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?”
Both brothers shook their heads. “Nope,” John replied. “Ain’t seen nobody like that. We don’t get much company.”
“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.
“You’re welcome to light and camp here tonight,” John said.
“Much obliged, but I think I’ll push on a ways yet. There’s a good hour before dark. Maybe I’ll see you fellers on the way back.”
The Tate brothers nodded good-bye and watched Clayton as he headed west along the river, then went back to work on their cabin. Clayton held his horse to a steady walk, knowing the roan was already tired, but he figured it wasn’t too hard on him to go a little farther before resting. When dark caught up with him, he made a hasty camp by the river.
The next morning, he did not linger by the fire. Downing the last of the coffeepot, he was soon in the saddle and heading west. Making good time, he crossed Big Porcupine Creek before noon, and continued on toward the Big Horn. Traveling light, and with no packhorse, he was making good time, but the rider the Tates had told him about had too much of a start on him for Clayton to know whether he was catching up or not. Discouraging also was the absence of recent tracks that he could even speculate upon as being those left by Clint Conner.
Three days without sighting anyone brought him to the thriving settlement of Coulson. It had grown a great deal since he had last traveled this part of the country. The recently signed treaties with the Sioux had opened the land along the river to development, and there was already a rush of settlers to claim newly surveyed land for farms outside the town. Clayton was amazed at the new buildings when he rode into the town. A two-story hotel was under construction to add to several saloons, a post office, a general merchandise store, and a telegraph office. Someone had also set up a ferry across the river.
It was the kind of place two outlaws like Ballenger and Yancey might find to their liking. Clayton decided to stable his horse and stop over long enough to keep a watch on the saloons and the large tent he spotted near the ferry landing that was obviously a whorehouse. If Ballenger and Yancey were anywhere in the vicinity, they would most likely show up before long. I could use a little rest myself, he thought as he guided the roan toward the stable. A day or two out of the saddle and a drink of whiskey would go pretty well right now.
After stabling his horse, he took a walking tour of the town, stopping at the telegraph office first to wire Cheyenne that he was still alive and working. Afterward, he checked the saloons and talked to the bartenders. No one had seen two men matching Ballenger’s and Yancey’s descriptions. The last saloon he visited was the River House, and this was where he decided to have his drink.
“These two fellers you’re lookin’ for,” the bartender asked, “they friends of yours?”
“Hardly,” Clayton replied, sipping his drink. “Have you seen ’em?”
“You a lawman?”
“That’s right,” Clayton answered.
“What did they do?”
“Well,” Clayton replied impatiently, “lately they robbed a bank up in Helena. Along the way, they’ve murdered and stole all over Nebraska, Kansas, and Wyoming.”
“Dang!” the bartender exclaimed quietly. “And you think they’re around here?”
“I don’t know if they are or not. I’m just tryin’ to find out. Have you seen anybody that fits that description?” Clayton was beginning to lose his patience with the man.
“Ain’t that somethin’,” the bartender said, shaking his head in wonder. “So we’ve got law in town now. I didn’t even know that. How long have you been here?”
“Jesus Christ, man!” Clayton exploded. “I’m not the local law here. As far as I know, there ain’t no law in Coulson. I’m a U.S. deputy marshal out of Cheyenne, Wyomin’, and I’m tryin’ like hell to find two outlaws that might be headed this way.”
“Cheyenne? That’s a helluva ways from here, ain’t it?”
“It ain’t far enough,” Clayton replied, his patience shot. He tossed the last of his whiskey down and promptly walked out.
As he reached the door, the bartender called after him, “I think them two fellers mighta been in here night before last.”
Clayton stopped abruptly, his hand on the doorknob. He turned about and returned to the bar. “What’s your name, mister?”
“Sam Crowder,” the bartender replied.
“Well, Sam, help me out here. All right?” When Sam nodded, Clayton questioned him extensively about the appearance of the two men he had seen, their behavior, and how much money they had spent.
“Oh, they was well-heeled,” Sam said, “flashin’ money around, all night. They had a good time for theirselves. I kinda hated to see ’em leave, but they was gettin’ the itch—the big feller, especially—to go down by the river to Sophie’s.” He shook his head and chuckled just thinking about it; then he abruptly frowned at Clayton. “And you think them fellers might be the same ones that robbed a bank in Helena?”
“Maybe,” Clayton allowed. “I can’t say for sure till I find ’em.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong. Them fellers spent a lot of money in here. I’ve been lookin’ for ’em to come back ever since.”
“Yeah, they’re a lovable pair, no doubt about it,” Clayton said, and left the bartender still shaking his head in wonder as he walked down toward the river and Sophie’s tent.
“A lawman? Well, I’ve done business with more’n a few lawmen,” Sophie Beasley said, smirking, “but I don’t give no discounts to lawmen or lawyers.”
“I ain’t a customer,” Clayton informed her. “I’m here on business. I wanna ask you a few questions about a couple of your recent customers.”
“I don’t talk about my customers,” Sophie insisted. “How long do you think I’d stay in business if I talked about my customers?”
“Have it your way,” Clayton said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I was hopin’ to save you some hurtin’. These two I’m lookin’ for have killed a couple of women like you.” He thought he was lying, unaware of the recent fate of Maggie Pitts. His bluff worked, however.
Sophie’s face suddenly took on a serious look, and she paused to let his comment sink in as she thought about the imposing bulk of Clell Ballenger. “Well,” she reconsidered, “I get paid by the hour,” she said, “talk or wrestle, I get paid for my time.”
“I got no money for prostitutes,” Clayton said, and made motions as if about to leave. “I hope, for your sake, you ain’t one of the unlucky ones that has to deal with Clell Ballenger.”
Her face blanched at the sound of the name. “Clell!” she exclaimed. “That was the big fellow’s name. The other one was Pete. They didn’t offer no last names, and I didn’t ask for any.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Clayton said. His normally slow pulse quickened a bit as he realized that he might be close to Ballenger and Yancey. “Do you know where they went when they left here?”
“I don’t know where they went, but they said they was comin’ back in a day or two.”
“Good,” Clayton said. “I appreciate your help.” He started to leave.
“Wait a minute!” Sophie blurted. “Ain’t you gonna stay around to protect me? I don’t wanna do no business with a pair of murderers.” His warning had taken deep effect upon her.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I’ll be watchin’ for ’em.” Then he grinned. “I was just japin’ about them killin’ whores.”
“You son of a bitch,” she growled as he left.
After two days of hunting and exploring along Big Porcupine Creek, Clint decided to return to his original plan to follow the Yellowstone west. Impatient now to reach the high mountains he had always longed to see, he pushed on over rolling, tumbling prairie that seemed to stretch endlessly away from the winding river. A day and a half’s travel brought him to the confluence with a river he guessed to be the Big Horn, based upon the description he had received from John Tate.
The last few mornings had been quite chilly, even though the days were still mild, comfortable in fact. But the cool mornings were fair warning that the mild afternoons would be few in number from now on. Winter was never far away on the high plains, a fact that caused him to seek the protection of the mountains even more, and preferably in time to build a suitable winter camp. With these thoughts in mind, he welcomed the sight of a small trading post on the south shore where the Big Horn joined the Yellowstone. When he first spotted it, he wasn’t certain it was, in fact, a trading post. There was no solid structure, house or log cabin. Instead, a tipi, painted with tribal symbols, sat before a small corral with a rough shed for a barn. There was a board attached over the entrance to the tipi that proclaimed JIM CROSS—TRADER. It did not show promise of a permanent business. It was enough to engage Clint’s curiosity, however.
As Clint approached, a strapping bear of a man emerged from the tipi, dressed in buckskins and Indian moccasins. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, was worn long, and tied with a single strand of rawhide, so that it lay across his back like a great mane. His full beard was solid black except for a streak of white running from each corner of his mouth, giving the appearance of two long fangs. Though demonic at first impression, his face transformed to one of welcome as soon as he smiled and greeted Clint.
“Good afternoon, friend,” he said. “My name’s Jim Cross. Step down and rest yourself a spell.”
“Afternoon,” Clint returned, pulling Rowdy up before the tipi. He threw a leg over and stepped down. “If your sign means what it says, I’ll be needin’ a few things.”
Jim’s smile widened, displaying teeth whiter than Clint had ever seen before. “Well, if I’ve got what you’re needin’, I’ll do my best to skin you properly.” He laughed heartily at his joke. “What is it you’re a’needin’? I’ve got some flour and coffee beans, dried beans and salt, if it’s food you’re wantin’.”
“What I’m lookin’ for is somethin’ to keep me warm. Winter’s comin’ on and I need somethin’ more than the wool coat I’m carrying.”
Jim Cross nodded his understanding, then stepped back and took a sidelong look at Clint’s packhorse and the few mule deer hides tied across his packs. His expression was not one of great expectation. “What have you got to trade?” he asked. “If you’re thinkin’ about a bearskin coat or somethin’, them hides there ain’t hardly enough to get you a sleeve.”
“I’ve got three hides,” Clint replied. “I need to keep one of ’em. So I can trade two, but I’ve got a shotgun, some rifles, and a couple of pistols to trade, too.”
Jim’s eyes lit up at this. “Well, now, that’s different. It sounds like you and me can talk some trade. Hold on a minute.” He turned his head slightly toward the tipi. “Spring Flower, come on out here and make us some coffee.” He turned back to Clint, his smile still in place, and said, “We might as well have a little somethin’ to warm our bellies while we talk.” He paused a moment while a slender Indian woman emerged from the tipi and went to the fire to fetch the coffeepot. “This here’s my woman, Spring Flower, full-blood Crow. Come on inside and we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Clint followed the huge man inside, noticing the rifle propped next to the flap where the woman had evidently stood covering her husband until sure that Clint was intent only upon trading. On one side of the lodge, he saw a bed and some cooking utensils. The rest of the tipi was filled with stacks of furs, kegs of molasses, barrels of flour, sugar, beans, and other supplies. Clint was taken aback at the sight of so much merchandise packed inside the small dwelling. He turned to Cross and commented, “You’re gonna need to build you a house.”
Cross laughed. “I know it,” he said, “and I’ll do just that when I make up my mind if I’m gonna stay here or move on to someplace else. I ain’t sure if this is a good spot or not. Riverboats don’t come up this way like they used to. Folks say the railroads will be comin’ before long. I might pack up my wares and head farther north.” He laughed again. “Hell, you’re only the second man I’ve seen this week. Another feller rode by day before yesterday, and he didn’t need nothin’.”
He reached over and pulled a fur coat from a stack of various furs. “Now, here’s the very thing you’re lookin’ for,” he said, shaking out the heavy bearskin coat and holding it up before him. “Try this on. It’ll keep you warm when it gets so cold piss freezes.” While Clint tried the coat on, Cross stood back a step to watch. “That what you’re lookin’ for? Spring Flower stitched that coat. She’s got some deerskin shirts and britches you oughta take a look at, too. ’Course I need to see what kinda guns you’re lookin’ to trade.”
Expecting old and worn-out weapons, Jim Cross opened his eyes just a touch wider when Clint pulled a Henry rifle out from under the deerskin. He hoped Clint hadn’t noticed the sparkle in his eyes when he saw the rifle, but the young man’s wry smile told him his reactions had not escaped Clint’s notice. “I reckon there ain’t no use in beatin’ around the bush on this,” Cross admitted. “This weapon looks to be in fine shape. I’d have to shoot it to know for sure.” Clint opened one of the packs and produced a box of .44 cartridges. He took out three and handed them to Cross. Cross loaded them in the magazine and cocked the rifle. Then he walked toward the riverbank and picked a cottonwood on the low bluffs on the other side as a target. An interested observer, Clint watched. He had never fired the rifle himself. It had belonged to one of the men who tried to jump him when he, Joanna, and Karl were camped at the Tongue River.
The huge man fired three times at the tree, placing all three shots in a pattern roughly the size of a chair seat. He brought the rifle down and examined it again. “Pulls a little to the left,” he said.
“Damn little,” Clint replied, knowing Jim was working up a trade. “I expect that rifle’s worth the price of that bear coat and then some.”
“Maybe,” Cross said, scratching his beard and pretending to give it a lot of thought, “if you throw in that box of cartridges.”
“And you throw in that buckskin shirt your wife is holding over there,” Clint replied.
Cross laughed and conceded, knowing he could exact a greater price for the rifle from the Blackfoot Indians. And so it went. They drank coffee and ate food that Spring Flower cooked over her fire. At the end of the day, Cross had acquired the Henry rifle, with ammunition, a shotgun, two pistols, and a single-shot Springfield rifle. In addition to the bearskin coat, Clint gained a fringed buckskin shirt and pants, and rid himself of the weapons he had no use for. Cross definitely got the better deal, but both men were happy.
At Jim’s invitation, Clint made his camp there that night. After talking late with the jovial trader, he retired to his blankets, feeling confident that he was now ready to wrestle old man winter in the mountains. He did not go to sleep right away, however, as he lay there thinking about his plans to find a place to hole up for a while until lawmen gave up looking for him—at the same time wondering how he would be able to stay away from Joanna for very long. It was during moments like these, alone at night, when he let his confidence slip a little, and he wondered whether there really was any future for him on the path he had chosen. The image of Billy Turnipseed surfaced again in his mind.
