Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
The Sound of Death
At first Clint could see only three bodies. Then he spotted the woman, bound hand and foot and tied to a tree near the horses.
Satisfied that she was out of the line of fire, he walked into the camp, his rifle ready before him. A short, gap-toothed warrior was the first to discover the sinister visitor. He sat up, childlike in his attempt to brush the sleep from his eyes. The peaceful night was shattered by the crack of Clint’s rifle as a .44 slug smacked into the warrior’s chest.
In rapid succession, Clint leveled the Winchester to pump a fatal shot into each of the other two as they sprang from their blankets. It was all over in a matter of seconds, and the peaceful night was quiet again except for the frightened sounds from the horses. . . .
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First Printing, February 2009
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2009
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For Ronda
Chapter 1
“Ballenger, Washburn, Conner—stables!”
Clint Conner looked up in surprise when he heard his name called. This was the second time this week he had been assigned to the horse barn to clean out the stalls. It wasn’t a bad job. It was better than working in the broom factory behind the prison. He tossed the last slug of coffee down his throat and put his cup and tray on the table beside the door, then walked over to the opposite wall to join the two prisoners already standing there. Ballenger and Washburn , he thought to himself as he waited for the guard to secure the short chain between his ankles. Of all the inmates in the forty-cell prison, he couldn’t think of any two he’d less like to work with.
What the hell? he thought, reminding himself that the only way he could prevent his mind from rebelling against imprisonment was to cling to the belief that his mind and spirit were someplace outside these stone walls. With those two as partners, he would probably do most of the work in the stables, but he didn’t care. Working made the day move faster. The more he thought about it, however, the more curious he became. How did a convicted killer like Clell Ballenger manage to get himself assigned to stable detail? Ballenger was already sentenced, and a hanging date had been set for a week from yesterday. A prisoner sentenced to hang was not usually sent to work in the horse barn. That job was typically given to men with lighter sentences, because of a temptation to attempt escape. The prisoners mucking out the stalls were accompanied by only one guard, so the job was routinely assigned to short-timers and trustees. As a rule, men sentenced to be hanged were confined to their cells until execution day. Clint had to assume there had been a payoff to somebody, and he would bet that Nathaniel Boswell, the warden, knew nothing about the arrangement. Boswell was a hard-nosed former U.S. marshal with a reputation as a stalwart enforcer of the law. He would hardly approve of assigning a dangerous man like Ballenger to the stables.
Clint barely glanced at the smirking face of Clell Ballenger as he waited for the guard to finish locking his chains. He knew the notorious outlaw by reputation only. There had been a great deal of talk about the man supposedly responsible for the murders of twelve people during a spree of bank robberies over the last two years. Ballenger’s repute made him somewhat of a celebrity in the recently opened Wyoming Territorial Prison, and he was the cause of much talk and speculation among the prison population. A big man, though not unusually tall, Clell Ballenger possessed an aura that tended to cow other men. With black hair, long and heavy, resting on the back of his collar like a bushy broom, a flat nose, dark eyes set deep under heavy eyebrows, and an almost constant scowl on his lips, the notorious outlaw was thought by some to be Lucifer himself. Ballenger had never sought to discourage that speculation. His hands were unusually large with fingers thick and powerful. It was rumored that he had once strangled two men at the same time, although those present on that occasion would tell you that it was actually a Kiowa woman and her infant son.
There were some, like Clint Conner, who had little use for him, or the man standing beside him for that matter. Bob Washburn was a brainless dolt, doing time for the assault and rape of a thirteen-year-old girl. He had eagerly assumed the role of Ballenger’s personal servant.
Clint had made it a point to avoid the two of them up to this time. He had no fear of either man, or the combination of the two; he just didn’t like their kind in general. He thought about the day the guards had brought Ballenger into the cell block. They seemed to purposely walk him by every cell in the prison to exhibit the notorious killer to all the inmates before locking him in next to Bob Washburn. It was a regular circus parade with four guards escorting the smirking outlaw. But for the most part, instead of demonstrating the p
unishment coming to those who broke the law, the parade only served to inform everyone that the new prison was now graced by the presence of a famous person. For many of the prisoners, Ballenger was someone to be looked up to for being feared by honest folk throughout Wyoming and Kansas. As far as Clint Conner was concerned, men like Clell Ballenger were little more than scum on the slime of humanity.
Some might be inclined to infer that the kettle was calling the pot black. Clint didn’t give a damn what others might think. He knew the man who dwelt inside his young, muscular body, and he was at peace with him. He had made a mistake as a brash eighteen-year-old, and now, three years later, he was still paying for it. Although the confinement threatened to bring him down at times, he was determined to fight against the longing to escape to the prairies and rugged mountains he loved. Halfway through his sentence, it was getting harder and harder to persevere. Thoughts of escape seemed to visit his mind more frequently with each new sunrise.
“All right, boys,” the guard said, breaking Clint’s reverie, “let’s get moving.” Holding his shotgun up before him, he motioned toward the door with the barrel, then stood watching until the last of the three prisoners filed out before him.
Once they reached the barn, the guard nodded toward the tools propped in a corner of the tack room. “Conner, fetch them pitchforks and a broom.” Clint did as he was told. “Now,” the guard continued, “give one of them pitchforks to Washburn, and you take the other one. Give Mr. Ballenger there that broom.” He cracked a knowing smile. “I expect you’d rather have one of them pitchforks in your hand, wouldn’t you, Ballenger?”
“I might at that,” Ballenger replied, displaying a grin of his own.
“What are you doin’ on this detail, anyway?” the guard asked. “You ain’t supposed to be on any work details at all this close to gettin’ your neck stretched.”
Still displaying a wide grin, Ballenger said, “I ain’t one to lay around doin’ nothin’ when I could be helpin’ you boys out.” He glanced over at Washburn and winked, causing the simple man to break out in a foolish grin.
Not entirely without suspicion, the guard said, “You musta paid somebody off to get sent to the stables today. Nobody shoulda sent you to work here where there ain’t nothin’ between you and the open prairie but this here shotgun. But let me tell you, this shotgun is enough.”
“Ah, come on, Williams,” Ballenger said. “What’s wrong with a man gettin’ a little bit of fresh air and sunshine before they hang him? You wouldn’t fault a man for wantin’ one last day outside before they put him in the ground, would you?”
“Mr. Williams,” the guard corrected. “It ain’t up to me. I didn’t set the policy. I just know there’ll be hell to pay for somebody when the warden finds out.” He motioned toward one of the stalls. “Get to work with that broom, and just keep in mind that this here shotgun has got a hair trigger, and I wouldn’t mind savin’ the hangman a little trouble if you took a notion to run.”
“Why, Mr. Williams,” Ballenger replied in mock indignation, “I wouldn’t have no idea of cheatin’ the territory outta hangin’ me. Hell, I’m lookin’ forward to it. See what kinda saloons they got in hell.”
“I’m sure there’s a place down there for murderin’ skunks like you,” Williams said. “Now get in there and clean out that stall.” He waited to see that Ballenger did as instructed before turning his attention toward the other two prisoners. He gave Clint only a brief glance upon seeing that the young man was already at work, and paying little attention to the conversation he was having with Ballenger. Washburn, however, had to be told to put his pitchfork to work.
The morning progressed without cause for concern while Williams made sure he remained alert to any funny business. He was sure, however, that it was risky letting a desperate outlaw like Clell Ballenger work this close to the wide-open prairie behind the barn. He planned to return the notorious killer to his cell when he marched the three-man detail back for the noon meal. Glancing at his pocket watch, he muttered to himself, “Eleven fifteen.” Still an hour before dinnertime. He looked up to see Ballenger leaning on his broom handle and staring at him as if amused about something. He was about to order the insolent prisoner to get back to work, when he heard the distinct sound of a pistol’s hammer cocking. He abruptly turned to meet the muzzle of a Colt .45 only inches from his face. It was too late to react.
“Mornin’, Yancey,” Ballenger drawled, his cocksure smile still in place.
“Clell,” Yancey acknowledged, his dark eyes focused intently upon the guard’s frozen stare as he slowly reached for Williams’ shotgun.
With no choice but to yield or die, Williams made no move to resist, releasing the weapon. Stunned by the suddenness with which the sinister outlaw had appeared, the guard could hardly believe their brazenness in carrying out this confrontation in broad daylight, no more than fifty yards from the main prison. “You must be crazy,” he finally managed to stammer as Washburn grabbed his keys to unlock the shackles. “There could be guards comin’ in here any minute.”
“It’d be a sorry day for ’em if they did.” The statement came from the back door of the barn when another man stepped inside. “What about them?” he asked, nodding at Clint and Washburn.
“Howdy, Skinner,” Ballenger responded, then motioned toward Washburn. “This here’s Bob Washburn,” he said. “He’s in on it.” Then turning toward Washburn, he instructed, “Bob, throw a saddle on one of them horses in the corral.” Then he looked at Clint. “I don’t know about him. He just happened to catch stable duty today.” He said to Clint, “I reckon it’s just your tough luck, young feller, unless you’re wantin’ to join up with us. I ain’t plannin’ on leavin’ no witnesses.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Washburn said, quick to protest. “He ain’t in on this deal.” He turned to Ballenger in appeal. “I’m the one that stuck my neck out for you. That son of a bitch ain’t never given either one of us the time of day.”
Washburn’s jealous outburst brought a trace of a smile to Ballenger’s face. It amused him to see his simpleminded lackey get his hackles up at the threat of a new man moving in. He looked Clint directly in the eye and spoke. “Bob’s right, you never did have much use for me or him. Whaddaya say about that?”
It was a lot to think about in a few seconds’ time as Clint looked from one gun to the other, both pointing at him now. Ballenger’s statement promised a death sentence for the guard, Williams, and for him as well if he didn’t throw in with the escape.
“Well?” Yancey demanded, turning to face Clint. “We ain’t got all day.”
“I still ain’t got a helluva lot of use for either one of you,” Clint responded. “But you’re holdin’ all the cards, and I want out of this place, too.” Thinking of the possibility of saving the guard’s life, he said, “We ain’t but about fifty yards from the main building. If you go shootin’ off those pistols, you’ll have half a dozen guards up here in no time.”
“He’s right,” Ballenger said. “Better use a knife.”
Clint was trying to think fast, but ideas for saving Williams’ life were not coming very rapidly. There wasn’t much time to come up with something. He glanced at the fright-stricken eyes of the guard as Williams, realizing Clint was his only hope, silently pleaded with him for help. “Yeah,” Clint finally said, “best done with a knife.” He turned to Yancey then. “Give me your knife. I’ll take care of the guard, and the rest of you can get a head start. Leave me a horse and I’ll catch up.”
Ballenger didn’t respond at once. He just stood there staring at Clint, trying to determine whether he was attempting to fool them. Up to that point, he wasn’t even sure the young man wanted to join them, but he couldn’t deny he was amused by Clint’s response. After studying Clint’s face for a long second, he turned to Yancey. “Give him your knife.” Turning back to Clint, he said, “Now you can cut the bastard’s throat, but we ain’t goin’ nowhere till we see the job’s done.”
Clint took the long skinning knife from Yancey, and looked at the quivering guard. Williams, seeing no hope for his safety, took that moment to bolt for the barn door. “I got him!” Clint exclaimed, and immediately took off after him. He caught him before he could reach the door and tackled him to the ground. Yancey started to go after them, but Ballenger, still finding the situation amusing, caught his arm and said, “Let’s see if he can do it.”
Wrestling with the desperate man, Clint, with desperation of his own, managed to pin the guard to the ground. With his lips close to Williams’ ear, he whispered frantically, “If you wanna live, you better damn sure play dead. I’m gonna have to hurt you.” Sitting on the guard’s back, he suddenly jerked Williams’ head up and made what he hoped was a convincing show of pulling the knife across his victim’s throat. The slash, though not deep, was enough to cause Williams to cry out, and was sufficient to immediately bring blood. Realizing then that his life was hanging in the balance, Williams ceased to struggle and lay still. Clint wiped the knife blade across the guard’s shirt and got to his feet.
The others started toward him to confirm the kill, but stopped when Clint warned, “There’s a couple of guards lookin’ this way.” He stared out the open barn door as if watching them. “He’s dead,” he stated, anticipating the question forming in Ballenger’s mouth. “Let’s get the hell outta here while we’ve got the chance.”
Ballenger hesitated for just a moment, giving the guard’s body another look. “All right,” he finally decided, “let’s get goin’. You’ll be needin’ a horse. You’d best be quick about it.”
Like it or not, the die was cast for Clint Conner. To refuse to escape with Ballenger and his men would mean a death sentence. And although he had no desire to accompany the small band of outlaws, neither did he have any wish to defy them when the odds were four to one. He had gone to sleep many nights dreaming about escaping his imprisonment, but he never intended to actually attempt it. Now the decision had been made for him. He grabbed a bridle from the tack room and ran into the corral to pick a horse. The only saddle left, after Washburn took the best one, was a well-worn single-rigged model. The last rider to use the saddle was evidently short in the legs, but Clint didn’t waste time adjusting the stirrups. Climbing aboard a mousey dun gelding, the best of the lot of poor choices left in the corral, he could not deny a feeling of freedom to be on a horse again. Ballenger held the gate open for Clint while he waited for Yancey to bring his horse from behind the barn. When all had mounted, the five fugitives left the prison grounds at a fast lope, riding on a line that kept the barn between them and the main prison until crossing a low hogback that offered concealment. Veering south then, Yancey led them toward Colorado, the daring daylight escape a success.
Lawless Prairie Page 1
