Bitterroot Valley

by J. R. Roberts

  “But what’s the plan?” Nickerson asked. “You ain’t told us yet.”

  “I will,” Jack said. “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon enough,” Jack said. “I’m gonna get some more coffee.”

  Jack bent over the fire. His plan was his, and he’d share it with the rest of them soon enough.

  Granville Stewart woke up the next morning in his room in the Cattleman’s Club. He looked at the woman in bed next to him. She was of little consequence to him, other than the pleasure she’d given him during the night. Now she was an annoyance, a whore in his bed.

  “Hey,” he said, slapping her bare ass. “Wake up!”

  “Wha—” she said, coming awake abruptly. “Jesus, mister, you kept me awake most of the night. Can’t a girl get some sleep?”

  “Yes, you can,” he said, “but somewhere else.”

  “What?”

  “Get dressed and get out!”

  She rolled over. She had small breasts with brown nipples, skin that had looked pale the night before, but now looked pitted. In his haste to have a woman, he’d chosen badly, as far as looks went. In actuality, she was a talented whore, but in the morning sun . . .

  “Come on, up and out,” he said. “You’ve been paid already, so go!”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” she said, getting to her feet. Her butt was flat, her legs long and thin. He turned his head while she dressed. He’d take his time and choose better next time. Also, the Club had to raise its standards as far as the whores they brought in for their members.

  “See ya next time,” she said, and left the room.

  No next time for you, he thought, and rolled over.

  Clint woke with the sun streaming through his window. He rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. He took a moment to bring it all into focus. He’d arrived in Judith Gap and, before he knew it, was on his way to Helena. Now he was supposed to get into the Cattleman’s Club and . . . what?

  He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and realized how hungry he was. First things first. He got dressed and left the room to go downstairs and have breakfast.

  As he entered the dining room, he saw the Brownsvilles seated at a table. He had no desire to sit and eat with them, so he simply exchanged nods with them and went to his own table. He hoped that Evie Loomis would not come in. He didn’t want to eat with her either.

  As it turned out, his only companion for breakfast would be Sheriff Dan Lewis, who walked in at that moment, spotted him, and headed over.

  THIRTEEN

  “Mind if I join you?” Lewis asked.

  “Have a seat.”

  Lewis sat down.

  “Breakfast?” Clint asked. “It’s on me this time.”

  “Sure, why not?” Lewis said. “After that you wanna walk over to the Cattleman’s Club?”

  “You got any idea what time they’re going to start their meeting?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, “but what’s the difference? Once you’re in, you’re in.”

  “Good point.”

  A waiter came over and they both ordered steak and eggs, Clint because that’s what he ate when he wasn’t on the trail, and the sheriff because it was the most expensive breakfast on the menu.

  The waiter poured them some coffee and the sheriff drank.

  “Better than your office coffee, huh?” Clint asked.

  “No contest,” Lewis said.

  “How long have you been sheriff of Helena?” Clint asked.

  “Too long, probably,” Lewis said. “And long enough to know that loyalty means nothin’ .”

  Clint could see that the man had been turned bitter by his years behind the badge. He wondered if the same would have happened to him if he’d pursued a career as a lawman.

  “The new police department, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said. “The town fathers told me I could keep my badge, but that the laws would be enforced by the police.”

  “You have no authority at all?”

  “No, I still do,” Lewis said, “but I have to take a backseat to the new police chief.”

  “Why didn’t they just make you the police chief?”

  “That’d be a laugh,” the sheriff said. “I wasn’t about to wear that uniform. I woulda turned the job down, but they never offered it to me. They brought in a younger man from back East to set up the department, and hire all the men.”

  “What about your deputy?” Clint asked.

  “Dumb as a stump,” Lewis said. “But loyal.”

  “What about going somewhere else?”

  “And doing what?” Lewis asked. “Who’s gonna hire somebody my age to be a sheriff? Best I’d do is getting hired by some whippersnapper to be his deputy. That ain’t for me.”

  “So you’ll stay here as long as you can?”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I get paid, I eat for free—as long as it ain’t somethin’ like steak and eggs—I got a place to sleep . . .”

  The lawman stopped talking as the waiter appeared with their plates. He poured them some more coffee and moved on.

  Lewis started eating. Clint decided to eat in silence as long as the man wanted to.

  “So why is the Gunsmith working with the sheriff of a place like Judith Pass?” he said finally.

  “Nat’s an old friend of mine. He sent me a telegram saying he needed me,” Clint explained. “There’s no money for a deputy, so he asked if I could help out.”

  “You get that a lot?” Lewis asked. “Being asked for help, I mean.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You always respond?”

  “Usually,” Clint said. “It’s how I get into most of my trouble.”

  “I would think carryin’ around a reputation would get you into enough trouble.”

  “Oh yeah, that, too.”

  Lewis cut off a large hunk of steak and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “This is great,” he said. “Worth you comin’ to town for me to get this. So how much trouble are you gonna cause?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Are you worried?”

  “Me? No, if you cause trouble, it’ll be the police department’s job to do somethin’ about it, not me.”

  “Maybe I should stop in there, then,” Clint said. “Let them know I’m in town.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “What’s the chief’s name?”

  “Hm, uh, Paul . . . something. Pierce, that’s it. Chief Pierce.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Young, not forty yet,” Lewis said. “I think he used to be a schoolteacher.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Lewis said, “but apparently he’s studied some new policing techniques.”

  “Jesus,” Clint said. “Would you like some more steak, Sheriff?”

  “I sure would . . .”

  FOURTEEN

  Granville Stewart came down to the Cattleman’s Club dining room and sat alone while he ate. Across the room four others were seated together, deep in conversation. They paused only when he entered, watched him walk to his table, and then went back to chattering like hens.

  Before long Edward Quarterman walked in. Stewart had not seen the man in several months, but he looked as if he had aged years. This was the only man in the Club who he had any respect for.

  “Edward!” he called, and waved.

  The old man saw him, waved back, and crossed the room with a slow, almost painful gait.

  “Join me for breakfast,” Stewart said.

  “It’s very good to see you, Granville,” Quarterman said, seating himself across the table from Stewart. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yes,” Stewart said. “It has. Let’s order for you, and then we’ll talk.”

  “I need something . . . soft,” Quarterman said.

  “Of course.”

  Stewart called the waiter over and ordered some oatmeal for his old friend.

  “And some tea,” Quarterman said.

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir,” the waiter said.

  They waited until Quarterman had both his tea and his breakfast in front of him before they started to talk.

  “Look at them,” Stewart said. “Talking like a bunch of old women with their heads pressed together.”

  Quarterman looked over at them.

  “Yes,” he said, “they have a lot of problems. They need a solution.”

  “And what am I?” Stewart asked. “A problem or a solution?”

  “I think they believe you are one of each, Gran,” Quarterman said.

  “And what do you think, Edward?”

  “I think you should let bygones be bygones and work with them,” Quarterman said.

  “Bygones?” Stewart asked. “After what they did? Voting me out as president?”

  “That was several years ago, Gran,” Quarterman said. “You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Well,” Quarterman said, “if you’re not here to forgive them, what are you here for?”

  Stewart smiled, chewed some eggs, swallowed, and said, “I’m here to make them all eat dirt.”

  After breakfast Sheriff Lewis was ready to walk Clint over to the Cattleman’s Club.

  “I think,” Clint said as they stepped outside, “I’ll go over to the police department first.”

  “You ever been in one of them modern police station?” Lewis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Lots of men runnin’ around in silly uniforms,” the old sheriff said. “I mean, at least if they’d wear blue like the Army, they wouldn’t look so stupid.”

  “What color do they wear?”

  “Gray,” Lewis said. “Ain’t that a hoot? Like nobody remembers the war?”

  “You think people will hold the color of their uniforms against them?”

  “Why not?” Lewis asked. “It’s been done before.”

  “Where can I meet you?” Clint asked.

  “Just come to my office when you’re ready,” Lewis said. “I’ll take you over there.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  Lewis slapped Clint on the back.

  “Thanks for breakfast, and give the chief my regards, will ya?”

  He turned and headed off toward his office.

  Clint found the brand, spanking new police department building and entered. As Lewis had said, there were men inside wearing gray uniforms, looking kind of silly.

  One of them came over to him. Young kid—twenties—looking very eager to please.

  “Can we help you?”

  “I’d like to see the chief.”

  “Can’t I help you with something?”

  “I’d really just like to see the chief,” Clint said. “Chief Pierce, right?”

  “That’s right,” the young man said. “Can I tell him who wants to talk to him?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “Tell him my name is Adams, Clint Adams.”

  “All right,” the policeman said, “Clint . . . wait, Adams?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly nervous, the man asked, “The, uh, Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll tell him,” he said. “I’ll just go and, uh . . .”

  He hurried off.

  FIFTEEN

  When Chief Paul Pierce came out to meet Clint, he saw what the sheriff had meant. Whether Pierce used to be a schoolteacher or not, he looked like one.

  “Mr. Adams?” Pierce asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” Pierce said, shaking his hand. “Will you come with me to my office?”

  “Sure.”

  Clint followed the man to a back office, where he closed the door, giving them some privacy. It was a small office with only the necessities—two chairs, a desk with a chair, and one file cabinet.

  “Can I offer you some coffee?” the chief asked, seating himself. “It’s not very good, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll skip it, then. Thanks.”

  “So what brings you to my office today?”

  “Actually, I got into town last night and just thought I’d stop in, pay my respects, and let you know I’m here.”

  “Well, I appreciate that,” the chief said. “I always like to know when somebody with your reputation comes to Helena.”

  Clint could see why Sheriff Lewis was bitter. This man looked like a teacher, and hardly looked thirty, although he was certainly older than that. The four or five uniformed men outside the office all seemed to be thirty or less.

  “Your department looks fairly, uh, young,” he observed.

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Pierce said, “although if I had a man of your caliber in town, I would offer him a job, regardless of age.”

  Clint supposed that was meant as a compliment.

  “How many men do you have?” Clint asked.

  “Well, we have twelve, although there are only five at a time on duty. We’ve been set up here for about six months, so we’re still getting the kinks out.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a good working relationship with the sheriff?”

  “Ah, Sheriff Lewis,” Pierce said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid he’s not very happy with us in general, and with me in particular.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Have you met the man?”

  “Briefly.”

  “He’s rather bitter about our department being brought into Helena,” he said. “He would rather hang on to the old way. I’m afraid we don’t have much contact with each other.”

  “That’s too bad,” Clint said. “Seems to me a man his age would have a lot of experience you and your men might benefit from.”

  “Well,” Pierce said, fiddling with a piece of paper on his desk, “I’m sure you’re right, but as I said, the man is bitter and quite unwilling to work with us.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Was there anything else?” Pierce asked. “I’m afraid I have quite a bit of work to do.”

  “No, that’s it,” Clint said. “Just wanted to check in and let you know I’m here.”

  “And not looking for trouble, right?”

  Clint stood up and said, “Furthest thing from my mind.”

  Pierce stood and said, “Glad to hear it.”

  He extended his hand and Clint shook it.

  “Banks!” the chief yelled.

  The young officer who had spoken to him when he first entered came flying through the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please show Mr. Adams out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Officer Banks stood aside. “Sir?”

  Clint preceded the young man out of the office and they walked to the door together. He felt the eyes of the other men in the room follow him out.

  Banks actually followed him out of the building and said, “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering if I could shake your hand, sir,” Banks said. “I mean . . . you’re a legend, sir.”

  “Am I?” Clint shook the young man’s hand.

  “Well, yes, sir. I’ve been hearing about you since I was a kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure wish we could have some time to talk. I’d love to hear about some of your experiences.”

  “Well, I wish I had time for that, too, Officer, but I’ll be leaving town tomorrow. But I tell you what—I’ll bet you could get a lot of interesting stories out of Sheriff Lewis.”

  “Him?”

  “He’s been a lawman for a long time,” Clint said. “I’ll bet he’d be real interesting—and helpful—to talk to.”

  “Well, I suppose . . .”

  “You should stop in on him one evening,” Clint said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to talk. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him around, sir,” Banks said. “And I do know his deputy.”

  “There you go,” Clint said. “Have the deputy introduce you.”

  “I might do that, sir,” Banks said. “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; “Good.”

  Clint stepped down from the boardwalk and crossed the street. When he turned, the young officer was going back into the building. Clint headed for the sheriff’s office.

  SIXTEEN

  The Musselshell was not a deep river. In fact, in many parts it was barely three feet deep, about a hundred yards wide. Easy to ride across, easy to drive stolen cattle back across.

  Stringer Jack followed his men across the river. They were on their way to make what he called “a collection.” Collect some cattle that didn’t belong to them—yet.

  He wasn’t ready to hit the DHS spread, even in Granville Stewart’s absence. They were, however, going to hit a neighboring spread and the word would certainly get back to the DHS.

  Paddy Rose came riding up next to him.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothin’,” Rose said. “I just thought I’d ride along with ya, Jack.”

  “Ride on ahead, Paddy,” he said. “I don’t need company.”

  “Okay, Jack,” Rose said. “Whatever you say.”

  Stringer Jack didn’t have any desire to make friends with his men. Better they feared him than got friendly with him, or even respected him. He found fear to be the biggest tool in his arsenal.

  It was a tool he was soon going to use on Granville Stewart.

  Clint entered the sheriff’s office, found the man sitting behind his desk with his feet up.

  “Well, how did it go at the police department?” Lewis asked. “Find the chief a charming man?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I found him cold, and not very smart.”

  “There ya go.”

  “I told him he should take advantage of your experience.”

  Lewis laughed out loud at that.

  “How did he take that?”

  “Didn’t take it very well,” Clint said. “Told me how unfriendly you are.”

  “He’s right, I am unfriendly,” Lewis said. “I’m an unfriendly cuss.” He dropped his feet to the floor. “You ready to go over to the Cattleman’s Club?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He stood up, grabbed his hat, and led the way toward the door.

  On the street Lewis asked, “You want me to get you through the door, or go in with ya and introduce you?”