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  “No, never saw them.”

  “What about the one that got away?”

  “No, not him either. All strangers, but they were guns for hire, so they would be strangers, wouldn’t they?”

  “I suppose so. You did okay back there.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Stewart asked. “I’ve been fighting for what I want and have for years.” He walked back to the stage. “Let’s get moving!” he shouted to the driver.

  The man saluted.

  Clint walked back to the stage, waited for Granville Stewart to get in, and then climbed in behind him.

  EIGHT

  The attempted murder of all the passengers had not delayed them for very long, so the stage pulled into Helena while it was still light.

  “Take my luggage to the Cattleman’s Club,” Stewart shouted up to the driver.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned and walked away from the stagecoach without a word to any of the other passengers.

  The stage had stopped directly in front of a hotel, so Clint grabbed his saddlebags, bade good-bye to the preacher and his wife, and Evie Loomis, and went inside to check in.

  Evie came in right behind him and said, “I’ll be staying here, too.”

  “Then by all means,” he said, “you check in first.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  She stepped up to the front desk and registered while Clint stood directly behind her, smelling her hair.

  Behind him he heard the couple enter, the preacher and his wife, and they were arguing.

  “I want to go back home, James,” she said.

  The preacher, James Brownsville, said, “Now now, Mother, we can’t let a little trouble send us running back, can we? Besides, there’s nothing left back there for us.”

  “My family is there,” she argued.

  “As I said,” he reiterated, “nothing back there for us.”

  Evie finished registering and turned quickly, running into Clint’s chest.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m on the second floor. See you later?”

  “Sure.”

  She went up as Clint stepped forward and registered. There were three stories to the hotel, and he was also placed on the second floor. He hoped the Brownsvilles would be put on the third. He didn’t want to hear any more of the woman’s whining.

  That was probably unfair, he thought, as he went up the stairs. The woman didn’t seem well suited for a life in the West.

  He left his saddlebags and rifle in his room, then left to go in search of a cold beer.

  Helena was many times the size of Judith Gap, but the bustling seemed to be along the same lines. He walked past a proper police station, but Piven had mentioned a sheriff still in town. He decided not to stop in and talk to the police. He’d wait until he found Sheriff Dan Lewis’s office.

  He came to the King’s Ransom Saloon before finding the sheriff’s office, and so felt a responsibility to stop in and have at least one cold beer.

  In keeping with its name, it was a grand place, with gaming tables strewn about and a stage up at the front. It was a saloon and music hall apparently.

  It was busy at early evening, and bound to get busier as the covers came off the gaming tables, and the saloon girls came out to serve the customers. He wondered if there would be any music that night.

  He elbowed himself a space at the bar and ordered a beer from one of the three bartenders.

  “Nice and cold, friend,” the barman said, setting it in front of Clint.

  “Thanks.”

  “Fresh off the stage?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I have a knack for faces,” the bartender said. “Haven’t seen yours before.”

  Clint studied the man. Of the three barmen, he was the middle one, in his forties. The oldest was in his fifties, moving very deliberately, and the youngest was in his thirties, moving about with great energy.

  “What brings you to town?” the barman asked.

  “Just having a look,” Clint said. “I was here once, long ago.”

  “Has it changed?”

  “Very much.”

  “Well, if you have any questions, flag me down,” the barman said, and was off to serve others.

  Clint nursed his beer while the tables got busy. Suddenly, there was room at the bar as men approached their games of choice—blackjack, roulette, poker, faro. The King’s Ransom had it all.

  When he’d finished with his beer, he waved at the barman to come over.

  “’Nother one?”

  “Maybe later,” Clint said. “Can you tell me where to find the sheriff’s office?”

  “We have a real police station now, if you’ve got a legal problem.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I just need to see Sheriff Lewis.”

  “Swell,” the man said, “better get to him soon. His deputy just left here with a bottle.”

  “Just direct me,” Clint said.

  NINE

  Clint followed the bartender’s directions and found the sheriff’s office. Compared to the fairly new appearance of the police station, this was a hole. He opened the door and entered. There were two men inside, having a conversation.

  “Why can’t I have a drink, Sheriff?” one man asked. He was younger, wearing a deputy’s badge.

  “Because whiskey’s not good for you,” the other man said. He was older, close to sixty, wearing the sheriff’s badge.

  “But you drink it.”

  “It’s a bad habit I’m too old to break,” the sheriff said.

  “But Dan—”

  “Go and do your rounds, Andy,” the sheriff said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The deputy put his hat on and headed for the door, That was when both men saw Clint.

  “Keep goin’, Andy,” the sheriff said. “I’ll take care of this gentleman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The deputy went past Clint and out the door.

  The sheriff took the time to uncork the bottle and poured himself a drink. Two fingers, Clint noticed.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, sitting back with his glass.

  “Most sheriffs drink their whiskey from a coffee mug,” Clint said.

  “Well, I like glass,” Dan Lewis said. “I keep one in the office just for whiskey.”

  Clint nodded.

  “Still wanna talk to me?” the lawman asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I bring greetings from Nat Piven.”

  “Ah,” Lewis said, “you’re Clint Adams.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I got Piven’s telegram,” Lewis said. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Drink?”

  “I prefer beer.”

  “How about coffee?” Lewis asked. “I have mugs for that.”

  “Sure.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Clint looked around, saw possibly the oldest potbellied stove he’d encountered in a while. There was a small table next to it with mugs on it. He walked over and poured himself a coffee, brought it back to his chair.

  “What can I do for you?” Lewis asked.

  “Piven didn’t tell you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I want to get into the Cattleman’s Club.”

  “What for?”

  “There’s a meeting of cattlemen there.”

  “And you wanna attend?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I want to eavesdrop.”

  “Ah. On whose behalf?”

  “Sheriff Piven.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s charged with keeping the law along the Musselshell, and I want to help him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “Are you a deputy?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t wear a badge anymore,” Clint said, “if I can help it.”

  “But you did once.”

  “A
long, long time ago.”

  “What makes you think I can get you into the Cattleman’s Club?”

  “Piven said you could.”

  “We have a modern police department here now, you know,” he said, sipping his whiskey.

  “I saw.”

  “What do you think of modern police departments?”

  “I don’t have a sweeping opinion,” Clint said.

  Lewis grinned, showing one missing tooth in a mouth of otherwise well-cared-for white ones.

  “ ‘Sweeping opinion,’ ” he said, chuckling.

  “I judge them individually,” Clint went on, “and I don’t know anything about Helena’s police department.”

  Lewis sat forward, poured himself another drink.

  “That why you drink?” Clint asked. “Because of the police department?”

  Lewis sat back again.

  “I drink because I’m too old to break bad habits.”

  “Got any other bad habits?”

  “Yes,” Sheriff Dan Lewis said.

  “What?”

  “Doin’ favors for friends.”

  “Like Nat Piven?”

  Lewis nodded.

  “So you’ll get me into the Cattleman’s Club?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said, “I’ll get you into the Cattleman’s Club. Can I finish my drink first?”

  “The drink, or the bottle?”

  Lewis shrugged.

  “Same thing.”

  “How about we do it in the morning?” Clint asked. “Before the drink?”

  “Sure,” Lewis said. “Come by and get me when you’re ready.”

  “Are they meeting tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said, “but not early.”

  “Okay.” Clint put the coffee mug on the desk. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “You didn’t drink it.”

  “It’s terrible.”

  “Why do you think I drink whiskey?”

  “See you tomorrow, Sheriff Lewis.”

  “Hold on a second,” Lewis said.

  “What?”

  “I got a report from the stage line today that somebody tried to rob the stage you were on.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, oh that. You shot some men.”

  “I shot some, yeah, but Granville Stewart shot the rest.”

  “I talked to him. He says he shot one, you shot the rest.”

  “Yeah, well, I was faster than him. Am I in trouble?” he asked.

  “Naw, the stage driver says you both saved the stage from bein’ robbed.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know who’s got jurisdiction, me, Piven, or somebody in between,” Lewis said. “But don’t worry, we’ll work it out. Meanwhile, one of the men got away. You know him?”

  “No,” Clint said.

  “Okay,” Lewis said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Lewis saluted Clint with his glass. Clint liked the old lawman.

  TEN

  Clint went back to the King’s Ransom and had another beer. The bartender greeted him with a smile and Clint asked him to stay after he brought him his beer.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Tell me about the Cattleman’s Club.”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Like a private saloon and hotel.”

  “So do any of the cattlemen ever drink here?”

  “No,” the bartender said. “They do their drinkin’ in their club.”

  “So I wouldn’t be running into any of them here tonight.”

  “No,” the barman said. “They’re too good to drink here, and this is the best place in town.”

  Clint looked at the stage. The curtains were closed.

  “Any music tonight?”

  “Nope. We don’t have anyone booked in to entertain for a while.”

  “Do they have entertainment at the Cattleman’s Club?” Clint asked.

  “Depends on what you consider entertainment.”

  Someone called for a drink. The bartender yelled to one of the other bartenders to handle it.

  “You the head bartender?” Clint asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eddie.”

  “Eddie,” Clint said, “what kind of entertainment do they have at the Cattleman’s Club?”

  “The female kind.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why you so interested?”

  “I’m going over there tomorrow.”

  “You think you’re gonna get in?”

  “I think so.”

  “If you do,” Eddie said, “lemme know what it’s like inside.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint put his empty mug down, started to leave.

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name?” Eddie asked.

  “Clint Adams.”

  Eddie hesitated, then said, “Yeah, you’ll get in.”

  ELEVEN

  When Clint got to his hotel and entered, he found Evie Loomis in the lobby.

  “Where are you coming from?” she asked.

  “The saloon. What are you doing out and about after dark?” he asked.

  “As a reporter, I can’t very well be afraid of the dark,” she said. “In fact, I had a late supper and was just getting back.”

  “Did you find somebody who would submit to your interviews?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she said. “Two of the cattlemen who are going to be at the meeting tomorrow.”

  “Really? I’d be interested in what they had to say,” he commented.

  “Well, you’ll have to wait until I write it up for the paper . . . unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you want to buy me some coffee now and answer some questions,” she said. “Then I’ll answer some of yours.”

  “I’ll answer some questions,” he said. “I won’t submit to an interview.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I’ll let you know as we go along. Shall we go right in here?”

  The hotel dining room was still open so they went inside and got a table. The place was almost empty—only one other table occupied—so they didn’t have to wait at all for their coffee.

  “All right,” she said. “What are you doing in Helena?”

  “The same thing you are. I’m interested in the meeting tomorrow.”

  “But why? You don’t live—”

  “My turn,” he said. “What two cattlemen did you talk to tonight?”

  “Frank McAuliffe and Harry Jenkins.”

  “Local?”

  “They’re both about an hour out of town.”

  “Are their ranches on the Musselshell?”

  “Near it,” she said. “I’m sure they water their stock there.”

  “And what—”

  “My turn!”

  He sat back and smiled.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are you here to sell your gun to somebody?” she asked.

  “I don’t sell my gun, Miss Loomis,” he said, “so the answer’s no. My turn. What do you believe the cattlemen are going to be discussing tomorrow?”

  She was still frowning at the answer to her last question.

  “Well, one thing I thought they would be discussing was hiring you,” she said, “but if you say that’s not why you’re here . . . maybe they’ll be discussing hiring someone else.”

  “Seems you ought to check and see if you’ve got any hired guns in town.”

  “You mean other than you?”

  “I am not a hired gun,” he said carefully. “If you write anything about me in your newspaper, make sure you write that.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . your reputation . . .”

  “As a reporter, you should know better than to blindly accept someone’s reputation.”

  “So you’re telling me nobod
y’s reputation is to be believed?”

  “Believe half of it,” he said, “and expect the other half to be a lie.”

  “Can I quote you on that?”

  “Yes,” he said, “on that you can.”

  Clint allowed Evie a few more questions, but he was really done talking to her. After their coffee he walked out to the lobby with her.

  “Are you off to the saloon for some gambling now?” she asked.

  “Is that something else you heard about me?” he asked.

  “I was just—”

  “No,” he said, cutting her off, “when I ran in to you, I was heading back to my room. I’m going to turn in early. I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit in with the picture you have of me in your head.”

  “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow around the Cattleman’s Club.”

  He left Evie Loomis standing dejected in the middle of the hotel lobby.

  TWELVE

  Stringer Jack looked up from the breakfast fire and saw Brocky Gallagher riding toward him. He would have had to ride all night to get back this soon.

  He stood, holding a cup of coffee in his hand, and waited. The other spotted him and also stood. It escaped no one that he was returning alone.

  Gallagher reined in and dismounted.

  “I could use some coffee,” he said, approaching the fire.

  Stringer Jack hit him in the mouth. He landed on his back, gaping up at his boss.

  “What was that for?”

  “Where are the others?”

  “They’re . . . dead.”

  “And so are the passengers on the stage?” Jack asked. “Including Granville Stewart?”

  “N-No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Stewart had a gunhand on the stage with him,” Gallagher said. “H-He took all of the others.”

  “But not you.”

  “N-No,” Gallagher said. “I—I got away.”

  “You ran out on them?”

  “Hey, this gun . . . he was fast. Fastest I ever saw, Jack.”

  “So,” Jack said, “Stewart hired himself a gun. I wonder who it is.”

  Gallagher got to his feet.

  “I don’t know how many men could be that fast,” he said.

  “Get yourself some coffee,” Jack said.

  “What are we gonna do?” Silas Nickerson asked, coming up next to Jack.

  “Nothin’ changes,” Jack said. “We’re gonna go ahead as planned.”