The South Fork Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint nodded, sat as the driver held the chair for him.

  “That’ll be all, Jason,” Frick said to the driver. “You can wait outside.”

  “Yes, sir. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.”

  The driver withdrew, and a waiter approached.

  “May I?” Frick asked Clint.

  “Please.”

  “Two T-bone dinners, Carson,” Frick said, “with everything. Onion?” he asked Clint.

  “Smothered in them.”

  “Onions, as well,” Frick said.

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Shall I open the champagne, sir?”

  “We’ll take care of that ourselves,” Frick told him.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Frick’s suit was impeccably tailored, probably cost more than a good horse. His shirt had been boiled to a blinding white.

  “I understand you’ve just arrived in Pittsburgh,” Frick said.

  “Only just,” Clint said.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for accosting you so soon upon your arrival, but when I received word that you were here—”

  “From someone at the hotel?” Clint asked.

  “Yes,” Frick said. “I like to know when people of note come to town.”

  “I see.”

  “And the Gunsmith,” Frick went on, “well, who could be of more note than you?”

  “Lots of people,” Clint said.

  “You’re modest,” Frick said. “Your reputation—your legend—has spread across the entire country.”

  “Mr. Frick,” Clint said, “I don’t mind letting you buy me an excellent steak dinner, but please stop talking about my reputation.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Frick said. “I actually have a special reason for inviting you to dine with me, but why don’t we leave that for after dinner.”

  “That suits me,” Clint said.

  The waiter brought their meals, and true to his word, Frick remained silent while they ate.

  FOUR

  “Well?” Frick asked later. “What’s the verdict?”

  Clint sat back in his chair and said, “That was one of the best steaks I ever had. No, not just the steak, but the whole dinner.”

  “And would you like dessert?”

  “Do they have peach pie?”

  “They have every pie imaginable,” Frick assured him.

  They asked the waiter for a slice of peach pie and a slice of apple, with coffee.

  “Well,” Clint said after one taste, “this pie and the coffee both live up to the rest of the meal.”

  “Good,” Frick said, “I’m glad to hear that. And there are even better restaurants in Pittsburgh than this one.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Clint said.

  “I’ll show you,” Frick said, “that is, if you stay in town long enough. What brought you here in the first place?”

  “I just thought I’d come east for a while,” Clint said. “It’s been many years since I’ve been in Pittsburgh.”

  “Well,” Frick said, “many things have changed. In fact, that’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “you did mention you had something you wanted to say to me. Since you’ve given me one of the best meals of my life, I suppose I can give a listen.”

  “Wonderful,” Frick said. He finished his last bite of pie and sat back. “Do you know who I am? I mean, have you ever heard of me?”

  “Mr. Frick,” Clint said, “I know about the work that you and Mr. Carnegie have been doing. With steel, I mean.”

  “That’s good,” Frick said. “Well, several years ago some colleagues and I—and by that I mean about fifty of us—started a club near here, near South Fork, above the dam.”

  “A club?”

  “It’s called the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. It’s very exclusive.”

  “Meaning it’s only for the rich.”

  “Anyone can join,” Frick said. “Anyone who can afford the club dues, that is, and who is approved.”

  “Meaning the rich.”

  “Do you have some resentment toward the wealthy, Mr. Adams?” Frick asked.

  Clint took a moment before answering.

  “Keeping in mind that it’s my money that is buying you the dinner you just ate,” Frick said lightly.

  “I have resentment,” Clint said, “toward rich people who misuse their money.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they try to . . . gain power over a town . . . a state . . . and country even.”

  “You mean like someone who uses his money to try and take control of . . . the government?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “That sounds like we’d be talking about all politicians.”

  “Do you have something against politicians?”

  “I have the same problem,” Clint said. “The misuse of their power.”

  “And do you think that running an exclusive fishing and hunting club is a . . . misuse of power and wealth?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Perhaps, then,” Frick said, “you should take a closer look.”

  “How so?”

  “I would like to invite you to visit the club as my guest,” Frick said.

  “Why?” Clint asked. “I don’t have the money to join, even if I like it.”

  “There are instances when a person is asked to join, and the club dues are waived. It is a . . . special membership.”

  “And I would have to qualify for this?”

  “Yes—but I am not asking you to apply. I am only asking you to come as a guest. Just to . . . see what we have, and what we do . . . and who we are.”

  Clint waited a moment, then asked Frick, “How’s the food up there?”

  * * *

  The driver, Jason, took Clint back to his hotel.

  “Thank you,” Clint said as the man opened the door of the carriage.

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “Tell me, Jason . . . can I call you Jason?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Have you been to the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club?”

  “I have had that honor, sir.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Jason said. “I simply drive Mr. Frick to and from.”

  “Have you eaten there?”

  “I have been fed in the kitchen, with the staff.”

  “Do you think I should accept the invitation to visit?” he asked.

  “I believe you should be honored, sir.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “Thank you, Jason.”

  The man bowed, climbed aboard the carriage, and drove off.

  FIVE

  After Jason left Clint at his hotel, he drove right back to the steak house to pick up Henry Frick.

  “Where to, sir?” he asked, once he had installed his boss in the back of the carriage. He was looking down at him through the hatch in the ceiling of the carriage.

  “The club, Jason,” Frick said. “I have things to discuss with the members.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be late when we get there.”

  “They’ll wait,” Frick said, “and I will be spending the night there.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  He closed the hatch and drove off.

  * * *

  Clint entered his room and hung his gun belt on the bedpost. He’d eaten a passable steak dinner and an excellent steak dinner, and he was quite full. He had a small bottle of whiskey in his bag, for medicinal purposes only, and took a sip, using the cap as a shot glass. He replaced the cap and stowed the bottle away.

  He was sitting on the bed, boots off, thinking over his dinner conversation with Henry Frick, when there was a knock at his door. He snatched the gun fro
m his holster on the bedpost and walked to the door. He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he had answered a knock at his door this way, gun in hand.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Did you order a whore?” a woman’s voice asked.

  He opened the door, saw the slatternly-looking girl in the hall, and asked, “What did you say?”

  She was wearing a blue dress that was almost falling off her, revealing her shoulders and most of her creamy breasts. Her face may have been pretty beneath the heavy powder and rouge. There was a phony beauty mark high on her right cheek that drew his eye. She had a lot of tousled auburn hair.

  “You asked for a whore to come to your room,” she said. “I’m here.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t leave me standing out here in the hall, Adams,” she hissed, keeping her voice low. “Jeremy sent me.”

  “Oh,” he said, surprised, “oh, okay . . .” He backed away to let her enter, then peered out into the hall before closing the door.

  He turned to face her and she said, in a totally different voice, “Can you point that somewhere else?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  She walked over to the window and peered out.

  “Were you followed?” he asked, holstering the gun.

  “Dressed like this? I never know.” Turning away from the window, she tugged at the dress, which barely hid her considerable assets.

  “So what’s happened so far?” she asked. “Have you met Frick?”

  “I have,” he said. “He bought me an excellent dinner tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “The Four Leaf Clover.”

  “Ohhh,” she said, scrunching up her face, “I’ve always wanted to eat there.” Even beneath the face paint, she suddenly looked younger.

  “Maybe,” he said, “after.”

  “Yeah,” she said, folding her arms across her breasts, “maybe. What else?”

  “He invited me to the club.”

  Her face brightened.

  “Ah, that’s what Jeremy Pike said we wanted to happen.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Pike was an agent of the U.S. Secret Service, a man Clint had met through his friend Jim West, a legendary agent. He’d recently worked with Pike on a counterfeiting case, and hadn’t expected to hear from the man again so soon, but a telegram had summoned him to Pittsburgh.

  “Where is Jeremy?” Clint asked.

  “Damned if I know,” she said. “I got instructions to meet you here and talk.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “tell me something useful.”

  “You got a drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took the bottle of whiskey from his bag, poured some into the cap, and handed it to her.

  “Sorry,” he said, “no glass.”

  “This is fine,” she told him, accepting it. She drank it down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and handed the cap back.

  “Another?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He capped the bottle and put it away.

  “None for you?”

  “I prefer beer.”

  “Then why carry the whiskey?”

  “Medicinal purposes.”

  He closed the bag and set it aside.

  “Have a seat,” he invited, “and we’ll talk.”

  SIX

  She sat on the bed.

  “What shall we talk about?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Sit,” she said. “There’s room for both of us.”

  But instead of sitting on the bed, he pulled over a chair and sat across from her. She kept her arms folded, but instead of hiding her breasts, the gesture pushed them up. He pulled his eyes away and looked at her face.

  “I have to admit, Adams, Pike really hasn’t told me much.”

  “Aren’t you working with him?”

  “We work for the same people,” she said. “I’m here because I was working on something else, which I eventually resolved. But before I could head back to Washington, I got a message telling me to remain in character, and make contact with you.”

  “Character?”

  “Lizzie, the whore,” she said. “This isn’t who I really am.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “This dirt comes off,” she said. “So does this dress.”

  “Um—”

  “Okay,” she said, “I didn’t mean it that way. Anyway, I thought you were working with him on this—whatever this is.”

  “You don’t know?” Clint said.

  She shrugged. “I thought you did.”

  “But you know Frick’s name.”

  “So do you.”

  Clint sat back in his chair.

  “I’ve met with the man, but I don’t know why,” he said. “I’ve been invited to go to his private club in South Fork.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I know about those clubs. Rich people only.”

  “Is this why I’m here?” he wondered aloud. “To accept that invitation?”

  “Search me.”

  He realized he was once again looking at her breasts, and tore his eyes away.

  “Do you know how to contact Jeremy?” he asked.

  “I know how to leave him a message.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Do it.”

  “And what do you want the message to say?”

  “Have it say, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’” he told her.

  * * *

  When Henry Frick reached the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, he found his four closest colleagues waiting for him in one of the meeting rooms.

  The four men turned as he entered. They were all holding glasses of brandy.

  “You’re late,” Evan Lawrence said. In this early fifties, he was the youngest of the four members, and he sat on the club board. The others were all over sixty.

  “Yes, well,” Frick said, “we talked longer than I thought we would. For a man with his reputation as a pistoleer, he’s remarkably intelligent.”

  “Is that so?” William Bledsoe said. “I thought Western gunmen were all mental deficients.”

  “Not so, apparently,” Frick said.

  “Well,” Cole Foster asked, “did he agree to join?”

  “No,” Frick said. “In fact, he’s still considering my invitation to come and see the place.”

  “The man’s mad,” Frederick Upton pronounced. “Do you know how many men of position would jump at the chance?”

  “I know, yes,” Frick said, pouring himself a brandy because there was no waiter available at this hour, “but he obviously does not.”

  “So is this going to work?” Foster asked. At seventy-one, he was the senior member of the group.

  “I don’t know,” Frick said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “When will he give you his answer?” Lawrence asked.

  “Tomorrow morning over breakfast, I hope,” Frick said. “If he does, I’ll bring him right up here.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Bledsoe asked.

  “Then I’ll keep working on him,” Frick said.

  “Well,” Foster said testily, “I guess I could have stayed home and slept in my own bed.”

  “Sorry for that, Cole,” Frick said.

  “I’ll say good night to you all,” Foster said. He set his glass aside and walked slowly from the room.

  “We’re going to have to replace him, you know,” Lawrence said.

  “That’s a discussion we can table for another time,” Frick said.

  “What about Carnegie?” Bledsoe asked. “Will he be coming here soon?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear from Dale,” Frick said.

  “Rumor has it that you two have
had a falling-out,” Upton said.

  “I think if Dale Carnegie and I had a falling-out,” Frick said, “I would know about it.”

  It grew awkwardly silent before Lawrence said, “I suppose we all better turn in.”

  “I’ll just finish this drink first,” Frick said. “Good night.”

  The rest of them left the room while Frick sat and brooded over his drink.

  SEVEN

  Clint could feel the heat coming off Lizzie’s body.

  “I can send this message out tomorrow morning,” she told him.

  “Good,” Clint said. “Frick expects an answer from me in the morning. I think he’s going to buy me breakfast.”

  “At least you’re getting some good meals out of the job.”

  “Not eating well?”

  “Well,” she said, tugging her dress down over her thighs—and almost exposing her breasts—“I’m not exactly losing weight.”

  “Obviously not.”

  She glared at him.

  “Is that a smart remark at my expense?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “If this was your regular line of work, I’m sure you’d be in high demand.”

  That comment seemed to mollify her a bit, but she said, “The competition around here is rather meager.”

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got an indoor water closet here. Would you like to use it?”

  “At the moment a flush toilet doesn’t interest me much.”

  “I was thinking more of the bathtub.”

  That perked her up.

  “A bathtub?”

  “It’s all yours if you want.”

  She seemed to be considering the proposal.

  “No strings attached, of course,” he added.

  “You know,” she said, rubbing her hands over her bare upper arms, “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Why don’t I draw it for you?” he suggested. “Hot?”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  While she was soaking in the tub, Clint knocked on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I have some towels and a robe,” he said.

  “Bring them in.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I could just set them down out here—”

  “Don’t be an old poop,” she said. “Bring them in.”