Bitterroot Valley

by J. R. Roberts

  “Leave it to me,” Piven said. “I’ll get to the stage office nice and early and arrange it.”

  “Good. I’ll get some rest, then.”

  “Why?” Piven asked. “You can rest on the stage. Why don’t you play some poker?”

  “With those men?” Clint asked, pointing. “Please. They wouldn’t keep me awake.”

  He finished his beer and set the mug down on the bar.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Clint went back to his room, spent time cleaning his pistol and rifle, making sure they were in perfect working order. There was no doubt he was going to be hunting rustlers. His weapons and his horse all had to be ready.

  After that, he did some reading, settling for a copy of the local newspaper since he didn’t have a book with him this time. He was anxiously awaiting a new Mark Twain book.

  There were some stories about the rustling, but nowhere did he see the name of any suspected rustlers. Piven hadn’t mentioned any either. He wondered if his friend even had any suspects in mind.

  Before going to bed, Clint stuck a chair under the doorknob. His window didn’t open onto a roof or balcony, so he didn’t worry about it. If there were any rustlers in the area and they heard he was in town, they might assume he’d been called in for them. He didn’t need any surprises in the middle of the night.

  Fairly secure, he turned in early. He was going to need to make arrangements for Eclipse to be cared for in the morning, before he got on the stage. He’d probably be gone several days.

  He went to sleep thinking he pretty much knew what lay ahead.

  FOUR

  Clint went to the livery before doing anything else in the morning. He paid in advance for the liveryman to watch over Eclipse.

  “He better be in good shape when I get back,” he warned.

  “Don’t worry, mister,” the man said. “A horse like that deserves the best care I can give ’im.”

  After that, he went to the stage station to make sure Sheriff Piven had arranged for his passage.

  “Sure thing,” the clerk said. “Got your ticket right here, Mister Adams.”

  It was clear from the way he said the name that he knew who Clint was.

  “Thanks,” Clint said. “Where can I get some breakfast?”

  “Place across the street is pretty good,” the clerk said. “There’s already some other passengers over there eatin’.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stuck his ticket in his shirt pocket and walked across the street.

  Granville Stewart was sitting at a table alone. His foreman had brought him to town, let him off at the station. He’d taken this stage many times before, knew that the breakfast across the street was decent. Except for an occasional business dinner, these were the only times he ate in town.

  Across the floor from him he saw Evie Loomis, the reporter for the local paper, The Judith Page. It was obvious why she was going to Helena. When she looked over at him, he raised his coffee cup to her in greeting, but she ignored him. Too bad. She was a lovely thing, even if she was twenty years younger than he was.

  At fifty, Stewart was fit as ever, spent many days in the saddle, riding the range alongside his men. And if it came down to it, and there were rustlers to track down, he’d be in the saddle doing that, too.

  Evie Loomis watched Granville Stewart lift his cup to her and looked away. She was going to Helena to cover the meeting of the cattlemen, knew she’d have to interview him when she got there, but that didn’t mean she had to speak to him, or acknowledge his presence, now or in the stage.

  She was seated with a middle-aged married couple who were also traveling to Helena. They had met in the station and decided to have breakfast together.

  “That well-dressed, handsome man is saluting you with his cup, dear,” the woman said.

  “That well-dressed man is an ass,” Evie said. “Excuse my language.”

  The woman blushed, but the man just laughed and shook his head.

  At that point a man entered the café, with a stage ticket sticking out of his pocket.

  “Now that’s a handsome man,” Evie said.

  The other woman looked and said, “Perhaps, but not nearly as well dressed.”

  “Oh my God,” Evie said.

  “What is it, my dear?” the man asked.

  “I think I know who that is.”

  “Who?” both husband and wife asked.

  But she didn’t answer. She just watched him walk across the room and sit at a table.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the couple. She took her plate and her coffee and carried them over to the man’s table.

  “May I join you?”

  FIVE

  Clint looked up at the woman.

  “If you can tell me something good to order, sure,” he said.

  “I have eggs and bacon,” she said. “And biscuits. They’re very good.”

  A middle-aged waitress came over.

  “Scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits, please,” he said. “And coffee.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  She left. Clint looked up at the woman standing there holding her plate and cup.

  “Sit down,” he invited.

  “Thank you.”

  She sat across from him. Thirties, pretty face, freckles.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Evie. Evie Loomis.”

  “Hello, Evie Loomis. What can I do for you?”

  “You’re Clint Adams.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw you once,” she said. “In Denver.”

  “What were you doing in Denver once?”

  “Trying to get a job.”

  “And you ended up here?”

  She nodded.

  “I kept tryin’ to get a job until I got here,” she said. “Then I got hired.”

  “As what?”

  “I’m a reporter,” she said. “I work for The Judith Page.”

  “I see.”

  “Why were you in Judith?” she asked. “Why are you going to Helena?”

  “Are you trying to interview me?”

  “I’m just curious,” she said.

  “So this isn’t an interview?”

  “No,” she said. “If it was, I’d have some paper to write on.”

  “Then why all the questions?”

  “I told you, I’m curious.”

  “Are you going to Helena, or do you just like the food here?” he asked.

  “I’m going to Helena,” she said. “To cover the meeting of the cattlemen there.”

  “Then you know who Granville Stewart is,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “Why unfortunately?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Would you point him out to me?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Two tables up on your right. He’s probably looking at me.”

  “You’re right,” Clint said, “he is.”

  The waitress came over, put Clint’s breakfast down in front of him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  Clint started eating his breakfast and stopped talking.

  “How is it?” Evie asked.

  “It’s very good,” he said.

  “See? I don’t lie.”

  “You must not be very good at your job, then.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I never met a newspaper reporter who didn’t lie.”

  “Is that so?” she asked. “Maybe I can get better at my job.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  They ate in silence. Since she had a head start on him, she finished first. The waitress refilled their cups and Evie drank from hers while she watched Clint finish eating.

  “So why are you going to Helena?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “It must have something to do with Granville Stewart.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  �
��You asked me to point him out.”

  “Maybe I was just curious, too.”

  “Would you like me to tell you about Granville Stewart?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s an ass.”

  “I got that much from you before.”

  “No, I said I didn’t like him,” she said. “That didn’t make him an ass. But he is. It’s his money.”

  “That makes him an ass?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve met a lot of men like that.”

  “He’s a good man, though,” she said. “And good at what he does. He’s just not very likable.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind when I meet him.”

  “Want to meet him now?”

  “No,” he said. “On the stage is soon enough.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That might be interesting to watch.”

  SIX

  As it turned out, they didn’t meet on the stage. Granville Stewart didn’t seem inclined to introduce himself to the other passengers. But he did watch, and listen, while they introduced themselves to each other.

  The couple turned out to be Mr. and Mrs. Brownsville. They were traveling to Helena from the East, where Mr. Brownsville was going to administer to a flock as a preacher.

  “Are you ordained?” Evie asked him.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Brownsville said, “but it’s a calling. You can’t ignore a calling, you know.”

  “No,” Evie said, “I guess not.”

  “You’re a newspaperwoman,” Brownsville said. “That must have been a calling to you.”

  “Maybe,” Evie said. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

  “And you, sir?” Brownsville asked. “What is your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  There was a flicker of recognition in the eyes of Granville Stewart, but he still chose not to join in the conversation.

  “Clint Adams,” the preacher said with a frown. “That name does sound familiar.”

  “Maybe it’s just that kind of name,” Clint said.

  Evie Loomis smiled behind her hand.

  Stringer Jack looked up from the fire as Dutch Louie rode into camp. He had ridden into Judith Gap to see what the town was talking about. Apparently, he’d heard something that got him excited, because he was off the horse before it stopped running.

  “What are you so excited about?” Jack asked.

  “I thought you should know,” Louie said, “Stewart is on the stage to Helena. Left this mornin’.”

  Stringer Jack rubbed his jaw. Perhaps it would be to their advantage to take the man out of the play early.

  “It’ll take ’em a day and a half, at least.” He looked at Brocky Gallagher, who was hunkered down next to him. “Take a few men.”

  “Kill him?”

  Jack nodded.

  “What about the other passengers?”

  “Might as well kill ’em all,” Jack said. “Make it look like a robbery. With Granville Stewart gone, the Bitterroot Valley is ours for the taking.”

  “Who do I take?” Gallagher asked.

  “Anybody,” Jack said. “Take four men.”

  Gallagher stood up, walked over to a group of men, and pointed out four of them.

  “Saddle up!” he said.

  “Make it quick and easy, Brocky,” Jack said. “No mistakes.”

  “No mistakes, boss,” Gallagher said. “Got it.”

  They stopped at a stagecoach station to rest the horses and get a meal into the driver and passengers, but then continued on through the night in hopes of arriving in Helena before dark the next day.

  Granville Stewart had only agreed to take the stage after a meeting with the agent, who assured him the coach would drive through the night and get him there the next day.

  They all dozed through the night. Clint opened his eyes at first light while the others still slept. Then he noticed that Stewart was also awake.

  The man looked at him, then smiled and said, “What’s takin’ the Gunsmith to Helena?”

  Clint shrugged. “Haven’t been there in a while,” he said. “Thought I’d take a look while I was in Montana.”

  “And then head back to Judith Gap?”

  “The sheriff’s a friend of mine,” Clint said. “Thought I’d spend a few days.”

  That seemed to satisfy Stewart, and he fell silent again.

  The others woke then, and tried stretching.

  “Do you think the driver might stop so we could stretch properly?” the preacher asked.

  “No more stops,” Stewart said. “We have a schedule to keep.” This was the first time he’d spoken to anyone other than Clint.

  The preacher blinked at Stewart and said, “I was just wondering—”

  “No more stops,” he said firmly.

  “Well!” the preacher’s wife said, but Stewart ignored her.

  SEVEN

  Brocky Gallagher reined in his horse and stared down the hill at the stagecoach traveling the road to Helena.

  “We gonna take ’em now, Brocky?” one of the men asked.

  “Let’s ride on ahead and cut ’em off,” Brocky said. “We’ll take ’em then.”

  “How many passengers are there?” another man asked.

  “Don’t know,” Brocky said, “but we know Stewart’s there.”

  “What do we do with the others?”

  Gallagher looked at the four men riding with him and said, “We kill ’em.”

  “All of ’em?” somebody asked.

  “All of ’em.”

  “Any women?” another asked.

  Gallagher grinned and said, “I guess we’re gonna find out.”

  “I hope there’s some good-lookin’ women,” one of the men said.

  “What’s the difference?” another said. “Free poon is free poon.”

  “Whoa!”

  Clint heard the driver yell as he reined his team in.

  “We’re stopping,” the preacher said. “I wonder why.”

  The preacher’s wife gave Granville Stewart a hard look as if to say, “There, we are stopping!”

  “Everybody out!”

  “It’s a robbery,” Evie said, sounding excited.

  “We don’t have anything on this stage to steal,” Stewart said. “That’s not right.”

  “You have a gun?” Clint asked him.

  “Yes.” Stewart touched the space beneath his left arm, the weapon hidden by his jacket.

  “You move when I do, okay?” Clint said.

  “Right.”

  “Wait,” the preacher said. “There’s no need to kill—”

  “Shut up, Preacher,” Stewart said. “You’re completely out of your element here.”

  “When the shooting starts,” Clint told the others, “hit the deck.”

  “What? What? What’s he mean?” the preacher’s wife asked.

  “The ground,” Evie said. “He wants us to drop to the ground.”

  “But . . . my dress . . .”

  “It’s either get your dress dirty,” Evie said, “or get killed.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Come on, come on!” a man shouted. “Everybody out!”

  Clint opened the door and stepped out. He saw five men, all mounted, holding guns. Their faces were not covered, so it was obvious this was not a robbery. They were here to kill. His guess was they were after Stewart, but when they killed him, they’d have to kill everyone.

  Stewart stepped out, then the preacher. After that, Clint and Stewart helped the ladies out.

  “Collect their valuables,” one man ordered, obviously the leader.

  The stage driver was still up top, but he’d dropped the reins and his hands were up. Clint didn’t know if he’d be able to rely on the man when the shooting started.

  One man got off his horse, took off his hat, and came up to the passengers.

  “Wallets, jewelry,” he said. “Come on!”

  “Take their guns first!” the leader called.r />
  As if he hadn’t heard, the man passed his hat in front of each person, then stopped when he came to Evie.

  “I’m gonna have a good time with you,” he said, smiling, licking his lips lasciviously.

  “How are you gonna do that without a dick?” she asked sweetly.

  “What—” Before he could get another word out, she kicked him in the crotch. His eyes popped and he staggered back, grabbing for his gun.

  Clint drew quickly and shot the man in the chest even before the full magnitude of the pain in his crotch could register.

  He turned his gun on the mounted men, firing quickly. Behind him he was aware of Stewart’s gun being fired.

  The mounted killers were completely surprised, except for the leader. Angry that his man had ignored him, he wheeled his horse and got out of there while his men were being gunned down.

  They all dropped from their saddles to the ground, dead.

  “One is getting away!” Evie called.

  “Let him,” Stewart said. “He can tell his bosses that he failed.”

  Clint reloaded his gun before returning it to his holster, then checked on all the fallen men.

  “They’re all dead,” he said.

  “I’ll say a prayer—” the preacher started, but Stewart stopped them.

  “They don’t deserve prayers, Preacher,” the rancher said. “They were gonna kill all of us.”

  “You don’t know that,” the preacher’s wife said.

  “Yes,” Stewart said, “I do. They were trying to kill me, and then they’d have to kill the rest of you.”

  “Their faces weren’t covered,” Clint pointed out, “so he’s right. They were going to kill all of us.”

  “Oh dear,” she said, looking at her husband. “What kind of a world have we come to?”

  “This is the West, lady,” Stewart said. “You better get used to it.”

  They collected their belongings and then started to get back into the stage.

  “Aren’t you going to bury them?” the preacher asked.

  “Not a chance,” Stewart said.

  When the others were boarded, Clint and Stewart walked to the bodies.

  “You know any of them?” Clint asked.