Bitterroot Valley Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  HUNT FOR THE WHITE WOLF

  Three Against One

  Before Clint reached the three rustlers, he knew they’d go for their guns. He tried to cut them off before they did it.

  “Take it easy, boys,” he called out. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

  “What do we do?” Dutch Louie hissed at his two partners.

  “Run!” Bill Williams said. “That’s got to be Clint Adams.”

  “We have to fight,” Orville said. “If we don’t, Jack will kill us.”

  Clint reined his horse in, looked down at the three men.

  “The easy way to do this is for you to lay down your guns.”

  Williams wanted to run, but if Louie and Orville survived, they’d mark him as a coward.

  “Come on,” Clint said. “Nobody has to die.”

  “Wrong!” a panicked Swift Bill said. “You do.”

  He went for his gun . . .

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  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BITTERROOT VALLEY

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / July 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51619-5

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  ONE

  Clint Adams rode into the Montana’s Bitterroot Valley at the behest of his friend, Nathan Piven. Piven was the sheriff of Judith Gap, located about fifty miles south of the Judith Basin. It was also about two hundred miles due east of Helena.

  Clint didn’t know yet what the fuss was, but he knew when he got a telegram from a friend who was a lawman, there wasn’t a fuss far behind.

  Judith Gap was a small town, but the lawman there held sway over much of the land that ran along the Musselshell River. That included the Judith Gap, where Clint knew many of the largest ranches in the area were located. His guess was that there was some rustling going on. But Nat Piven would have been able to handle a normal case of rustling without much help. Clint stopped trying to guess, decided to wait to hear the news right from the horse’s mouth.

  His name was Stringer Jack. That was the only name anyone knew him by. His men respected him, did everything he told them to do. Riding with him, as always, were Paddy Rose, Swift Bill, Dixie Burr, Orville Edwards, and Silas Nickerson.

  They were staying in a tent between the banks of the Musselshell River and a cabin where Old Man James lived in an area known as Bates Point. James was an oldtime rustler who’d gotten out of the business, but didn’t mind supplying shelter for those who were still active. He lived there with his two boys, who wanted to ride with Stringer Jack but had not yet done so.

  Jack came out of the tent and accepted a cup of coffee handed to him by Dixie.

  “Me and the boys been wonderin’ . . .” Dixie said.

  “Wondering what?”

  “When we wuz gonna hit the DHS.”

  The DHS Ranch was the biggest ranch in the area, owned and run by Granville Stewart.

  “We’ll get to it,” Jack said. “You know once we hit him, Stewart’s gonna come lookin’ for us.”

  “What do we care?” Dixie asked. “We ain’t afraid of him . . . are we?”

  “No,” Stringer Jack said. “We’re not afraid of him, Dixie. Loo
k, get breakfast going and get the rest of the boys up. I’m gonna go talk to Old Man James.”

  “Yeah, okay, boss.”

  Jack refilled his cup, then carried it up to the Old Man James’s cabin.

  Granville Stewart came out onto his veranda, holding a cup of coffee. He looked out over his sprawling ranch in the Judith Basin. From where he was, he could see thousands of head of cattle. And his corral was overcrowded with horses.

  Rustlers had been working the area, but so far had not hit him. If and when they did, they would be in trouble.

  Stewart was leaving for Helena today, to discuss the situation with some of the other cattlemen in the area. He knew they were going to try to get him to take an active role in tracking down the rustlers, but he wasn’t ready to. He would, however, go and listen.

  A meeting of cattlemen in Helena would not be worth the time unless Granville Stewart was attending.

  Clint rode into Judith Gap, which he found to be a small but bustling town. He dropped Eclipse off at the livery, made his way to the nearest hotel and checked in, then went looking for Nat Piven.

  He located the sheriff’s office, entered without knocking. Piven turned from the gun rack, where he was returning a shotgun, and grinned broadly.

  “Clint, goddamit!” he shouted. “You made it.”

  Piven was a big man in his forties with a booming voice and a bone-crushing handshake.

  “Hey, Nat,” Clint said. “Well, you asked me to come so, yeah, I made it.”

  “Just get in?”

  “Took care of my horse, got a room, and came to see you. Haven’t even brushed the dust off.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Starving and thirsty.”

  He slapped Clint on the back and said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a steak and a beer.”

  “Any good?”

  “Best in Montana.”

  “The steak or the beer?”

  “Both!”

  TWO

  Stringer Jack passed the bottle back to Old Man James, who accepted it and drank deeply.

  “So what’re you gonna do?” the old man asked.

  “I hear the cattlemen are meetin’ in Helena,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I’m thinkin’ this might be the time to hit ’em and hit’em hard.”

  “You talkin’ about hittin’ the DHS?”

  “Yep,” Jack said.

  “Granville Stewart?”

  “Why not?”

  “You know,” the old man said, “there’s plenty of ranches you can rustle cattle and horses from and make a nice livin’ for you and your boys. Why take on that kinda trouble?”

  Jack took the bottle back.

  “What’s the point of doin’ somethin’ if you’re only gonna do it halfway?” he asked.

  Old Man James took a deep breath and said, “Well, I guess it’s up to you, boy.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “It’s up to me.”

  He upended the bottle and emptied it.

  They caught up on five years while they ate their steak and drank their first beer. Over the second beer, Piven told Clint why he’d asked him to come.

  “Rustlers,” he said. “Been raiding ranches all along the Musselshell for months.”

  “What do the cattlemen have to say?”

  “They do a lot of talking, but they aren’t taking much action. They’re pushing me to stop it.”

  “Rustlers do anything yet but rustle?”

  “You mean murder? No, not yet. If they had, I might be able to get some help.”

  “No deputies?”

  “The town doesn’t have enough money.”

  “Wait,” Clint said, “they want you to keep the law along the Musselshell . . . alone?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about a posse?”

  “By the time I hear about the rustling, and get a posse together, there’s nobody to chase.”

  “What about tracking?”

  “You know how many cattle there are around here? The entire basin is covered with tracks. How do I know which tracks were left by rustled cattle?”

  “Then what can I do to help?”

  “I’m not sure,” Piven said, “but I knew I needed help, and you were the one I thought of.”

  “Well, tell me what’s going on.”

  “The cattlemen are meetin’ this week in Helena,” the lawman said. “I think they finally got Granville Stewart to agree to attend.”

  “Stewart?”

  “He has the biggest spread in the Basin.”

  “Has he been hit by the rustlers?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “I wonder, too.”

  Clint tried to pay for the meal but Piven told him that in the absence of a deputy he got free meals.

  “That includes you.”

  They left the restaurant, stopped on the boardwalk outside.

  “Let’s go to Helena,” Clint said.

  “What?”

  “Well, the cattlemen are having a meeting, right?” Clint asked. “Let’s go to the meeting.”

  “We’d have to check in with the sheriff there when we arrive.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  “I’ve got nobody to leave in charge here,” Piven said. “If the rustlers hit while I’m in Montana—”

  “Okay, say no more,” Clint said. “I’ll go to Montana, meet Granville Stewart, maybe talk to some of the other cattlemen . . .”

  “You won’t have official standing.”

  “Believe me, that won’t be a problem.”

  Clint knew that his name alone would get him into the Cattleman’s Club in Helena, and that they’d probably want to try and use him.

  “Clint . . . you just got here. Now you’re gonna ride two hundred miles to Helena?”

  “Two hundred miles by stage,” Clint said, “won’t be the same as two hundred miles for me and Eclipse.”

  “At least get some sleep and leave in the morning. They’re not meeting for three days.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that,” Clint said. “I could use a bath and a bed.”

  “Why don’t you get that bath,” Piven said, “and I’ll meet you at the saloon later for a beer.”

  “Which saloon?”

  “Honey’s,” Piven said. “Honey’s Saloon, down the street.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll see you there tonight, then.”

  “After eight,” Piven said. “I usually finish my rounds with a beer there.”

  “See you then.”

  They walked in separate directions.

  The hotel had bath facilities, which Clint availed himself of. He went to his room and, while wearing clean clothes, took the opportunity to clean the trail dust off his boots. Why, he didn’t know, since by the time he got to Helena, he’d be covered again.

  He considered taking the stage to Helena, decided against it, then wondered how Granville Stewart was going to get there.

  He pulled his boots on and left the hotel to go over to Honey’s Saloon.

  THREE

  Clint was standing at the bar in Honey’s Saloon when Sheriff Nat Piven came through the batwings. He quickly ordered the lawman a beer before he got to the bar. And he paid for it.

  “On me,” Clint said. “You can get the next one.”

  “How do you like this place?” he asked.

  Clint looked around. Seemed a fairly typical setup, except for the painting over the bar.

  “Why’s that there?” he asked.

  “That,” Piven said, “is Honey.”

  Clint looked up at the oil painting of a cow.

  “The saloon is named after a cow?”

  “Apparently,” the lawman said, “that cow meant a lot to the owner.”

  “Well, I’ve seen saloons named after lots of things. Why not a cow?”

  “Why not?”

  The saloon was busy, most of the tables taken, a couple of poker games going, three girls wo
rking the floor, and two bartenders behind the bar.

  There were only one or two spaces left at the bar, but Clint and the law were given a wide berth, so they were able to stand comfortably.

  “I have a question.”

  “Shoot,” Piven said.

  “Granville Stewart,” Clint said. “How is he getting to Helena?”

  “He’s leavin’ on tomorrow’s stage. Why?”

  “Well, I was thinking of riding there myself, but now I’m wondering if I should take the stage, get to know the big man along the way.”

  “Would you let him know who you are and why you’re goin’ there?”

  “I’ll tell him who I am,” Clint said, “but there’s no need to tell him any more. I’ll surprise him by showing up at the Cattleman’s Club. By the way, how do I get in?”

  “I’ll send word ahead by telegram,” Piven said. “You won’t have a problem. Stop in and see Sheriff Dan Lewis. He’ll get you in.”

  “That’s good. Anybody I should know about on that end?”

  “Naw,” Piven said. “You’ll meet them all when you get there. They’re just ranchers. Stewart’s the strongest of the bunch.”

  “They want him to take an active role, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I think he would,” Piven said, “but he’d wanna be in charge. I think when he does move, it’ll be on his own.”

  “Not with the law?”

  “I guess we’ll have to see. Once he finds out who you are, he might try to hire you right there in the stagecoach.”

  “Not likely if there are other passengers.”

  “Oh, there will be,” Piven said. “There always are. The stage to Helena is usually full.”

  “Then maybe it’ll be an interesting ride,” Clint said. “Can you get me on there in the morning, with no ticket?”