Bitterroot Valley

by J. R. Roberts

  “At five,” she said.

  “See you then.”

  He went back past the press and got a dirty look from Lonny Beckham.

  Stringer Jack took a long drink from a bottle of whiskey he kept in his tent, and then stepped outside. He called Frank Hanson over.

  “Get the men over here.”

  “Where we goin’, boss?”

  “I think it’s time to pay a visit to the DHS spread.”

  “We finally gonna hit Stewart’s place, huh?” Hanson asked. “When?”

  “Just get the men over here and I’ll tell everybody at the same time.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Jack was going to take his gang over to Granville Stewart’s spread and pick out a few hundred head of prime stock. Maybe that would bring the Gunsmith out of Judith Gap and into the basin looking for trouble.

  The men started to gather round him and he got himself a cup of coffee and then gave them the news.

  “Boys, tomorrow we hit the big time,” he said. “We’re gonna hit the biggest spread in the Basin, and then we’re gonna get a shot at the biggest gun in the West.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  When Clint got to the livery, he found both the sheriff and Jim Doubt saddling their horses.

  “We would’ve saddled your horse for you, but that big beast won’t let anybody near him.”

  “He’s got a taste for fingers,” Clint said. “Strangers’ fingers.”

  “Good-lookin’ animal, though,” Doubt said.

  “Thanks.”

  They all got their mounts saddled and walked them outside.

  “We’ll take our time,” Sheriff Piven said. “There’s no point in pushing the horses. The river’ll be there when we get there.”

  They mounted up and rode out.

  Stringer Jack watched his boys mount up. He had about twelve men. He’d had more, but Clint Adams had killed some of them when he was on the stage.

  He studied his men. California Ed, Dutch Louie, Red Mike, Brocky Gallagher, Silas Nickerson, Bill Williams, Paddy Rose, Swift Bill, Dixie Burr, Orville Edwards, and Frank Hanson.

  They were all good boys, as long as they had somebody leading them. There wasn’t any of them who’d be able to run a gang of their own. That was okay with Jack. Although he would have liked a few of them to use their heads sometimes, he didn’t have to worry about any of them trying to take over the gang. He trusted them. That was important when you led your own gang.

  Frank Hanson came over.

  “The men are all mounted, Jack,” he said.

  “Okay, Frank. Get me my horse, will you?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Hanson walked Stringer Jack’s roan over to him, and Jack mounted.

  “Okay, men,” Jack said, “today’s the day we make our mark, and I want you to remember one thing. Nobody shoot until I do, but when we do start shooting, shoot to kill.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “A hundred yards wide,” Sheriff Nat Piven said, “but only about three feet deep. We could pretty much ride across at any point. Also, it’s pretty much used by all the spreads to water their stock.”

  “Which means rustlers know exactly where to find that stock,” Clint said.

  “We guard ours pretty good,” Jim Doubt said. “Most of our men can use a gun pretty good.”

  “How many men on guard at a time?” Clint asked.

  “Three, maybe four,” Doubt said. “Each. We got cattle, and horses.”

  “So your forces are split, then.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way,” Doubt said with a frown.

  “Up ahead is the Bar-Q spread,” Piven said. “Let’s make a stop there.”

  “Quentin Jones’s spread,” Doubt said. “They got hit two days ago.”

  “You said you talked to all the spreads that got hit,” Clint said.

  “Maybe you’ll think of somethin’ to ask that I didn’t.”

  “Maybe,” Clint said.

  “No harm in stoppin’ to see them again,” Piven said.

  “Okay.”

  They came upon a couple of riders who looked to be rounding up strays.

  “That’s Jeffers, the foreman of the Bar-Q,” Doubt said.

  “You talk to him, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “I talked to Quint Jones, his boss,” Piven said. “Not him.”

  “He’s a good ol’ boy,” Doubt said, “but let’s make sure he sees your badge so he don’t shoot at us before we reach him.”

  “That’s one of the nice things about the sun reflectin’ off this tin,” Piven said.

  They started to ride over to where the Bar-Q boys were sitting. Sure enough, the sun reflected off the tin on Piven’s chest, announcing their arrival.

  “Hey, Jeff!” Doubt called out.

  “That you, Jim? With the law?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jeffers and his man still looked ready to draw as they got closer.

  “Who’s that with ya?” Jeffers asked.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Doubt said. “You might know him. Clint Adams?”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Keep comin’.” Jeffers waved, relaxing a bit.

  Clint, Piven, and Doubt rode right up on the two men, and the two foremen reached over and shook hands.

  “Sheriff,” Jeffers said with a nod.

  “Jeffers.”

  “What’s the Gunsmith goin’ hereabouts?” he asked, looking at Clint.

  “I happen to be friends with both these gents,” Clint said. “The sheriff asked me to come to Judith Gap to help him out, and I ran into Jim last night.”

  Jeffers finally extended his hand and Clint shook it.

  “This is my man, Ben Maple.”

  They all nodded at each other.

  Jeffers was about the same age as Doubt, early forties, but while Doubt was clean shaven, Jeffers sported a bushy mustache. The Bar-Q hand, Maple, was in his thirties, with some heavy stubble on his face.

  “What brings you boys out here?”

  “Wanted to take a look around,” Piven said. “Maybe talk to some of your boys, some of the hands from the other spreads who got hit. See if anybody saw anything.”

  “We didn’t see a thing,” Jeffers said. “Maple and I weren’t with the herd when they hit. They ambushed my boys, managed to get the herd from ’em without killin’ anybody, which I guess is some kinda good news.”

  “Dependin’ on how ya look at it,” Maple said.

  “How do you mean?” Clint asked.

  “He’s talkin’ about my boss thinkin’ his men shoulda died to save his herd,” Jeffers said.

  “You don’t feel that way?” Piven asked.

  “This is a job,” Jeffers said. “I ain’t gonna die for a job.”

  “I see your point,” Doubt agreed.

  “What brings you out here?” Piven asked.

  “Looks like the rustlers ain’t so good at being cowpokes,” Maple said. “Some of the herd got away from them, and we been pickin’ ’em up.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They moved along, met riders from the other spreads who had been rustled. They got the same story everywhere. Nobody had seen anything. The rustlers had struck swiftly, and effectively. They had a good leader.

  They stopped midafternoon to rest the horses, share some water and beef jerky.

  “Whoever this guy is,” Clint said, “the leader, apparently he’s smart.”

  “How many smart rustlers are there?” Doubt asked. “In my experience they’re usually not that smart, and do somethin’ stupid to get caught.”

  “Well then,” Piven said, “they may be about to do that, now that they know Clint’s here. This smart man might want to challenge the Gunsmith.”

  “My luck,” Clint said. “If he wants to challenge me, why doesn’t he just call me out in the street? At least I know where I stand with that.”

  “You tracked rustlers before,” Piven said.<
br />
  “You’ve tracked men before, period,” Doubt said. “That’s how we met.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Clint said. “But I need a trail before I can track.”

  “We need them to hit again,” Piven said, “so we’ll have a fresh trail.”

  “I guess we better be careful what we wish for,” Clint said.

  Stringer Jack looked down at the DHS spread in front of him. Fine-looking cattle, hundreds of head in this particular herd. He knew that Granville Stewart had thousands of head, but didn’t keep them altogether in one place. That was a smart thing to do. However, it did split up his men. There were three men watching these particular cattle.

  “Frank, take half the men, circle around to the other side.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t make a move until I do.”

  “Right, boss.”

  He turned, picked out California Ed.

  “Stay here with the rest of the men.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m gonna ride down,” he said, “and see if I can talk some sense into them. If I signal, you ride down and you come shootin’. Understand?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  Stringer Jack nodded, turned his roan, and started down the hill.

  Dave Donovan saw the rider coming down the hill toward them. He called out to the other men.

  “Hey!” He pointed at the approaching rider. Both men, Harry Sands and Eli Watts, nodded that they also saw him, but they remained where they were positioned.

  The rider rode toward the herd and headed straight for Donovan.

  “That’s far enough,” Donovan said, holding his rifle ready.

  “Whataya mean?” Stringer Jack asked.

  “What’s your business here?” Donovan asked.

  Jack looked around.

  “Only three of you here, huh?”

  “It’s enough.”

  “You sure? I heard you been having trouble with rustlers around here.”

  “Not us,” Donovan said. “Not the DHS. Nobody’d dare hit Mr. Stewart’s herd. Nobody in their right mind anyway.”

  “Granville Stewart’s herd, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, believe it or not,” Stringer Jack said, leaning on his saddle horn, “I’m here to help you and your two friends.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Help us what?”

  “Well,” Jack said. “Help you stay alive.”

  “What now?” Doubt asked as they mounted up again.

  “I’d like to see your stock, Jim.”

  “We got ’em split up, so nobody could ever hit the whole herd,” Doubt said, “but I’d need my boss’s okay to show you.”

  “Why don’t we go on to your place, then?” Piven said. “Check in with your men, maybe even talk to your boss, like I planned to before. And get his okay.”

  “Suits me,” Doubt said.

  “Me, too,” Clint said. “I’d like to see how Stewart is taking the news of his neighbors being hit.”

  Doubt looked over at Clint.

  “You ain’t gonna see nothin’,” Doubt told him. “He keeps everythin’ inside.”

  “I guess I’ll see for myself.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Clint, Piven, and Doubt rode up to the DHS spread. Clint was impressed by the sheer size of the house, not to mention the barn and corral.

  Several men came walking over to them. Clint wondered why they weren’t out with the herds. What was there here at the house to guard?

  “Hey, boss,” one of them said to Doubt. “What gives?”

  “I was in town when the sheriff said he was gonna ride out to see Mr. Stewart. I decided to come along.”

  “Who’s this other fella?” someone else asked.

  “Friend of mine,” Doubt said. “Boys, meet Clint Adams.”

  Clint could see that they all recognized the name, but none of them said anything.

  “Where’s the boss?” Doubt asked.

  “He’s inside.”

  Doubt looked at Piven and Clint.

  “I’ll go and get him.”

  He handed his reins to Clint and dismounted. They watched him go up the steps and into the house. Clint had seen many large ranches like this—well, not quite like this. Unfortunately, the people who lived in homes like this usually developed an attitude of . . . superiority. And he’d already seen that in Granville Stewart.

  The door to the house opened and Doubt came out, followed by Granville Stewart. Piven and Clint remained mounted, so the two men came down the steps to them.

  “What brings you gents out to my place?” he asked.

  “Mr. Stewart, we figure it won’t be long before the rustlers hit you. After all, they’ve hit everybody around you.”

  “So what? That just means they know better than to come after my stock.”

  “We don’t think that’s true,” Clint said, “and neither do you.”

  Stewart gave Jim Doubt a long look. The foreman looked away.

  “Mr. Stewart, we want your permission for Jim to take us around to check on your herd.”

  Stewart frowned, but said, “Guess I can’t exactly complain that the law’s looking to help me, can I, Sheriff?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, sir.”

  “Okay, then,” Stewart said. “Jim, take them around. Show them our stock.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Doubt mounted his horse.

  “Then bring them back here,” Stewart continued. “Bring them inside for a glass of brandy.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stewart.”

  “No, Sheriff, thank you.”

  The three men wheeled their horses about and rode back the way they had come.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Donovan said to Stringer Jack.

  “Well, the three of you work for Granville Stewart,” Jack said.

  “So?”

  “These are his cows.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are the three of you ready to die protectin’ these cows?”

  “What?” Donovan held his rifle tightly.

  “I’ve got men all around you, friend,” Stringer Jack said.

  Donovan looked around, didn’t see anyone.

  “You can’t see ’em, but all I have to do is raise my hands, and they’ll be here.”

  Donovan licked his lips.

  “Whatayou want?”

  “I want you and your friends to just ride away,” Jack said. “Just go, and nobody gets hurt.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why? These cattle don’t belong to you. Why die for them?”

  Donovan nervously licked his lips again, and swallowed.

  “Why don’t you call your partners over and let them in on the decision,” Jack said. “I don’t think they want you to decide life or death for them, do you?”

  Donovan looked at Jack for a few moments, wondering who this fella was, and then waved at his compadres to ride over.

  “You lay it out for them, friend,” Stringer Jack said, “and then you can all make your decision.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  They heard the shots.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Doubt said.

  Piven stood in his stirrups and listened.

  It was a quick volley of shots, and then it stopped.

  “That way,” Clint said, pointing. “Come on.”

  He rode off with Piven and Doubt behind him.

  Clint, riding Eclipse, came upon the scene well before the other two. He saw three men lying on the ground, no horses anywhere. The ground was churned up and there had obviously been a herd of cattle there very recently. This was clearly the spot Doubt had been taking them to.

  They had already ridden to other places where herd were being guarded by three and four men. This was to be the third place they checked, but obviously they were too late.

  When Piven and Doubt arrived, Clint had
dismounted and was checking the bodies.

  “What the hell—” Doubt said, gaping at the men on the ground.

  He and Piven dismounted.

  “They’re dead, Jim,” Clint told him.

  “Jesus.”

  Doubt went to each body in turn. Clint walked over to stand next to Piven.

  “Looks like they crossed the line this time,” he said. “Killed three men.”

  “Took the herd, and their horses,” Piven said. “Looks like we got what we asked for, Clint. A fresh trail to follow.”

  Doubt walked away from the bodies and joined Clint and Piven.

  “We better get started,” Piven said. “They’re driving a herd of . . . how many?”

  “A couple of hundred,” Doubt said tonelessly.

  “A couple of hundred head should slow them down enough for us to catch up to them.”

  “I’m goin’ back,” Doubt said.

  “What?” Piven asked.

  “Back to the ranch,” he said. “I’m gonna get the boss and my men and come back here. Then we’ll catch up to you.”

  “But if we go now—” Piven said.

  “These are my men,” Doubt said. “They have to be buried. You and Clint go ahead, start trackin’. If the leader of these rustlers is as smart as you think he is, he won’t even be with the herd when you catch up.”

  Doubt walked to his horse and mounted.

  “We’ll catch up,” he said, “and we’ll make them pay.”

  He turned his horse and galloped off.

  Clint walked around the scene while Piven mounted his horse and held Eclipse’s reins.

  “Can you tell how many?”

  Clint walked back, took Eclipse’s reins, and mounted up.

  “The ground’s pretty beat up, but I’d think there were a dozen or more.”

  “If we had time, I’d wait for Doubt and the ranch hands,” Piven said. “I don’t like doin’ this with only two of us.”

  “We can track them, Nat, and wait for the hands to catch up before we take them.”

  “Yeah, we can do that,” Piven said. “All right, Clint. Lead off, then.”