Lawless Prairie Read online

  “These are some bad fellers,” Clayton said, “Clell Ballenger and a couple of his boys.”

  “Ballenger?” Jim interrupted. “I thought they hung him.”

  “They were goin’ to in about a week, but the son of a bitch broke out with two other prisoners. I found one of ’em dead yesterday, and the rest of ’em headed this way. They might not have wanted to be seen in town, but I couldn’t find any sign that they left the road into Fort Collins. I can’t say for sure they didn’t go around, ’cause the last several miles before I got here I was ridin’ in the dark.”

  “If there had been any trouble, my deputy would most likely have rode out here to tell me,” Jim said. “He lives in a little room back of the Palace Saloon, so he pretty much keeps an eye on things in town. We can check with him in the mornin’.”

  The two old friends sat around the kitchen table reminiscing a little longer than Clayton would have preferred, since he was already sleepy and tired when he arrived. But it had been a while since he had seen Jim Popwell, and the quantity of strong coffee that was consumed served to keep his eyelids up way past time when they normally would have dropped. As a consequence, they didn’t get the early start they had planned, and it was half past eight when they left Jim’s place and headed to town.

  Jim only gave his office a glance to confirm that his deputy was not there as they rode past. “We’ll ride on down to the Palace and rout Grady out,” Jim said. “He could be eatin’ some breakfast at the hotel, though. We’d better look there first.” He turned his horse toward the hotel next to the saloon. “I don’t think you know Grady—Grady Jacobs—I believe I hired him since I saw you last.” Clayton replied that he didn’t know the deputy. “Good man,” Jim continued, “young feller, his daddy’s the Baptist preacher.”

  Just as Jim had suspected, they found Grady Jacobs hovering over a plate of potatoes and eggs and a generous slab of bacon.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff,” the young man greeted Jim when he walked in the back door of the hotel kitchen. He paused briefly a second time when he saw the stranger following behind Jim, only mildly curious. “Did you have a good hunt?”

  “Fair,” Popwell answered. “I passed up a shot at a twelve-point buck and took one of his ladies instead. I was looking for meat, and a nice doe is a little more tender than an old buck.” He glanced at Clayton and smiled. “Me and Zach ate a good portion of it last night.” Catching an impatient look in Zach’s eye, he got down to business.

  After introducing the deputy marshal to Grady, he filled him in on Clayton’s reason for being in town. “I’m lookin’ for four men,” Clayton told him. He produced a sketch from a prison photograph of Clell Ballenger. “This is one of ’em. He’s with three other fellers.” Before Grady responded, Zach read the recognition in the deputy’s eyes.

  “I seen ’em!” Grady exclaimed. “They was here! There was four strangers settin’ at a table in the saloon last night. I asked Ernie if he knew ’em, and he said he’d never seen ’em before.” He took another look at the picture on the Wanted poster. “That feller was one of ’em, all right.”

  Clayton took over. Checking with the dining room staff, he learned that a man resembling the sketch and another man had come down earlier for breakfast, but there were only the two. A few minutes later, the three lawmen talked to the desk clerk and were told that the two gentlemen had already checked out of their room. “I’d best run by the office and get a couple of rifles just in case,” the sheriff said.

  “I need to find out which way they headed,” Clayton said. “You and Grady meet me back here. I’m goin’ down to the stable. They musta had their horses there. Maybe I can find out where they went.” He hurried back to his horse, a real sense of urgency driving him now that he knew he was so close behind the fugitives and might have just missed them. He told himself that he should have checked the saloons before going to see Popwell.

  Charging down to the stables at a gallop, Clayton pulled the sorrel to a sliding stop at the stable door to be met by the perturbed owner. “Yeah, there was four fellers here. They got their horses early this mornin’, at least three of ’em did. One of ’em snuck outta here last night without payin’ for board or grain. I got my money outta the other three, but they wouldn’t stand good for the other feller. Said they didn’t even know him—the lyin’ bastards. I shoulda knowed they was outlaws.”

  “Which way did they go when they left here?” Clayton asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” he retorted in disgust, then, “They just rode off toward town.”

  “Much obliged,” Clayton said, and climbed back in the saddle. That wasn’t really much help, but maybe they weren’t in a hurry to leave town. Maybe they might still be around. A saloon would be the best place to look.

  Riding back toward the hotel, he saw Jim and his deputy riding hard to meet him. “Take a look at this!” the sheriff yelled as he rode up beside Clayton. “It was under my office door.”

  Clayton grabbed the piece of paper Popwell held out to him, and quickly read the brief warning: The bank is fixing to get robbed this morning. “What the hell . . . ?” Clayton started, and all three turned at once to look in the direction of the bank at the corner of the street. It seemed peaceful enough, but there were three horses at the rail out front. He didn’t wait to talk about it. Turning the sorrel’s head in that direction, he gave it a sharp kick. There wasn’t time to puzzle over who might have left the note under the door. It could be a ruse, somebody’s idea of having fun with the young deputy while the sheriff was off hunting. Whatever, it deserved immediate attention.

  The three galloped up to the bank. Grady, anxious to make his reputation as a lawman, came out of the saddle before his horse was fully stopped, and before Clayton could caution him, charged through the door. He was met by a .44 slug that caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around to drop on the step beside the door. Clayton and Popwell dived for cover, the sheriff at the corner of the building and Clayton on the walk beside a front window.

  “The next one in that door gets the same thing!” Clell Ballenger called out.

  “Where in hell did they come from?” Yancey demanded. He turned to confront the bank manager, who was lying facedown on the floor beside his two employees. “You got some kind of signal?” He pressed the barrel of his pistol hard against the banker’s skull. “How’d they know what was goin’ on in here?”

  “I swear,” the banker pleaded, “there’s no signal. I don’t know how they knew.”

  “It don’t matter a helluva lot how they found out,” Clell said. “The fact is they’re out there.” He called back over his shoulder to Skinner, who was busy stuffing money into their saddlebags, “Hurry up in there!” To Yancey, who was covering the hostages, he said, “Keep your eye on ’em.” Moving up to the front wall, he eased up close to the door. “Hey, out there!” he yelled. “You hear me?”

  “Yeah, we hear you,” Popwell answered while watching Clayton crawl by the window to help Grady move to safety.

  “Well then, you’d better listen real good,” Ballenger called back. “I’ve got three of your fine citizens layin’ on the floor in here, and unless you want a bullet in the head of each one of ’em, you’d better clear out of there. Leave them horses right where they are, and start walkin’.” When there was no immediate response from the lawmen outside, he threatened, “I mean right now. Clear that damn street or I’m gonna shoot the first one.”

  Popwell looked at Clayton for direction. Clayton nodded his head. “All right,” the sheriff said. “We’re goin’. Ain’t no need for anybody else to get hurt.”

  Inside the bank, Ballenger watched as the sheriff and Clayton helped the wounded deputy walk. As they backed up the street, Clell got a better look at their faces. Suddenly he blurted, “It’s that son of a bitch! I know that bastard. That’s that damn marshal, Clayton. I owe him!” He stuck his pistol out the door and fired a couple of shots that missed all three men. They had already moved too far away fo
r accuracy with a pistol. He cursed his luck.

  “You ’bout done?” Yancey called back to Skinner.

  “I’m done,” Skinner replied, and entered the lobby from the manager’s office with two stuffed saddlebags, one on each shoulder.

  “We’ve got to get the hell outta here,” Yancey said. “Clell, the street clear?”

  “I’d like to stick around here till I shoot that bastard,” Clell responded.

  “Gawdammit, Clell,” Yancey shot back. “To hell with that marshal. I want to live to spend some of this money. Is the street clear? Can you still see ’em?”

  “No,” Clell answered, “they’re gone. I don’t see nobody on the street now.”

  “All right, let’s move!” Yancey roared. “They won’t be gone long.” He reached down and grabbed the back of the bank manager’s collar. “Come on, we’re goin’ for a little walk.” He pulled the quivering man to his feet while Ballenger stepped cautiously outside the door.

  Satisfied that there was no one close enough to take a shot at them, Ballenger waved his partners on. “Bring old Mr. Moneybags out here in front of us.” He waited until Yancey shoved the frightened bank manager toward him. “Now we’ll see how much your fellow citizens think of you,” he taunted, and held the banker in front of him. “Skinner, throw them bags on the horses and untie them other horses.”

  With little choice but to do as Ballenger ordered, Clayton and the sheriff hurried to reach the building at the end of the street with Grady Jacobs supported between them.

  “Can you take care of him?” Clayton asked when they reached the alley between the barbershop and the undertaker. When Popwell said he could, Clayton nodded and slipped into the alley. Running as fast as he could in high-heeled boots, he sprinted behind the stores and saloons. Wishing he had his rifle instead of a pistol, he cut back up the side of the bank just in time to hear several gunshots as Skinner scattered the horses. Straining for breath, the result of not having run all-out for quite some time, he rounded the front corner of the building in time to see the three galloping away. There was time for one shot. Skinner, trailing behind the other two, was the only reasonable target. Clayton stopped running. His heart was pounding so hard from his sprint that he had to strain to hold his arm still while he aimed the pistol. The shot slammed into Skinner’s back, between his shoulder blades. He stayed in the saddle, his body flopping back and forth drunkenly for what seemed a long time before he finally keeled over sideways and slid from the saddle.

  Clayton cocked his pistol again, but knew it was useless to fire. He could only watch as the two outlaws disappeared between the buildings. Still breathing hard, he turned one way and then another, trying to spot his horse, but the sorrel was nowhere to be seen. The street suddenly filled with people, coming from the stores and shops now that the shooting seemed to have stopped. Popwell called out from the other end of the street that he was taking Grady to the doctor. Clayton acknowledged that; then with pistol still in hand, he walked up to the body lying in the dusty street.

  He reached down and rolled the corpse over on its back. The face was unfamiliar, one of Ballenger’s gang he supposed. That only leaves three, he thought. He stood up again and stared in the direction Ballenger had fled, fighting off a feeling of frustration over the opportunity he had missed. If he had known beforehand of the planned bank holdup, they could have set a trap to capture the three of them. They might have had time to prepare a surprise party for Ballenger if they had gone to the sheriff’s office as soon as they rode into town. That thought led him to speculate on the origin of the warning note.

  It was natural to assume that Clint Conner was most likely the author of the note—especially when he considered the fact that one of the four he chased had cut out the night before. It had to be Conner. He had saved the prison guard’s life. There was no doubt about that. Clayton was beginning to realize that Clint had no choice in the matter of joining the escape. The thought of it bothered Zach Clayton’s regimented mind. He preferred things to be cut-and-dried, black or white, criminal or law abiding, and Conner’s behavior muddied up the situation. In the end, he knew he had to do his job, and that was to catch criminals. Conner might have done the best he could to help the side of the law, but he was still an escaped horse thief. And Clayton reminded himself, he sure as hell didn’t turn himself in again.

  “I’m wastin’ time,” he muttered in frustration, knowing that Ballenger was getting away while he stood there speculating. “Run and fetch the undertaker,” he said to a boy who had inched up to look at the dead man. The next order of business was to find his horse. That didn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes. He found the sorrel behind the hotel where he had joined Popwell’s and Grady’s horses in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

  His first impulse was to jump in the saddle and gallop after Ballenger, but with the start they already had, he knew it was back to tracking the two outlaws. In view of that, he decided to take the sheriff’s and deputy’s horses back to Popwell’s office. And while he was at it, he figured he might as well stop by the telegraph office and wire Laramie to keep the warden informed on the progress of his hunt.

  The sheriff stepped out of the doctor’s door when he saw Clayton leading the horses back toward his office. “How’s the boy?” Zach asked when Popwell walked out to meet him.

  “He’s gonna be all right. Caught one in the shoulder. Doc says he’ll be fine.” He nodded toward the extra horse Zach was leading. “Looks like you got one of ’em. I’d better round up a posse to go after the other two.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Jim,” Clayton insisted. “I don’t have the time to wait on it, and I think I’ve got a better chance of slippin’ up on ’em without the bother of a posse.” Clayton had never cared to ride with a posse. It had been his experience that a bunch of armed ordinary citizens caused little more than confusion, and was seldom successful in tracking down a seasoned outlaw like Clell Ballenger. They only added to his responsibility to keep them from getting killed.

  “Suit yourself,” Popwell replied, “but I’m willin’ to give you all the help I can. After all, I am the sheriff here, and they sure as hell pulled a holdup in my town.” He knew Clayton’s reputation as a loner, but he felt it was his responsibility to offer.

  “I appreciate it, Jim. I know I can count on you if I need to.” The issue decided as far as he was concerned, he changed the subject. “There’s a saddlebag full of the bank’s money on that feller’s horse. At least they got part of it back.”

  The sheriff nodded, then broke out a grin. “You didn’t draw a little expense money outta that saddlebag?”

  Clayton reflected the grin. “I thought about it, but it’s all there. I reckon I ain’t smart enough to be crooked.” He reached down to shake his friend’s hand. “Well, I got to go to work. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  “Watch your ass with them two,” Popwell said in parting.

  “I always do,” Clayton replied.

  Clayton stopped at the spot where Ballenger and Yancey had entered the river, evidently heading south. The thought of the lone traveler he had met on the road north of Fort Collins sprang to his mind. If that man was who he now suspected, it meant that of the three he was bound to bring in, two were heading south while the other was heading north. It was something to think about, but did not make his decision difficult. He would head south after Ballenger.

  The river was relatively calm at this point, allowing for an easy crossing. There seemed to be an obvious spot on the far bank to leave the water, so he headed for it. Upon reaching the other side, he stopped to search for tracks. His were the only ones to be found. Not really surprised, he walked the sorrel west along the bank for about a quarter of a mile without success. Turning around, he retraced his steps, noting that the sorrel’s tracks were easily evident. A little farther than a quarter mile past the point where he had left the river he found two sets of tracks.

  From that point, leaving the rocky riverbank, he saw the
re was some effort taken to avoid leaving a trail, but to a skilled tracker like Clayton there was little challenge. Generally they had followed the river east, instead of heading straight south toward Denver. After a couple of miles where the river snaked its way through a thick forest of pine, the tracks led back into the water. This is where they’re hoping to lose me, he thought. He guessed right, for he spent the better part of the afternoon before discovering a faint hoof-print left on a grassy bank some three-quarters of a mile upstream. Scouting in the general direction indicated, he finally found another print to verify that the trail pointed north. Cheyenne, he thought as he led his horse into the dense forest of pine, surprised that they had changed direction. It was almost impossible to follow a trail in the thick bed of pine needles that covered the floor of the forest, so he was forced to go primarily on instinct with an occasional bent branch or rubbed bark to reassure his guess. By the time he left the pines and struck their trail leading up into the hills, it was growing too dark to continue. When he figured he had gone as far as he reasonably could, he made his camp for the night.

  Chapter 4

  Arthur Conner pulled a burning splinter from the fire and used it for a match to light his lantern. Stepping out onto the small porch, he held the light up before him and called his dog. “What’s the matter with you, Ned? Come here.” The dog had started barking at something fifteen minutes before and wouldn’t stop. Arthur finally decided Ned must have heard something, so he went out to take a look. He had already had a couple of coyotes in the barn this past week, trying to get to the chickens. Thinking of that now, he told himself that he should have brought his shotgun, but when he walked inside the barn, there was no predator to be seen.

  “Damn crazy dog,” he muttered, then thought as long as he was at it, he might as well check the horses in the corral. Going out the back door of the barn, he had taken only a few steps toward the corral when he was startled by the sudden appearance of a dark figure leading a horse toward him.