The South Fork Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint went into the dining room for breakfast. The eggs were kind of runny but the bacon was nice and crispy and the coffee was hot and strong.

  He was having a second pot of coffee, and another full rasher of bacon, when Frick walked in. He still hadn’t heard a word from Lizzie or Pike.

  Frick saw him and crossed the room to his table.

  “I was going to take you somewhere a little better for breakfast.”

  “As it turns out, this was good enough,” Clint said. “Good coffee and bacon.”

  Frick looked at the remnants of the eggs in Clint’s plate.

  “Bad eggs?” he asked.

  “Bad eggs.”

  Frick sat down.

  “Coffee?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Clint poured Frick a cup, then topped his own off.

  “Have you decided?” Frick asked.

  “Decided what?”

  “What we talked about last night,” Frick said. “Coming to see the club.”

  “Oh, well . . .” Clint saw the clerk appear in the doorway, and then start toward them. He was carrying something in his hand.

  “Sir?” he said. “A message just came to you. It was given to me by a wo—”

  “Thank you,” Clint said, cutting him off. “I’ll take it.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  The clerk handed over the message, turned, and left.

  “Important?” Frick asked.

  “Who knows? Excuse me.” Clint opened the message, read it, then tucked it away in his pocket.

  “So?” Frick asked. “Important?”

  “A woman.”

  “Ah,” Frick said. “A lady?”

  “A girl,” Clint said.

  “Ah,” Frick said. “You could bring her with you, you know. It would impress her.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Clint said. “I think I did that on my own.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well done, then.”

  Clint put a crispy piece of bacon into his mouth, then pushed the plate toward Frick.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Frick said, taking one.

  “Do you want to have breakfast while we talk?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Frick said, chewing. “I haven’t had a thing yet.”

  Clint waved the waiter over.

  “Stay away from the eggs,” Clint reminded him.

  “Flapjacks,” Frick told the waiter.

  “Yes, sir, coming up.”

  They didn’t talk until Frick’s breakfast had come, and Clint poured him some more coffee.

  “I’ve spoken with my colleagues at the club,” Frick said. “They’re excited about the possibility of your coming up. You know, these aren’t half bad.”

  “I’m glad,” Clint said. “Look, why don’t we go up to see your club this afternoon?”

  “Today? Excellent!” Frick said. “I have my carriage. We could go right from here—”

  “I think this afternoon would be better,” Clint said. “I’ve got something else to do this morning.”

  “Ah,” Frick said, “the girl?”

  Clint nodded and said, “The girl.”

  “Very well,” Frick said. “Why don’t I come by and pick you up around one?”

  “That’ll be good,” Clint said.

  “It’s settled, then,” Frick said, and went back to his flapjacks.

  * * *

  They walked out of the hotel together, stopped just outside the door.

  “I’ll pick you up right here, then,” Frick said.

  Clint looked over at Frick’s carriage, where the driver, Jason, was waiting.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “right here.”

  “Excellent!”

  Frick shook Clint’s hand, walked to his carriage, and got in. Jason looked back at Clint, nodded, and drove away.

  TWELVE

  Clint got himself a cab and gave the driver the name written in the message, which said, “Agree to go to the club, and meet me at Solomon’s Saloon . . .”

  “Solomon’s?” the driver asked, obviously recognizing the name.

  “That’s right.”

  “On Wylie Avenue?”

  “If that’s where it is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The young driver shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

  * * *

  When the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the saloon, it looked fine to Clint. He didn’t know why the driver was so concerned with him going there.

  He paid the man and said, “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” the driver said, and drove off.

  Clint went in the door and stopped just inside. The place was small, clean, all dark wood and gleaming gold. In a corner he saw Jeremy Pike sitting alone. He studied the rest of the tables, but nobody was paying any attention to him. He walked to Pike’s table and sat down. A bartender appeared suddenly and placed a beer at his elbow.

  “Thanks, Kenny,” Pike said.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon after the counterfeiting case,” Clint said. “Did you ever find Ninger?”

  Emanuel Ninger was a notorious German counterfeiter working out of Saint Louis. Pike and Clint had managed to shut down his operation, but the man himself had eluded them.

  “Actually, we’re still looking for him,” Pike said, “but I got involved with something else.”

  “The South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “We don’t know,” Pike said. “We’ve been trying to get up there, but have had no luck.”

  “Why me, then?”

  “Have you been invited?”

  “I have.”

  “That answers your question, then,” Pike said. “We thought you might be.”

  “We?”

  “Well, me,” Pike said. “I suggested it. We had just seen each other in Saint Louis, so it occurred to me that you were the kind of person a hunting club would invite to join. Are you going up there?”

  “Yeah, this afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  “What am I looking for, Jeremy?”

  “Not sure,” Pike said. “Anything . . . suspicious.”

  “What could be suspicious?”

  “Don’t know,” Pike said, “but there are a lot of rich men up there, lots of political clout among them—”

  “Is this about politics?”

  “If it is,” Pike said, “I won’t ask you to go any further. I know how you feel about politics.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “Frick is going to pick me up at one.”

  “Good.”

  They each drank down some of their beer, and then caught up a bit on what they’d been doing since Saint Louis.

  “Oh,” Clint said, then, “I met Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie?”

  “The girl you sent to my hotel, dressed as a whore.”

  Pike shook his head.

  “I didn’t send anybody to see you,” Pike said. “Not a whore or anybody. The message I sent this morning was the first contact.”

  “But the clerk said a woman delivered it,” Clint said.

  “Yeah,” Pike said, “I just paid a girl from here to drop it off.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mary, I think.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Small, mousy, brown hair. She works here as a waitress. That the girl you’re talking about?”

  “No,” Clint said. “This was a big girl, about five foot eight, very appealing.”

  “A whore?”

  “She said she was disguised as
a whore, and that you sent her to me.”

  “Me?” Pike asked. “She mentioned me by name?”

  “She did.”

  “Oh,” Pike said, “I don’t like this at all.”

  “How long have you been in Pittsburgh?” Clint asked.

  “A few days.”

  “And you never ran across a girl like that?”

  “No. What did she say her name was?”

  “Lizzie,” Clint said. “Just Lizzie.”

  “No last name?”

  “We never got that far.”

  “Are you supposed to see her again?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “She said that depended on you, and on whether or not she got called back to Washington.”

  “Well,” Pike said, “if you do hear from her again, you can ask her who the hell she is and how she knows my name.”

  “I’ll do that,” Clint said. “Does this change what you want me to do?”

  “No,” Pike said. “Go ahead and go to the club with Frick, see what you can see. Meet me here again tomorrow, same time. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Clint,” Pike said, “thanks for coming when I sent that telegram.”

  “You said you need help,” Clint said. “I assumed West and Gordon were unavailable again.”

  “The government is keeping them real busy,” Pike said. “That’s why I’m getting more assignments like this.”

  “They should assign you a partner.”

  “Yes, they should.”

  Clint sat back, looked around the room. There was still nobody paying much attention to them.

  “So what’s wrong with this place?” he asked.

  “What?” Pike asked. “Nothing. What makes you think something’s wrong with it?”

  “My cab driver was surprised I wanted to come here. When he dropped me off, he wished me luck.”

  “That’s odd,” Pike said. “Maybe he just didn’t think it was your kind of place.”

  Clint studied Pike’s impeccably tailored suit, and his own worn clothing.

  “I think I better go and buy some new clothes,” he said.

  THIRTEEN

  Clint was standing in front of his hotel when Henry Frick’s carriage pulled up. The driver, Jason, stepped down from the seat and approached.

  “Mr. Adams,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Is Mr. Frick in the carriage?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Frick is not here. He had to go ahead to the club. But I’m authorized to drive you up there.”

  “Then I guess you’d better drive. Is what I’m wearing all right?”

  “You bought new clothing,” Jason said. “Yes, it’s fine—but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “The gun,” Jason said. “You won’t need that.”

  “The gun goes where I go,” Clint said. “Always.”

  “I see,” Jason said. “Very well, then. Shall we go?”

  “By all means,” Clint said, “let’s go.”

  He followed Jason to the carriage, where the man held the door open for him. When Clint was inside, he felt Jason climb aboard, and then they were moving.

  * * *

  The ride to the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club took them past Lake Conemaugh and the South Fork dam.

  “That was a lot of water back there,” Clint said as he stepped down from the carriage.

  “Yes, sir,” Jason said. “The club owns the dam and is responsible for maintaining it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jason said. “This way.”

  Clint followed Jason up a long, winding walk to the front entrance of the club. The building was sprawling, probably covering several acres, not to mention the grounds around it.

  “This place is huge,” Clint said.

  “Yes, sir,” Jason said, “very impressive.”

  Unless you compared it to some of the huge, sprawling ranches Clint had seen over the years. He much preferred those open spaces to this.

  They entered the building and Clint found himself in a high-ceilinged entry hall.

  “Perhaps you should wait here, sir,” Jason said, “while I find . . . somebody.”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “I’ll wait here and you go find somebody.”

  Jason nodded and went off into the building, leaving Clint alone.

  * * *

  Clint remained alone for fifteen minutes, with not much to look at but the high-beamed ceilings and the view out the front windows. Also mounted on the walls were some stuffed heads, both deer and bear. He assumed these were some of the members’ trophies.

  Abruptly he heard returning footsteps, then saw Henry Frick followed by Jason.

  “Clint,” he said, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you at the hotel. Something came up.” He extended his hand and shook Clint’s firmly.

  “That’s all right,” Clint said. “I managed to make it, thanks to Jason.”

  “Ah yes, Jason,” Frick said. He turned and looked up at the big man. “That’ll be all, Jason. You can see to the carriage and horse now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The big man went out the front door without a further word, or even a look.

  “Come this way,” Frick said to Clint. “Some of the members would like to meet you.”

  “Lead the way,” Clint said.

  FOURTEEN

  Frick led Clint to a large, wood-paneled room, furnished with leather armchairs, several of which were occupied at that moment.

  “Gentlemen,” Frick said, “allow me to introduce you to our guest, Mr. Clint Adams.”

  The four men all stood. Three of them had congenial looks on their faces while the fourth—the oldest—seemed to be feeling rather crotchety.

  “Welcome,” one man said. “My name is Evan Lawrence.” They shook hands.

  Clint then shook hands with the other men—William Bledsoe, Cole Foster, and Frederick Upton. Foster was the older, sour-looking man.

  “Please,” Frick said, “have a seat. Can we offer you a brandy?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Frick supplied Clint with a glass, and then they all seated themselves.

  “We’re quite excited to have you as a guest, Mr. Adams,” Lawrence said.

  “It’s nice of you all to allow me up here,” Clint said. “I understand it’s very . . . private.”

  “It is that,” Bledsoe said, “but a man of your caliber . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Well, I appreciate it,” Clint said, even though he never would have been a member of such an elitist club.

  “How long do you plan to be in the area, Mr. Adams?” Bledsoe asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “I guess that depends on how long I can entertain myself.”

  “Well,” Upton said, “perhaps we can be the ones to do the entertaining.”

  Clint raised his glass in response.

  * * *

  After they chatted and Clint had finished his drink, Henry Frick said, “Perhaps I should give Clint the tour.” They both stood up.

  “You’ll stay for lunch with some of the other members,” Upton said.

  “Of course,” Clint said. “Thank you for the offer.”

  He followed Frick from the room.

  “I’ll show you the building,” he said. “We have a lot of room. And then I’ll show you some of the hunting grounds we have.”

  “On the way here we passed the lake and the dam,” Clint said. “Jason told me the club owns the dam.”

  “That is true.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “The dam?” Frick asked, surprised. “Why would you want to see that?”

  “I’m interested,” Clint said.

  “You’re
interests are varied, then.”

  “They are,” Clint said. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t see the dam and lake?”

  “No, no,” Frick said, “let me walk you through the buildings, and then we can have Jason drive us around the grounds. We’ll finish at the dam, and then come back here for lunch.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Clint said.

  * * *

  After Frick and Clint left the room, Cole Foster said, “I don’t like him.”

  Lawrence looked at the old man and said, “You don’t like anybody these days, Cole.”

  “Well, then,” Foster said sourly, “put him at the top of the list.”

  FIFTEEN

  Henry Frick walked Clint through the entire building, showing him meeting rooms, game rooms, exercise rooms, dining rooms, and bedrooms. Of special interest to Clint in one of the game rooms was a green felt-topped poker table.

  “Is there a lot of poker played by the members?” he asked.

  “Some of our members are very keen on poker,” Frick said. “I don’t see the appeal myself, but I understand you have a reputation as a player.”

  “I enjoy the game,” Clint admitted.

  “Well,” Frick said, “perhaps we can arrange a contest for you with some of the members.”

  “That would be interesting,” Clint said.

  * * *

  Frick took Clint around the outside of the building, showing him several balconies and patios, and then the expanse of land that stretched out behind the building.

  “We have all kinds of game,” he said. “Are you a hunter?”

  “Not for sport,” Clint said. “I usually eat what I hunt.”

  “Living in the West as you do, I can understand that,” Frick said. “I’m sure you saw the mounted heads in our lobby. And throughout the building.”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “Mounted heads don’t tend to impress me.”

  “I can understand that, too,” Frick said. “Gambling and hunting hold no fascination for me. I am only interested in one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Making money.”

  * * *

  Frick found Jason and had him hitch the horse up to the carriage once again. The big man drove them out to see the lake, and then took them to a good vantage point from where they could see the dam.