Bitterroot Valley

by J. R. Roberts

  “Introduce me to who?”

  “There’s a few ranchers who are old-timers,” the sheriff said. “That’s how I get in. I’ll introduce you to them, and then maybe they’ll get you near that meetin’.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  “Or I could just slide you through the door and leave you on your own.”

  “I think I like the other way better,” Clint said. “I could use an introduction.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Lewis said, “but I gotta warn you, they’re old cusses like me and not real likable. In fact, I’m more likable than any of them.”

  “Then I guess I’m really in trouble.”

  Lewis grinned at him and said, “Hey, that’s what I’m tellin’ ya.”

  They reached the Cattleman’s Club, mounted the front steps. There was a man standing at the door.

  “Stop here, please,” he said, holding his hand out. He had a .45 on his hip.

  “Harry, we go through this every time I come here,” Lewis said.

  “Sorry, Sheriff, but you gotta be somebody’s guest. You know that.”

  “Talk to Considine or Old Man Fredericks,” Lewis said. “Same as always.”

  “Wait here.”

  The man went inside.

  “He does this every time,” Lewis complained.

  “He’s got to justify his job, right?”

  “Ahhh, everybody’s gotta justify their jobs,” the lawman said. “If I only had the money, I’d retire, get myself a little farm, or ranch. But not here. Not around here.”

  “Where?”

  “New Mexico somewhere,” Lewis said.

  “I know somebody who has a ranch out there,” Clint said. “His name’s John—”

  “Okay,” Harry said, cutting Clint off. “You can go in. Who’s this guy?”

  “He’s my guest,” Lewis said. “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” the lawman said. “You wanna stop him from goin’ in?”

  Harry snorted.

  “I don’t get paid enough for that,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Clint and Sheriff Lewis entered the Cattleman’s Club.

  SEVENTEEN

  As they entered, Clint could see where somebody had gone overboard trying to make the Cattleman’s Club in Helena, Montana, look like the inside of a gambling palace in Portsmouth Square, San Francisco. It didn’t work. What they ended up with was a tacky-looking club interior that nobody in town knew the truth about.

  “Tacky, ain’t it?” the sheriff asked, surprising him.

  “Somebody had a dream and tried to make it come true,” Clint said.

  “Yep,” Lewis said. “Looks like a whorehouse, don’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And a lot of these cattlemen treat it like a whorehouse, too.”

  “Girls for the members?”

  “Yeah, any kind, any size,” Lewis said.

  “So it’s just a big clubhouse.”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Introduce me to your friends, and then I guess you can go.”

  “Maybe I’ll hang around,” Lewis said. “Always makes them uncomfortable when I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know they’re all bungholes.”

  Lewis grabbed Clint’s arm, steered him toward a man with white hair and a white beard.

  “Daniel,” the man said. “How nice. And you’ve brought a friend.”

  “This is Clint Adams,” Lewis said. “This is George Fredericks, one of the biggest cattlemen in the state.”

  Clint shook the old man’s hand, was careful with it because he was frail. He had a walking stick in his left hand.

  “Mr. Adams, welcome to our club. Whataya think?”

  “Well—”

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s horrible. Looks like a whorehouse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What brings you to Helena?” Fredericks asked. “Looking for work?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Too bad, I could use a man like you. We all could.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Rustlers.”

  “You have the law to take care of them.”

  “Nat Piven’s a good man, but he can’t police the Musselshell alone.”

  “What about your new police department?”

  “They are a city police department,” Fredericks said. “They don’t take responsibility for anything that happens outside the city limits.”

  “And what about Sheriff Lewis here?”

  “Dan’s a throwback,” the old man said. “He’d take a posse out in a minute to track these rustlers down.”

  “But?”

  “But nobody will volunteer, and let’s face it, he’s too old for the saddle. Like me.”

  “I’m younger than you, you old coot,” Lewis said.

  “Still too old for the saddle, old friend,” Fredericks said. “Take your friend around, Dan. Show him the whole place.” Fredericks patted Clint on the arm. “Make everyone uncomfortable, Mr. Adams. They’re all gonna wonder who you’ve come here to work for.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Clint said. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “You, too.”

  The old man hobbled away, leaning on his stick.

  “Oldest member of the Club,” Lewis said.

  “Anyone else as old?”

  “Almost,” Lewis said. “I’ll introduce you to Edward Quarterman. Almost as old as Fredericks, but richer.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “Same. Self-made, several of the other ranchers grew up working for him, went on to have their own places. Best known of those is Granville Stewart.”

  “I came in on the stage with him.”

  “He’s a loner, even though he’s a member of the Club. He probably came to town to see Quarterman, and to gloat over the others.”

  “Gloat?”

  “They can’t stop the rustlers. Granville Stewart doesn’t think anyone can stop him.”

  “So if they all work together—”

  “But they won’t. These people can’t work together. If they’re not stabbing each other in the back, they’re shootin’ themselves in the foot.”

  “Like lots of towns.”

  “It’s my feelin’ the rustlers know this, and are gonna take advantage of it.”

  “You got any idea who’s leadin’ the rustlers?”

  “I got a few ideas.”

  “Want to share?”

  “Maybe later,” Lewis said. “Let’s make some more people uncomfortable. It’s fun.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Lewis introduced Clint to a few more cattlemen in passing, then entered the dining room.

  “That’s Quarterman,” Lewis said, “sitting in the corner with—”

  “Granville Stewart.”

  “Right. Wanna interrupt their breakfast?”

  “Why not?”

  They walked across the room. Stewart saw them, leaned forward, and said something to Quarterman. The older man turned his head as Clint and the sheriff reached him.

  “Hello, Sheriff Lewis,” Quarterman said. “And Mr. Adams. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Clint Adams,” the sheriff said, “meet Edward Quarterman. One of the biggest ranchers in the state.”

  “Third biggest,” Quarterman said, then looked at Stewart and said, “Right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That would make you first,” Clint said, looking at Stewart. “So who’s second?”

  “You met him,” Lewis said. “That would be Fredericks.”

  “Doddering old man,” Stewart said.

  Quarterman looked at Stewart.

  “He’s two years younger than I am.”

  “Still doddering,” Stewart said. “You, on the other hand, are not.”

  Clint noticed from their plates that they had finished their breakfasts some time ago.

  “So when’s the big meeting
?” he asked.

  Quarterman said, “About fifteen minutes. We’ve just been sitting here catching up.”

  “I hope you weren’t planning on attending,” Stewart said to Clint.

  “Why would I?” Clint asked. “I’m not a cattleman, am I.”

  “But maybe you’re here to work for one,” Quarterman said. “Who would that be?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “since I’m not.”

  “So you say.”

  Quarterman removed his napkin from his neck and dropped it onto his plate. He then got to his feet slowly. Clint couldn’t help thinking that a walking stick would have helped the man quite a bit.

  “I’ll see you in there, Granville.”

  “Right.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Clint and Lewis stepped aside to let the old gent go.

  “What the hell are you doing, Sheriff?” Stewart demanded.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Why did you bring Adams into the Club?”

  “Why not? He wanted to see the inside. He didn’t believe me when I told him it looked like a cheap whorehouse.”

  “But he was right.” Clint sniffed. “It even smells like a cheap whorehouse.”

  Stewart stood up.

  “Everybody knows that,” he said to them. “It’s no big secret.”

  “Then why doesn’t anybody do anything about it?” Clint asked.

  “Because we all like it this way,” Stewart said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He pushed past them, not bothering to wait until they stepped aside.

  “He’s a charmer,” Clint said.

  “Come on,” Lewis said. “I’ll show you where their little meeting is gonna happen.”

  Lewis walked Clint through the Club to a large room with many overstuffed red chairs. The wallpaper was red and gold.

  “Jesus,” Clint said. “Looks like the sitting room of a whorehouse.”

  “Exactly,” Lewis said. “Actually, I kinda like this room. I sat with lots of whores in rooms like this over the years. Didn’t you?”

  “Early in my life,” Clint said. “But after I got old enough, I stopped using them.”

  “Yeah, well,” Lewis said, “I guess you didn’t need to, huh?”

  Clint turned and looked around. The doorway to the room was open, so there was no way to close it off. All Clint had to do was sit just outside the room to hear what was going on. That was all he’d told Nat Piven he would do. Listen.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I think I’ve got what I wanted, Sheriff.”

  “Okay,” Lewis said. “I gotta go do rounds and pretend I’m still a real sheriff anyway. Good luck. You can stay in here all day if you want.”

  NINETEEN

  Clint picked his chair out, claimed it, and just waited.

  A man named Ben Considine seemed to be officiating at the meeting. Clint had not been introduced to him.

  The room began to fill up. Fredericks and Quarterman entered and sat in front. They were followed by several other men, and then Granville Stewart showed up.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” he demanded of Clint.

  “Me? I’m just sitting.”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “Really? I was told I could stay as long as I wanted to.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Granville?” someone said from the other room. “We’re ready to start.”

  Stewart seemed unsure about what to do. Finally he pointed his finger at Clint.

  “Just stay out of the way.”

  Clint spread his hands and said, “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  “See that you don’t.”

  Stewart entered the room and took a seat.

  Just before the meeting started, Clint noticed a disturbance near the front door. Harry, the doorman, was wrestling with someone who was hopelessly outmatched.

  Evie Loomis.

  How had she gotten into the Club?

  “Let me go, you bully!” she shouted.

  “Out you go, missy,” Harry said. “You don’t belong in here.”

  Clint left his seat.

  “Let her go, Harry.”

  The big man looked at Clint, then dropped Evie like she was hot.

  “B-But she don’t belong in here,” he stammered.

  “Why don’t we just say she’s my guest?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . okay, Mr. Adams,” the doorman said. “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Fine.”

  The big man went back outside.

  “Wow, thanks,” Evie said, straightening her suit. She bent over, picked up her pad and pencil.

  “If you want to take some notes, come with me,” he said.

  He took her back to where he’d been sitting, sat back down in his chosen chair. There were others, since most of the cattlemen were seated in the other room.

  “Take your pick,” he said.

  “Is that—” she started, but he cut her off.

  “Just sit down, be quiet,” he said, “and listen.”

  The meeting was a sham, a waste. There was nothing for Clint to interfere with. The cattlemen started to discuss the problem of the rustlers, and ended up arguing over who should run the meeting, who was the real head of the Club, who should be doing what.

  Finally, Granville Stewart stood up and said, “I only came here today to remind myself what a bunch of morons you all are. I’ll take my leave now.”

  “Granville!” Edward Quarterman called.

  Stewart stopped just outside the doorway. He ignored Clint and Evie.

  “What, Edward?”

  “We were counting on you to pull this all together, Gran,” Quarterman said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Considine said.

  “Shut up, Considine,” Fredericks said.

  “Gran—” Quarterman started again.

  “Edward, I think I’m gonna leave you all on your own,” Stewart said, turning back to the room. “In fact, that’s what I think we should all do, stay on our own, defend our own property. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “Granville—”

  Stewart turned and walked away.

  “That’s all he came here to do?” Clint said to Evie Loomis.

  “Not surprising,” she said. “He hates them all.”

  “Why would he even bother to come all this way just to tell them they’re a bunch of morons?”

  “He came all this way to lord it all over them,” Evie said.

  “And now he’ll go back?”

  “Probably.”

  “On the next stage?”

  “I imagine,” she said. “That’s what I’m booked on, the next stage out.” She stood up, closed her pad. “What about you? When are you going back to Judith Gap?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I think I expected something more out of this little trip.”

  “Really?” she asked. “I got what I wanted, so I guess I’ll see you back in Judith.”

  “Evie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that next stage today?”

  “Now, it’s in the morning.”

  “So you’ll be spending one more night in the hotel?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll see you at the hotel.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you might very well.”

  She turned and left. On her heels the cattlemen began to leave the meeting room after what Clint could only describe as a complete farce.

  The last two out were the two oldest, Fredericks and Quarterman.

  “Mr. Adams,” Quarterman said. “Would you accompany us to the dining room for a cup of coffee?”

  “The both of you?”

  “Yes,” Fredericks said, “the both of us. But I’m afraid we’ll all three have to walk at my speed, if that’s all right.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “of course, at your speed.”

  TWENTY

  They fin
ally got seated in the dining room and a waiter brought them all coffee.

  “I assume you heard all that,” Quarterman said. “That poor excuse for a meeting?”

  “Uh, yeah, I did hear it. I was kind of surprised. I mean, I’ve been to some other Cattlemen’s Clubs—especially in Texas—and they seem to work a lot more closely together than you fellows do.”

  “Yes,” Fredericks said. “I would bet they do.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re going to get much done about these rustlers. Unless you can manage to fight them off on your own.”

  “That’s the way we used to do it in the old days,” Fredericks said. “Remember, Edward?”

  “Yes,” Quarterman said, “on our own, or together, you and I.”

  “These others, with their more modern operations, don’t know the first thing about dealing with rustlers,” Fredericks said.

  “And they won’t listen to their elders,” Quarterman said.

  “Or their betters.”

  “That’s why we thought we’d talk to you,” Quarterman said.

  “Seein’ as how you’re here already.”

  “Talk to me . . . about what?”

  “We want to hire you,” Fredericks said.

  “We’ll pay you very well,” Quarterman said.

  “To do what?”

  “What?” Fredericks said. “Why, track these rustlers down.”

  “And kill them.”

  “We’ll pay you,” Fredericks said, “by the head.”

  “You mean,” Clint asked, “like a bounty.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we mean,” Fredericks said.

  “A bounty,” Quarterman said.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Clint said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet, “it’s been interesting.”

  “B-But . . .” Fredericks said.

  “You haven’t told us how much—” Quarterman said.

  “I’m not for hire, gents,” Clint said. “Not now, not ever. I don’t work for bounty.”

  “But . . . you’re the Gunsmith, right?” Fredericks asked.

  “A man with a reputation,” Quarterman said.

  “You need to hire yourselves another man with a reputation,” Clint said. “Find somebody else.”

  “Well . . . how are we supposed to do that?” Fredericks demanded, pounding his walking stick on the floor.