Bitterroot Valley

by J. R. Roberts

  “You must’ve come here to work for somebody,” Quarterman said. “Otherwise, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “That,” Clint said, “is my business. Good day, gents.”

  When he got outside, he found Sheriff Lewis standing there, whittling. The doorman, Harry, was trying to kick the shavings off the boardwalk and into the street.

  “What are you doing here?” Clint asked.

  “Finished my rounds and thought I’d come over and see how the meetin’ went.”

  “How do you think it went?”

  “Well, I saw Stewart leave pretty quick, so my guess is it was a mess.”

  “A helluva mess,” Clint said.

  “Surprise you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “These fellas just can’t work together,” Lewis said, “except for the two old ones.”

  “They tried to hire me,” Clint said. “They wanted to put a bounty on the heads of the rustlers.”

  “You could’ve made yourself a bundle that way,” Lewis said.

  “I suppose,” Clint said, “but that’s not the way I make money.”

  “So what now?” Lewis asked. “Back to Judith Gap?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Next stage in the mornin’, I hear,” the sheriff said. “That should be an interestin’ ride back to Judith Gap, you and Granville Stewart in the stage together.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, he didn’t talk much on the way here,” Clint said. “I don’t think he’s going to talk that much on the way back. Besides, we’ll have Evie Loomis on the stage, as well.”

  “The newspaper gal? She’s a cute one.”

  “Yeah, and she’s got lots of questions.”

  “Maybe she’ll get him talking.”

  “I doubt it,” Clint said. “She hates him.”

  “Well,” Lewis said, “all I can say is, I’m sorry I’m not gonna be on that stage.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Clint agreed to meet the sheriff at the King Ransom’s Saloon sometime after supper, and the two went their separate ways. Clint was finding the old lawman a lot more likable than he let on. Maybe it was the sheriff’s cantankerous attitude that he liked. Or maybe he just sympathized with him.

  He should have asked the lawman where he could get a good steak.

  When Granville Stewart left the meeting, he went back to his room. He didn’t want to run into any of the cattlemen, especially his old friend, Edward Quarterman, or the decrepit George Fredericks. He knew, in the old days, those two would have gotten on horses and tracked down the rustlers themselves. Well, that was what he intended to do, and it wasn’t to help anyone but himself.

  So far, the rustlers had not hit his DHS Ranch, but he expected that to change soon enough.

  He felt like having a whore. He tugged on the pull cord that would bring a bellman running.

  “Well,” Edward Quarterman said to George Fredericks, “that didn’t go well.”

  “What’s the man getting on his high horse about?” Fredericks asked. “He’s a damn gun for hire, isn’t he?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Fredericks banged his stick on the floor.

  “If it wasn’t for this damned leg, I’d get on a horse myself.”

  “And I’d be right with you, but let’s face it, George. Those days are gone for us.”

  “And what about your protégé?” Fredericks asked.

  “Granville has a mind of his own,” Quarterman said. “But if he does decide to go after these rustlers himself, for his own reasons, then we benefit, don’t we?”

  “I suppose we do.”

  “And Adams is here for some reason,” Quarterman went on. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “So you think he’s going after the rustlers after all?” Fredericks asked.

  “One way or another,” Quarterman said, “for one reason or another, yes.”

  “Well, then,” Fredericks said, “let’s have another drink.”

  Quarterman would have preferred to have a whore, but alas, those days were gone, as well.

  Sheriff Dan Lewis went back to his office, sat at his desk with a drink in his hand and his feet up on his desk. He had the feeling that Clint Adams was going to make fools out of everyone when it came to catching these rustlers. He just wished it would extend to Chief Paul Pierce and his damned police department. The man was more politician than lawman, the way he was keeping himself out of this rustler business.

  He just wished he could be a fly on the wall in Judith Gap.

  Evie Loomis felt she had made progress with Clint Adams at the Cattleman’s Club. Perhaps even made up for insulting him earlier in the day.

  But maybe there was another method she could use to worm her way into his confidence.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When the knock came at Clint’s door, he drew his gun from his holster, wondering how many times he’d done this. Countless hotels, countless knocks at the door, and what? Half the time opening the door was good news, and half it was bad.

  What would it be this time?

  When he opened the door, Evie Loomis smiled, held up a bottle and two glasses.

  “I hate to drink alone,” she said. Then she noticed the gun. “Well, I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. You must always answer the door that way.”

  “Are you still trying to interview me?” he asked, holding the gun behind his back.

  “That wasn’t a question,” she said. “It was just a comment.” She wiggled the bottle. “But this is a question. How about it?”

  “Sure,” he said, “why not. Come on in.”

  He went back to the bedpost and holstered his gun. When he turned, she had already poured whiskey into the two glasses.

  “What are we drinking to?” he asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” she said, handing him a glass. “I felt like a drink, and like I said, I don’t like to drink alone. It makes me sad.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged.

  “Aren’t people usually sad when they’re drinking alone?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I spend a lot of time drinking alone and I’m not sad.”

  “Well, I guess that makes you an exception to the rule, Mr. Adams.” She raised her glass in a salute, and then poured some more. That was when he realized she had already done some drinking alone.

  “You know,” she said, “when I first came west, I thought I’d be working for a newspaper in Dodge City and Tombstone. Instead, I’m in Judith Gap. That’s enough to make me drink alone, don’t ya think?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Even if you were in Dodge City or Tombstone, they’re not the towns they once were. There’s probably more going on in Judith Gap right now, with the rustlers and all.”

  “You know,” she said, scrunching her face up, “you’re right, Clint Adams. Right as rain.” She drained her drink, poured herself another. He finished his first and held his glass out. If he helped her get to the bottom of the bottle, maybe that would stop her from drinking too much.

  “There ya go,” she said, topping off his drink. Then she shook the bottle. “It’s almost empty. I musta drank more than I thought before I decided to share. I could go get another bottle—”

  “No,” he said, “that won’t be necessary. We don’t need another bottle.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “maybe you’re right.”

  She drank down what was left in her glass, then upended the bottle and finished that. There was a little dripping down her chin, but she left it there. He drank the last of his and set the glass aside.

  “You know what I always wondered?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I always wondered if, after I’ve been drinking, my tongue tastes like whiskey. Now, I can’t really tell because it’s already in my mouth.”

  “Evie—”

/>   “But maybe you can help me,” she said, coming closer to him. She was still dressed in the suit she’d been wearing all day, but the jacket was unbuttoned and, somehow, some of the shirt buttons beneath were also undone. He saw the soft, pale swell of her breasts.

  “Evie, you’re drunk—”

  “And you think you can take advantage of me?” she asked. “Well, Mr. Clint Adams, let me tell you something.” She pounded him on the chest with her little fist, to make her point. “I came here to take advantage of you. Whataya think of that?”

  “Well, I think it’s very progressive of you.”

  “Progressive,” she said. “Ha! Just help me out here. What does my tongue taste like?”

  Before he could say or do anything else, she put her hand behind his neck and pulled him down to her. When their lips met, she opened her mouth and pushed her tongue into his mouth. She gave him a good, long taste before drawing back.

  “So?” she asked. “What’s the verdict, Mr. Gunsmith?”

  “I’m not sure, Miss Loomis,” he said, putting his arms around her. “I think I need another long taste.”

  She was about to say something else but he cut her off by pulling her to him and kissing her again.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint decided that Evie might have been drunk, but she wasn’t too drunk to know what she was doing. When he stripped off her clothes and got her naked, it was because she wanted to be naked.

  He got on his knees in front of her, kissed her belly and her navel while massaging the cheeks of her ass. She moaned, put her hands on the top of his head, and pushed him farther down. She spread her legs so he could work on her with his tongue, and she started to grunt as his tongue moved up and down over her. She became very wet, and the room grew pungent with the smell of her.

  “Oooh, God,” she said, and suddenly backed up to the bed and fell onto it, on her back. He went with her, slid his hands beneath her butt, and continued to lick and suck her until she started to drum on his back with her heels. Her arms and legs flailed about uncontrollably as she bucked and writhed on the bed.

  He gave her a moment to collect herself as he stood up and took off his own clothes. She was still breathing hard when he got on the bed with her, naked . . .

  In his room in the Cattleman’s Club, Granville Stewart had gotten himself a different whore, one that suited him more than the skinny brunette. This one was blond, had more meat on her, and had a face that, while not beautiful, was at least pretty.

  Her name was Lola, and she told him she was there to do whatever he wanted.

  “Damn right you are, bitch,” he said, “because I’m paying you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, “you are.”

  “So get your clothes off.”

  She disrobed. Her body was opulent, with big breasts and wide hips.

  “Turn around.”

  She turned around to show him her chunky butt. She was also older than the other girl, probably in her thirties, which didn’t bother him because she was still about twenty years younger than him.

  “Do you like me?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

  “You’ll do,” he said. “Now get my clothes off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She did as he asked, removed his clothes until he was naked. His penis was flaccid, which annoyed him.

  “Get me hard, bitch!” he said, blaming her.

  She took him in her hand, began stroking him, then had to work on him with her mouth before he actually started to get harder.

  “That’s it, bitch,” he said, “now suck it good . . .”

  Clint thought Evie had lovely skin. She was about thirty, not young by Western standards, but certainly still a young woman by what was becoming more modern standards. Gone were the days in the West when an unmarried girl of twenty was an old maid.

  Evie’s body was smooth and taut, her breasts firm and round, with lovely pink nipples that were extremely sensitive. Every time he touched them with his tongue, her body jerked, as if struck by lightning.

  She lay on her back and allowed him to explore her body with his hands and mouth, and when she could bear it no longer, she fought him onto his back and started to return the favor.

  She crawled all over him, rubbing her smooth skin and her hard nipples against him. When she got down to his hard cock, she rubbed it on her cheeks, pressed her lips to it, licked it, and finally took it into her mouth. As she sucked him, Clint reached down to touch her head tenderly, running his hands over her bare shoulders. She scratched his thighs, digging her nails in while she continued to suck him.

  “Jesus,” he said as he felt himself getting near an explosion he wasn’t ready for yet. “Come on up here, girl, and sit on it!”

  “My pleasure!” she said. She slid up on him, grabbing him with her hand, then held him still and sat down on him, taking him all the way inside.

  “Oooh, yes,” she said, and began to ride up and down on him . . .

  Granville Stewart smacked Lola’s bare butt again, adding to the redness that was already there.

  “Ow!” she shouted.

  “Shut up!”

  He stuck his dick in her from behind, spreading her ass cheeks so he could get in. A whore in San Francisco had let him do this to her once and he’d loved it. Now whenever he bought a whore, he got her to do this. Even if he had to pay extra.

  “Ow!” she said. “That h-hurts.”

  “Just relax,” he said. “If you fight it, it’ll hurt more. Just think about the extra money.”

  He started to move in and out of her, and while the pain didn’t lessen, she tried to make him think that it did, hoping she’d get paid even more for that.

  “There you go,” he said, “that’s good, ain’t it?”

  “Oh yeah, baby,” she said, gritting her teeth, “that’s real good.”

  She closed her eyes and a tear dripped from each one. . .

  Evie leaned over, dangling her hard breasts in Clint’s face. He reached out with his tongue for those marvelous nipples, then took them between his teeth and nibbled them. All that time Evie continued to ride him up and down, sliding easily on his slick cock. Clint could feel the sheet beneath him becoming soaked from her, but that only made him feel more excited by her.

  He felt her begin to tremble atop him, and then suddenly she was jumping up and down on him rather than riding, and he did his best to stay with her . . .

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Granville Stewart woke up alone the next morning. After he’d finished with the whore, he’d sent her packing with her extra money. He smiled as he saw how gingerly she moved while dressing, and walking out the door. She’d remember him, all right.

  He had to catch the stage in two hours, and wanted to get breakfast first. He wondered if Clint Adams and the newspaper girl, Loomis, would also be going back on the same stage. He also wondered if anyone at the Club had tried to hire Clint Adams to track rustlers.

  Maybe, if Adams was on the stage, he’d talk to him this time.

  Clint woke with Evie pressed tightly against him. He rolled away as gently as he could, so as not to wake her, then took the time to look at her while she slept. They had no top sheet on them because they had kicked it across the room.

  She was lying on her side with her knees drawn up, moved slightly without waking. She may have been annoying, but she was very good in bed, so he could forgive her for a lot.

  He leaned over and nibbled on one breast and then the other.

  “Oooh,” she said, grabbing his head and pushing his face into her breasts. “What a nice way to wake up.”

  She reached between them, trying to grab his penis, but he slipped away and got off the bed.

  “Are you trying to play hard to get?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m hungry and I want breakfast before we get on the stage.”

  “Oh, we’re going back together?”

  He assumed that a ticket would be waiting for him whenever he wanted it. If no
t today, then the next stage. But he didn’t see any reason not to return on today’s stage.

  “Looks like it.”

  She got on her knees, which succeeded in making her look very cute.

  “Do you think Stewart will be on that stage?” she asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. “I think he’s done here.”

  “I think we’re all done here,” she said.

  “You better get back to your room and pack to leave,” he said.

  “I did that before I came here,” she said with a grin.

  Clint studied her, wondered if she had really been drunk when she came to his room, or if she’d been faking.

  “Well, okay, then get back there and get dressed. We can check out, and then go get some breakfast. You’ve made this trip before, I’m sure.”

  “I have.”

  “Then you know where to get some breakfast.”

  “I do,” she said, leaping off the bed. “But are you sure you’d rather have food, when you could have this?” She spread her arms and posed.

  He studied her beautiful, smooth skin, round breasts, pink nipples, and said, “It’s a very close call, but yes, I want to eat.”

  She pouted at him and said, “You’re a very mean man.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, putting on the clothes that had been strewn across the floor. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  She kissed him quickly, and left.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The café where they ate breakfast was, as in Judith Gap, right across the street from the stage stop. It was not, however, as good as the place in Judith. But Evie warned Clint about that, so he ordered a simple bacon-and-egg plate. The coffee was weak, the eggs a bit runny, but the bacon was good.

  Across the room from them sat Granville Stewart, working his way through a stack of flapjacks. They looked pretty good. Clint wondered if maybe he should have had that instead.