Lawless Prairie

by Charles G. West

“Damn!” Clayton cursed, knowing he had been this close to sewing up the entire affair. Half an hour’s start, he was tempted to just forget about Clint Conner, alias Clint Allen. Instead of arresting him, I ought to give him deputy’s pay for killing Yancey. The fact was not lost upon him that Clint had probably saved his neck again. To further complicate things, he had two bodies to take care of as well as retrieving what bank money they still had. He had no intention of hauling Ballenger and Yancey all the way back to Cheyenne. “Is there a doctor in town?” he asked. When told that there was not, he asked, “What about an undertaker?”

  “Elmer Brady usually takes care of that,” someone replied. “He’s the barber.”

  Clayton turned to find the barber at his elbow. “Are you Brady?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brady replied. “I can take care of him for you. You want a plain pine box? For a little more money, I can fancy it up a little.”

  “There’s another body down at the whore’s tent,” Clayton replied coldly. “I don’t give a damn if you just dig a hole and throw ’em in it. The territorial governor ain’t likely to pay for a fancy coffin for the likes of these two.” He turned back to the stable owner then. “You got their horses?” When Farley replied that he did, Clayton told him he’d meet him at the stable in a few minutes. Turning again to Elmer Brady, he said, “I need you to write death certificates for the two of ’em.”

  “Death certificates?” Elmer replied. “I don’t know nothin’ about no death certificates. Around here, if we put ’em in the ground, folks assume they’re dead.”

  Clayton maintained his patience, even though Clint’s lead was increasing with every wasted minute. “I need verification that the two of ’em are dead, since I ain’t toting no bodies back with me. It doesn’t have to be an official certificate. Just write it out on a piece of paper, date it, and sign it as undertaker.”

  “I don’t even know their names,” Elmer protested, not overly fond of having to bother with paperwork.

  “I’ll give you the names,” Clayton said, his patience exhausted.

  After searching both bodies, Clayton picked up the death certificates and went to the stables, where he collected the weapons and saddlebags with the remainder of the money stolen from the bank in Helena. He decided to take Ballenger’s chestnut Morgan to carry the extra baggage, leaving the showy palomino in Farley’s care. With matters taken care of in Coulson as well as could be expected, Clayton was at last ready to go after Clint. It would have been easy to let the fugitive go, but Clayton knew that he had to follow him to put an end to the affair.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea which way he went when he left here,” Clayton said to Farley.

  “Well, no,” the smithy replied. “Like I said, I was on my way to see what the shootin’ was about. But I expect I can find his tracks easy enough.” Without hesitating, he walked out to the front of the barn and started staring at the many hoofprints in the dust. Almost immediately he stopped and straightened up. “There you go,” he said. “That’s him right there.”

  “How the hell do you know those tracks are his?” Clayton asked, somewhat skeptical.

  “Easy,” Farley answered sheepishly. “I hadn’t finished filin’ down those new shoes before I ran up to the saloon.” He pointed to the tracks. “See that burr on that shoe? And there’s another’n on that one there.” He looked up at Clayton proudly. “And if that ain’t enough, there’s the tracks of that Indian pony he’s leadin’ that ain’t got no shoes.”

  Clayton couldn’t help but smile. “That oughta be enough,” he said, “if I can catch up to him before those burrs wear off.”

  With no real destination, Clint rode north, away from the river, pushing Rowdy hard, knowing that somewhere back there, Clayton would be coming after him. The farther away from the river he rode, the rougher the terrain got as he made his way through treeless expanses of uneven prairie. As he rode, periodically looking back over his shoulder, he questioned his decision to kill Pete Yancey. In truth, he had not planned to shoot Yancey. He had just thought to prevent him from ambushing someone. As he heard his horses’ labored breathing and reasoned that he had to rest them, he thought it might have been better if he had let Yancey shoot Clayton. Now he was left with three choices: ambush, surrender, or run. Since he had no intention to surrender, and no desire to ambush the deputy marshal, he was left with no choice but to run.

  The immediate problem, however, was his tired horses, so as soon as he came upon a small creek, he dismounted. While the horses drank, he climbed up to the top of a low mesa and looked back over the way he had come. There was no sign of anyone on his trail so far. From now on, he decided he’d better take more pains to hide his tracks. The prairie he looked out upon was broken with many low hills and grass-covered ravines like the one his horses were now grazing in. Since leaving Coulson, he had ridden straight north. It might be best if he veered from that course. It was time for another decision.

  The mountains he had seen in the distance when he arrived in Coulson were to the west. His initial intention had been to gain the safety of those mountains and hide out until he felt it safe to return for Joanna. But it seemed that his destiny had been written to cross trails with Zach Clayton no matter where he went. He had made up his mind that he would not be taken alive by Clayton again to be returned to prison. And the thought of being eventually tracked down and killed in the far mountains without seeing Joanna again was not one he could accept. The woman was on his mind almost constantly.

  His decision was made. He had met only one woman in his life whom he knew he truly loved, and his existence seemed empty without her. After the horses were rested, he would turn to the east. If he was lucky, he might lose Clayton. If not, he was determined to see Joanna once more before he faced the deputy to kill or be killed. He sat Indian-style on the mesa for over an hour, watching the empty prairie before he went back to the horses and started out again, this time to the east.

  Although the tracks were easy to identify, it was not always easy to find them, and a fair amount of time was spent before Clayton detected a consistent trail to the north. It was obvious to the seasoned tracker that the direction taken was not selected with any thought other than running as fast as possible. Once Clint settled on a definite direction, Clayton found it easier to track him, following the most sensible path through the rolling prairie, and stopping less often to look for tracks to verify the trail.

  Looking ahead at a low plateau, he wondered how far Clint would run, looking for sanction in that direction. It would be a hell of a long way before reaching terrain that he couldn’t track him in. Coming to a creek running through the bottom of a ravine, he stopped to water his horses. Looks like he stopped here to rest his horses, Clayton thought. Examining the prints, he tried to guess how far ahead Clint might be. No more than a few hours, he thought. Following the tracks out of the ravine, he stopped and smiled to himself when he saw the trail bend to the east. Downfall of many a young man, he thought, remembering other occasions when he had cornered fugitives who could not stay away from their lady-loves. It was a reasonable bet that he wouldn’t need the tracks to know where Clint was heading.

  The chase continued for most of a week, crossing Big Porcupine Creek and the Little Porcupine. Clayton traveled long days, from first light until dark, but he could not shorten the distance between him and the fugitive. He was determined to run Clint to ground now. He had spent too much time in closing the case, and he was anxious to see it end. Consequently, when day after day ended without sight of the man he trailed, Clayton grew impatient to the point of irritation, resulting in a stronger determination to run him to ground. He knew, however, that the chase was nearing an end when he made his camp for the night with less than a day’s ride from Frederick Steiner’s farm. He would start out in the morning with no need to follow tracks. He was certain of the trail’s end.

  One-half a day ahead of Clayton, Clint sat in the saddle watching the house from the wagon track t
hat led along the Yellowstone as darkness fell over Frederick Steiner’s farm. Now that he had ridden Rowdy to the point of faltering, he hesitated to ride the final yards. What if Joanna had changed her mind about going with him? Maybe it was not right for him to take her. He knew it might break her father’s heart to see his daughter ride off with an outlaw, maybe never to see her again. One might argue that, if he truly loved Joanna, he would turn around now and take his trouble elsewhere. Finally he told himself that he was going to have to make up his mind, and knowing she was only a few dozen yards away, he could not turn away.

  Joanna Becker took her apron off and left it on the back of a chair. For the most part, the supper dishes were done, except for the cups that were still being used to finish the last of the coffee. Her father and her uncle were still sitting around the table swapping stories about their youth, much to the entertainment of her cousin John. Aunt Bertha had retired to her bed with a headache.

  Joanna stood and listened to the two men for a few moments before deciding to go out on the porch for a breath of air before finishing the cleanup. “You’ll be giving that boy some ideas,” she said, laughing as she spun on her heel and started for the door.

  Outside, she pulled the door shut behind her and walked to the edge of the porch, where she stood to breathe in the cool night air. Gazing up at a clear moonless sky, she smiled at the canopy of stars so far away, yet seeming so bright in the crisp fall air. As her eyes became more adjusted to the dark, she let her gaze fall to the path before the house, and suddenly gasped as a dark figure on a horse slowly took form.

  Immediately alarmed, she had started for the door when his voice stopped her. “Joanna,” he said as he dismounted.

  She recognized his voice at once. Turning back toward him, her heart threatening to burst from her breast, she gasped, “Clint?” hardly believing it could be him. In a moment of unbridled joy, she hurried from the porch, her feet barely touching the ground as she flew into his arms.

  Holding him as if he might disappear as suddenly as he had appeared, she pressed her face against his chest. Joyful tears rolled down her cheeks as she cried, “I thought I might never see you again.”

  “I thought I could stay away, but I couldn’t,” he confessed openly. “I love you, Joanna. I had to come back.”

  “I prayed you’d come back soon, and if you did, I promised myself I wouldn’t let you leave again without me.” She reached up to kiss him.

  His lips found hers in an embrace of two souls crying out for each other. When at last they parted, he placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length while he confessed. “I shouldn’t have come here, Joanna. Zach Clayton is comin’ on behind me. I don’t know how far back, but I know he’ll be comin’.” He told her about the killings at Coulson. “I can’t seem to get that man off my trail. Everywhere I go he shows up, so he’s bound to show up here sooner or later. Clayton’s a smart man. He knows I’d have to come see you one more time.”

  She felt as if her heart was being wrenched from her bosom. She didn’t think she could stand to see him leave again without her, but she understood why he would not want to endanger her while he was on the run. She shook her head in indecision. “Oh, Clint, will we ever be together? Maybe it was not meant to be.” Then she stepped back and said, “You must be hungry. Come inside and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “It’s best if your folks don’t know I’m back.”

  “They’ll start to wonder what happened to me if I don’t come back,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll ride over to that little island by the river and camp there tonight. If you can get away in the mornin’, meet me out there. But don’t tell anybody where you’re goin’.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said, “right after I give them their breakfast. Aunt Bertha’s gone to bed, sick with a headache, so I’ll probably be fixing breakfast by myself.”

  They embraced again, and then he said, “You’d best go on back inside before somebody comes lookin’ for you.”

  She kissed him lightly again. “Good night, darling. I’ll come to our special island as soon as I can.”

  The next morning Bertha was not as fragile as Joanna expected her to be. The two women cooked breakfast for the men as usual, but there seemed to be something different about Joanna’s attitude. Bertha noticed that her niece appeared to be impatient, and when Joanna commented that she wanted to take her horse for a ride this morning, Bertha said, “Go on and go. I’ll finish up the dishes.” Then she paused to watch Joanna as she hurried to rid herself of her apron. “You’d best wear your coat. It’s chilly out these mornings.”

  “I will, Aunt Bertha,” Joanna replied as she grabbed her coat from one of the pegs by the door.

  Her aunt raised an eyebrow as the door closed, and announced to herself, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that young man was still here.” Her niece had not gone for a ride since Clint left.

  Not wishing to bother the men who were clearing some brush down by the stream, Joanna saddled the little mare and led her out of the corral. Stepping up in the saddle, she encouraged the horse to lope down the path and swing out on the wagon track by the river. She could feel the joyful flush upon her cheeks caused by the frosty morning air, oblivious of the man leaning against a cottonwood next to the river, or the horse standing below the bank.

  “Well, good mornin’, missy,” Zach Clayton muttered as he watched the young lady guide her horse along the river trace. Waiting until she had created a sizable lead, he then descended the low bank, stepped up in the saddle, and, matching Joanna’s pace, started out after her.

  Before he saw her, Rowdy alerted him that someone was coming. He moved up through the willows until he could see the trail that wound along the bank. With his rifle raised and ready to fire, he waited until the rider appeared. It was Joanna riding one of his Indian ponies, the little mare that she had adopted for her own. His heart quickened as he lowered his rifle and ran to meet her.

  She urged her horse into the shallow water and crossed over to the little island where he stood, ready to catch her in his arms as she stepped down. Their embrace was long and passionate, and would not have ended so suddenly but for the voice behind them.

  “I hope I ain’t interruptin’,” Clayton said.

  Clint cast Joanna aside and reached for his rifle on the ground only to confront Clayton sitting on his horse, his own rifle trained on him. “Now, see, there you go again,” Clayton said. “Every time I see you, you’re pointin’ that rifle at me, and I’ve already got mine aimed right about your gut. So why don’t you just lay that weapon back down where it was and we’ll talk?”

  “I can’t do it, Clayton,” Clint replied emphatically. “I got railroaded the last time I listened to you, and I ain’t goin’ back to that prison. I reckon you’re gonna have to shoot me.”

  “No, Clint!” Joanna begged. “He’ll kill you!”

  “Better listen to her, Clint. You ain’t no killer. Besides, I didn’t come here to talk to you. I rode all the way over here to talk to this young lady.” He smiled at Joanna. “Good mornin’ to you, ma’am. I came to bring you some bad news. There was two men shot dead over in Coulson last week, both fugitives from the Wyoming Territorial Prison. I got their names right here on a death certificate—Clell Ballenger and Clint Conner. I recollect you had some interest in Conner. I’m sorry to have to bring you the news of his untimely death, but I thought you’d wanna know.”

  He put the papers back inside his coat pocket and slipped his rifle back in the saddle sling. “I guess I’ll be goin’ now. I’ve got a long ride back to Cheyenne.” He smiled at Clint. “You young folks carry on with what you were doin’ . . . Mr. Allen.”

  He turned his horse and climbed up the bank, and then he was gone.

 

 

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