Philip Dampier's Blog

Shootout at the Spring

Episode Twenty-two

Marshal Pennington could not see Bill Pearson in the darkness, but he could hear him. It was tough to listen to. No doubt the wound was festering and the pain numbing. There was nothing he nor anyone else could do. They were exposed to the cold and the wind on the open prairie. Neither of the two elements were showing any mercy. He began to look for a draw or a group of trees or some kind of shelter from the cold wind.

They struggled up a rather steep hill, and when they breasted it, a weak cheer went up. There below them, spread out in the moonlight, was a ranch house with three or four solid-looking structures. One of them appeared to be a stable or perhaps a hay barn.

The group needed no urging as they began their descent of the hill. Partway down, the wind caught them in full force. The string of horses and men seemed to shrivel as they moved downwards towards the scattered buildings. Twice, they had to stop and put Pearson back on his horse.

Chad stopped the small caravan fifty feet from the main building. “Hello, the house,” he shouted as loud as the wind and his dry throat would allow. It took two more calls before a lantern appeared at the front door.

“Who’s there this time of night?”

“U.S. Marshals and a sheriff’s posse with a prisoner and a wounded man. Can we take shelter in one of your buildings? We’ve had a long night.”

“There’s some hay in that long building just past the stable. You should be warmer in there. Pardon me if I don’t come out just now. I will see you for breakfast.”

The tired men led their horses into the lee of the building and stripped them of saddles and blankets. Most of the horses were tied to the ground, unlikely to wander out in the wind, completely worn out like their riders. One by one, each of the men, with the exception of the bound prisoner, carried their saddles and blankets into the hay barn. The inside of the building was not warm, but the absence of the wind made it feel as though it were a summer evening.

The hay was stacked almost to the roof, but the cold and exhausted travelers soon moved the hay around enough to accommodate sleeping spaces. The odor from the hay was sweet, like new-mown grass; the dust stirred up by the men caused a few sneezes before it settled back down. All ten men appeared too tired to care, and within minutes of their arrival, various levels of snores caused the barn mice to hesitate in their nightly routines.

Chad tied Lance’s hands and feet and placed him between himself and Ben. “I’m sure he’s too tired to run, but I’m not taking any chances. He’s a tough outlaw, I’ll give him credit for that.

Chad looked around the barn-like building. He could hear the wind in spite of the noises coming from the worn-out posse. He lay down on the hay and covered himself with his blanket and oilskin. Like the others, he had no trouble falling asleep.

Vengeance and the anger that accompanies it will cause humanity to do strange things. The anger in Sheriff Mann’s heart took control of his brain. In spite of the tiredness of his men and the terrible chilling wind, he aroused his posse members just before daylight. He intended to complete what he had set out to do.

The sheriff cautioned each man with a finger to his lips. He approached the sleeping prisoner and quickly stuffed a gag in his mouth. Lance started to struggle but was quickly overcome. One by one, the men saddled their horses. Lance was set on his horse bareback, his hands tied in front just loose enough for him to grab a double handful of mane.

The wind had abated some, but it was still cold, and the men were still hungry. The sheriff convinced them that what they were about to do would be over quickly, and they could ride to Fort Pierre for food and sleep.

“We’ll head straight down this long draw towards the river. We’ll find a suitable limb between here and there, or we’ll find several along the bank of the Missouri. We’ll leave this guy dangling on the end of my rope and ride down alongside the river to the fort and go back home.

Chad’s eyes opened with a start. There was barely enough light to make out his surroundings, and his mind was cloudy. There was something wrong; all his senses told him that something was not right, but it took a moment to sort it out. He heard noises from outside the wall a few feet from his bedroll. Chad sat up and looked around. There were only two men in the hay barn: he and his deputy.

“Ben, Ben, wake up! They’ve taken Lance. Come on; we’ve got to catch them before they lynch him.”

Ben sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and pulling a few hay straws from his thick hair. “How long they been gone?”

“I just heard them leave. Grab your Springfield and saddle. Maybe we can catch them before they act like the fools they are.”

“How far are they liable to go?”

“Hopefully, there are no large trees for aways. Unless they shoot him in cold blood, they need a high limb.”

Ben followed Chad out the hay barn’s door. The two of them almost ran head-on into the rancher they had seen in the wee hours of the morning.

“What’s going on?” the rancher asked.

“The sheriff and his posse have kidnapped our prisoner. They intend to hang him as soon as they find a suitable tree.”

“There’s a low area three miles south of here with a small creek and some cottonwoods and oaks.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll go with you,” the rancher said and raised a double-barrel shotgun over his head, “Sheriff or not, I won’t condone this kind of behavior.”

“Happy to have you, but we’re in a hurry. Catch up with us as quick as you can,” Chad said.

Chad and Ben finished tightening the cinches and swung onto their saddles. They, too, found the wind still blowing and the temperature still cold, but neither of them paid any particular attention to the weather. Their full attention was on catching up with the posse and stopping a miscarriage of justice.

The two lawmen could make out a path running south towards Fort Pierre and the Missouri River in the dawning light. The first few feet were churned up, indicating that the riders had spurred their horses onto the path and towards the lowland mentioned by the rancher. The marshal and his deputy did likewise, with the hope that their mounts were rested enough to stand the punishment.

A mile went by, and they heard a horse behind them. Both men turned their heads. Coming up fast on a brown and white pinto cowpony was the rancher. The pony was not only fresh, but he was also fast as well. In no time, the rancher and his shotgun had caught up to the two of them and moved on by. As the rancher spurred by, he turned in the saddle and called to Chad and Ben.

“Don’t worry; I’ll hold them up till you can get there.”

Buck was doing his best, as was Ben’s bay, but the two horses had traveled too much in the previous twenty-four hours to match speed with the fresh pony. Even so, the marshals did not slow up but pushed their horses in an effort to maintain their current speed. While Chad didn’t much care for Lance Powell as an individual, he did care about law and order. As much as was possible, he intended for his prisoner to have a fair trial before he was hung.

The riders were on the climbing side of a long grassy hillside, and by the time they reached the top, their horses were panting. Sweat was slathered along Buck’s neck and flanks in spite of the cold wind. Two hundred feet below them and a quarter of a mile away ran the small creek, and the tops of several good-sized trees were visible, overshadowing the creek itself. Racing towards the trees ahead of them was a lone rider on a brown and white cowpony. Chad and Ben started down the slope, a grim look on their faces.

When they were halfway down, the rancher disappeared into the trees. Chad and Ben were pushing their mounts all they dared. “I hope he gets there in time,” Ben called over the pounding hooves of the horses.

“Me too,” Chad said.