by L. J. Martin
7
I leap to the side away from the Indian as the chair smashes across his head, splintering the leg struts.
"Goddamn," the guy in the middle of the three says, and jumps to the far side.
The Indian just shakes his head as if he's been slapped, then spins on the stool to face the lumberjack who's wrecked a bar chair. Another of the lumberjack types is right behind the first, and puts a decent right into the chops of the middle guy, and the third jumps up and squares away before another of the table guys gets to him, and they begin wailing away.
I'm a little amused by the whole thing, and step back toward the end of the bar and the doorway into the back room, where the barmaid has disappeared, just as she shows up.
The proverbial ka ka has hit the fan. It's assholes and elbows, beer bottles and blood, as the two gym rats and the horse-big Indian swing haymakers and roundhouse punches, trading blows and knees and kicks with the lumberjacks. They're smacking each other pretty good but doing little damage other than drawing blood and tiring themselves out…but there's plenty of all of that.
I can't help but chuckle, and the barmaid looks over and snaps, over the noise of blows and crashing furniture. "You think this is funny?"
"Pretty damn funny," I reply.
"If you was gettin' your ass kicked you wouldn't think so. That's my boyfriend that Charley has on the floor, about to kill."
"Buy me a beer and I'll save his ass?" I offer.
"Charley will kill you," she says.
"Bet me a beer?" I say, and give her a silly grin.
"Whatever,…the sheriff is on his way."
Charley, the Indian, is astride one of the lumberjacks, pounding the dog doo out of him as the guy is trying to cover his face with his forearms, so I step over and plant one of my hiking boots about six inches deep in the Indian's ribs. He oofs and rolls off the guy to the far side, grabbing his side as if he might have a broken rib—or four, I hope.
One of the other ARA gym rats, the albino, has a lumberjack under each arm—a double headlock—while the other is trading blows with the fourth guy, and they bang their way through the front door and are outside.
As the Indian is trying to decide if he's hurt, the albino is facing me, a lumberjack's head under each arm. So each arm is tied up. I can't help but grin at him at his foolishness as I step forward and bring a hard kick up into his crotch.
He turns green as he releases the two guys and windmills his arms as he falls back across the pool table, then pukes all over the green felt. It'll be a while before it's fit for a game of eight ball.
No good deed goes unpunished. The two guys he's been throttling are up and, seeing me but not recognizing me for the savior I am, both charge forward. I guess I looked like one of the opposition as I was drinking a Moose Drool. Should have ordered my usual Jack neat.
I drop to the side, plant a hand on the floor, and kick the leading one a sidekick to the knee. He folds like a cheap towel in front of the other one, who stumbles across him as I get to my feet, and is going down to both hands stiff armed on the floor as I bring a knee up.
Both of them are suddenly out of the fight, one rolling on the floor, his knee up in his chest in both hands as he screams like a mating eagle; the other is rolling on the floor next to him, both hands covering his nose trying to control the blood gushing between his fingers.
But it's not over, as the Indian is back on his feet, and reaches for a bar stool to crease my skull. I step in and I hit the big man a driving right into his Adam's apple, and his eyes bulge as he stumbles backwards, then collapses with his big butt on the bar foot-railing and his back to the bar. His eyes are bulging the size of golf balls. He's trying like hell to catch his breath, wheezing like a horse who's just run the Derby, and I'm hoping I haven't smashed his larynx and killed the dumb fuck.
A manslaughter trial and five to fifteen years in Montana's Deer Lodge Prison would upset my "rescue Jane Jasper Remington" schedule.
It seems the trouble is over, but maybe it's just begun, as a county-mountie busts through the door, sap in one hand, Glock in the other.
And the way he's waving the Glock around, he's young and maybe a little too eager to shoot somebody!
8
"All of you," the cop shouts, "against the wall, face it, hands over your head." He's cutting his eyes around so rapidly I fear he'll get dizzy and go to his knees.
I comply quickly, not wanting to upset a young guy who has probably never fired his weapon other than on the range.
The big Indian is still on the floor, but seems to be catching his breath, as the rest of us face the wall.
"He may be hurt!" the barmaid, who hasn't moved from behind the bar, exclaims.
The young cop, foolish as only the young can be, moves over and extends his hand to help the Indian to his feet, his gun in his other hand, now down at his side.
I guess the big guy has no interest in going to the pokey, and as he takes the kid's hand, he jerks him hard and the cop's head crashes into the edge of the hardwood bar. His eyes roll up in his head and his firearm skitters across the barroom floor. He folds without a twitch and doesn't move.
The big boy is trying to get to his feet and rolls to his hands and knees. In four steps I'm there and drive another hiking boot deep into his ribs on the other side from the first kick, and he rolls over the cop. He's not finished, and is still trying to get to his feet. He's a very tough Indian.
However, probably not as tough as the pool cue that's on the floor near my feet, so I gather it up and put it to good use. I learned long ago that you have to be very careful hitting a guy in the head with anything harder than your fist, so I make it a glancing blow. It's enough, and finally he plants his face in the floor. As quickly as I've picked it up, I wipe my prints off and deposit it back on the floor.
I snatch up the cop's Glock and wave the others back against the wall, then turn to the bar maid. "Bring me a glass of water."
The cop is still not moving, so I sprinkle a little water on his face. It's pretty obvious that he's taken a good whack, as there's a growing goose-egg at the hairline over his right eye. I'm hearing a siren approaching from outside, so it's time to look like a white knight. Besides, I'm a little worried about the kid.
He begins to sputter, so I take a chance, again wipe my prints with my shirttail and shove his pistol back in his holster, then drag him over where his back can lean against the bar front. He's still not focusing as I hear a vehicle slide to a stop outside as its siren winds down.
I climb back on a bar stool, give the barmaid a wink, and suggest "You owe me a beer."
She nods, but replies "Later, big boy. But thanks, I think my boyfriend is gonna live...after a few stitches. You did kick him pretty hard. Hope you didn't break his leg."
"Sorry about that, but he came after me. Fact is, a couple of scars give a guy character," I say, just as the door slams aside and an older uniform, under a hundred x beaver cowboy hat, stomps in. His gun is still holstered. He's not a particularly big guy, but well put together and in good shape for a guy with as much gray as he has showing under his Stetson. His look is all business and it's obvious this is hardly his first rodeo.
"Is he hurt?" he asks, motioning with a nod of his head at the kid still on the floor.
"I'm...I'm okay," the young cop manages, trying to get to his feet.
"And that one," he says, giving a head feint at the Indian. "Looks like one of my frequent guests," he says, and gives the barmaid a wink. Then gets serious again.
The older guy walks over and puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Stay down, Johnny. I got this."
"I'm okay, Sheriff," he says.
"Stay down, hoss," the bossman says, and his voice rings with authority. "Now," he commands, "none of y'all move an inch...what the hell is going on here?"
The barmaid starts a long explanation, and I'm happy to say, closes with "none of this was the stranger's fault." I guess...I hope...I'm the only stranger.
&nbs
p; As she finishes, another vehicle slides up outside and in walks a Montana Highway Patrolman. He's a tall guy with dirty blond hair, ice blue eyes, and a razor sharp nose. He too looks as if he's been around the barn a time or two.
"Hi, Matt," the sheriff addresses him and gets a "howdy" in return. Then the sheriff asks, "How about you taking the Carhartt bunch outside and interview them. I don't know if there's gonna be any charges yet, but go ahead and read them their rights if you would."
"Who put that knot on Johnny's head?" the MHP guy asks, and looks as if he's ready to return the favor.
"I'm about to find that out," the Sheriff replies.
After a half-hour, I'm surprised when all the old boys, even the Indian, are sent on their way after each of them plops a hundred bucks on the bar. It's taken ten minutes for the Indian to come to, but he does, and I guess since he was considered a victim, he, too, is cut loose. But not until he gives me a very hard look and simulates a gun with his hand, firing about six shots into my chest. I merely laugh and shake my head. He remains humorless.
I'm really surprised he walks, as he rapped the deputy pretty hard. Only in Montana.
Again to my surprise, the sheriff sends the deputy with the MHP guy, asking if he'll drop him off at the Medical center in Phillipsburg for a checkup, then joins me at the bar and orders a beer.
"You get no heat for drinking on the job?" I ask.
"What are you, Internal Affairs? Oh, I forgot," he laughs, "we ain't got no Internal Affairs department." He winks at the barmaid, then turns his attention back to me. "I'll be off duty in thirty minutes and I started two hours early this morning. When you only got four deputies you're on duty all the damn time." He eyes me up and down. "You can carry concealed in most of Montana, including here in Granite County...still, don't think I haven't noticed that lump in the small of your back."
"Not hiding it," I say. "It's permitted."
"Good thing you didn't pull it during this donnybrook," he says.
"No need," I say.
"Okay, good answer." He looks me up and down with an appraising look, then asks, "Now, sunshine, where you from and what's your story? I need a reason not to assist you in visiting our little cold rock hoosegow."
9
I smile, and shrug. "How about the fact I didn't do anything to warrant a visit?"
"I guess since I'm the sheriff I'll be the judge of that. This ain't the big city, son. I can throw you in just case I don't like the way you look." He gives me a quick nod, assuring me he's more than willing to do just what he says.
"No question, Sheriff. It's your county."
"So, again, who are you and where you from?"
I make a quick decision to tell him at least most of the truth. "I'm Mike Reardon, originally from Sheridan. We're neighbors, sort of."
"You said 'originally'?"
"I did. I did a couple of tours in the Marine Corps and have been kicking around since, doing some bail enforcement—"
"Bounty hunter," he says, and nods knowingly.
"And some bodyguard work, and lots of recovery...not only skips, but property."
"Interesting," he says, and I get the nod again.
"It pays the bills," I say.
"So, how long you been here and how long you plan on staying?"
"Just rolled in. This was my first stop. I saw the sign 'scenic highway' and thought I'd take in the scenery and fish for a few days. I'll be staying in my van."
"So, why good ol' Maxville, Montana?"
"Just seeing the sights. It's beautiful—"
"Bullshit, sunshine. You're working and I'd like to know at what."
"Going to work a fly rod and beat the water with a number five line and a wooly bugger or coachman, if you can direct me to where to get a three day license."
"Again, bullshit. But if that's the way you want to play it. You up for a little advice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your bail enforcement officer's badge, if you even got one, won't keep you from testing our jail menu. If you've got work in my county, I want to know what and whom, or I might get real crotchety. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Where's the best fishing?"
"Al here can tell you better than I can."
"Al?"
The barmaid walks over—she's been listening as she polishes glasses—and extends a hand. I shake and ask, "Al?"
"I'm from Alabama...it kinda got shortened down over the years."
"Al it is," I say, and laugh. "You're the best lookin' Al I've ever seen." It's a bit of an exaggeration, but a little flattery never hurts.
She repeats what she told the sheriff when he first walked in. "This here fella didn't start any of that ruckus, sheriff. He only stepped in when I asked him to help out. And he sure as hell-is-hot stopped some of it. It coulda been lots worse."
The sheriff upends his beer, draining the long neck, and stands. He extends a hand. He's not a big guy, but he's got a handshake like one and calluses thick as horseshoes on his hands.
He tips his hat, "Welcome to Granite County. Keep your nose clean."
"Yes, sir. You sure I can't buy you a beer?"
"Mama gets upset I have more than one."
Al gives him a wave as he heads for the door. "Give Martha a big howdy for me."
He waves over his shoulder and is gone.
I drink the rest of the beer Al has bought me, and over the course of two more—which I pay for—get filled in on all the old boys who were involved in the disagreement. Like most local bartenders, she knows most everything about everyone.
Her boyfriend is a logger—a sawyer she tells me—and unfortunately one of the guys who came after me and who took a fairly hard side-kick to the knee. He'll be limping a while. Just as I'm draining the last of my third beer and getting ready to check out a couple of two-track forest service roads that Al has clued me into—roads that flank the canyon containing the ARA encampment—he gimps back into the bar. He doesn't look happy, but he doesn't look like he wants to go another round. So I turn back facing the bar, rest my forearms there, and order another.
He drags a leg and climbs up on the bar four stools down from me, turns my way and glowers for a moment as Al pours him a draft and as she says, "The sheriff said for you guys to stay out of here for the rest of the day."
"He's headed back to Phillipsburg. Hey," he snaps at me, "you fucked my knee up real good. I won't be able to work."
I spin, facing him. "You came at me, old buddy. I just gave you a love tap."
"No fucking work, for a week. God damn it."
"So, you know the country around here?"
"Ever tree and boulder and pile of bear shit."
"So, how much do you make knocking down trees, or whatever it is you do?"
"About twenty bucks an hour, not that it's any of your—"
"That's fine. I'll pay you the same for guiding me. A week's work guaranteed."
That stops him short and he stares at me. And finally manages, "It ain't hunting season."
"I know that. I want a guide to show me around is all. And you know every rock, or so you say."
Al jumps in, seeming eager for him to make a buck. "He does, he growed up here and knows his way 'round better than anybody."
"What's your name?" I ask, and extend a hand as I slip down the bar to take a seat next to him.
He looks hesitant for a moment, then takes the hand and shakes. He's no wuss and I'm glad I sank the handshake deep.
"Hunter Manovitch."
"You want the job or not?"
"How do I know you're good for it?"
"You're a trusting soul." I shake my head, then add, "How about I pay you cash money at the end of every day?"
"Suits me. When do we start?"
"Soon as we finish our beers."
"Where do we start?" he asks.
"Let's grab a table." Al looks a little hurt that she won't be in the conversation, but we head to a table as far as we can get out of earshot.
As soon as we
're seated, I admonish him, "My business is private and you can't talk about it, not even to Al, understand?"
He shrugs. "Sure."
"I'm serious as a heart attack, Manovitch. I'll take it real personal you mouth around what we do."
This time his look is questioning. "So, is this legal stuff?"
"I don't break the law," I assure him with a lie. I don't mention that if I do break the law, I'll keep him out of it.
"Okay, I don't tell anyone what we're up to. You looking for gold or sapphires or something?"
"Nope, I'm looking for a lady."
10
Montana's Highway 1 is a scenic two lane alternate route making a big loop, maybe one hundred miles, from Anaconda near east-west Interstate 90, past Georgetown Lake and it's nearby ski mountain, Discovery, then through an old mining—now ranching and tourist—town of Phillipsburg, and again joining up with I-90 at Drummond. Anaconda is the home of a huge copper mine and Drummond bills itself as the "Bull Shipping" capital of the world, and means it literally.
Maxville and Hall are wide spots in the road along the loop.
Phillipsburg, also on the loop, is the county seat of Granite County—a county with a total population of just over four thousand. The John Long Range, where the ARA encampment is located, the Flint Range, and the magnificent Anaconda Pintler Range of mountains surround the scenic highway and little towns, rising from valley bottoms to alpine hard shouldered, normally snow covered, ridges.
The country is rolling grazing land and pine and fir covered mountains, populated with an independent strain of folks, most of whom make their living with their hands, horses, chainsaws, and an abundance of guts.
Needless to say, it's sparsely populated.
The Anaconda Pintler Wilderness makes up the southern part of the county and is topped by the Continental Divide in the Anaconda Pintler Mountains. Its cloud covered high and rugged rock peaks are full of cirques, U-shaped valleys, and glacial moraines. Most of the year pristine lakes and tumbling streams are fed by water running off the snowfields above the timberline. Lakes and streams are where the hardy find fishing for several species of native and introduced trout and char. On the southwest side of the divide your canoe will take you, eventually, to Seattle; on the northeast, eventually, to New Orleans, if you can get around the man-made obstructions.