shot,” was Clint’s simple reply. “I need my horses.”

  “In the front stalls,” Farley called back over his shoulder as he ran toward the street.

  Chapter 18

  “What did he look like?” Clayton asked Sam Crowder.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Sam replied. “I mean, he was a fairly young feller, clean shaven, ’bout your height, I reckon, maybe a little more husky.”

  “Did he give his name?” Clayton pressed, having dealt with Sam’s inane testimony before.

  “Nah,” Sam replied, and shrugged it off. “I never asked him.” Then a spark of thought lit his eyes. “He was mighty interested in this feller and the other’n, though. Asked me all kind of questions about ’em.”

  “I know his name,” one of the spectators volunteered and stepped forward. “I own the stable and blacksmith shop. I shoed his horse about an hour ago. His name’s Allen. At least, that’s what he said it was.”

  Clayton almost smiled. “Allen, huh? Was it Clint Allen?”

  Farley shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.

  “You know where he is now?” He asked the question knowing that it was useless.

  “He took off,” Farley answered, “got his horses and left, not thirty minutes ago.”