Forty Mile River

by J. R. Roberts

  “What do we do with him?” Jud asked.

  “We’ll have to bury him,” Clint said, “but not on boot hill. Near here, I think. Near his claim.”

  “There’s a nice spot just above here, in some trees,” Jud said.

  “Show me,” Clint said.

  Clint followed Jud up a hill till they reached the point Jud was talking about. Below them was the running Forty Mile River.

  “This is a good spot, Jud,” Clint said. “He’d have picked this out himself.”

  “I’ll get a couple of guys with shovels to dig the hole, Clint,” Jud said.

  “I’ll go down and get the body ready,” Clint said.

  They came down the hill together, then split up. Clint went over to the buckboard, where Dallas was still standing.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ve got the spot.”

  “Should we find somebody to build a coffin?” Dallas asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “we’ll wrap him in blankets, Ike wouldn’t have wanted a box. Jud’s having some men dig the grave.”

  “I’ll go and help,” Dallas said.

  “Meet me back down here,” Clint said.

  He watched Dallas walk up the hill, then went in search of a bunch of blankets.

  They got Ike buried on the hill overlooking the river. There was no clergy in Forty Mile, so Clint said a few words over his friend before they all trudged down the hill, depressed.

  “What do we do now?” Dallas asked.

  “Keep working,” Clint said. “I’m going to work with the two lawmen to find out who killed him. After that we can decide what to do about the mine.”

  “Like sell it?” Jud asked.

  “That’s a possibility,” Clint said, “but not something Ike would ever consider. We’ll have to talk about it.”

  When they reached the camp, Clint watched the men scatter to go back to work. Then he headed for the mercantile for his meeting with the lawmen.

  When Clint reached the mercantile, Trooper Craig was in front. Marshal Casey had not yet arrived.

  “You got him buried already?” Craig asked. “That was fast.”

  “I didn’t want him to end up on boot hill,” Clint said. “What have you been doing?”

  “Asking questions.”

  “Any good answers?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  They both saw Marshal Casey approaching. The tall man didn’t look happy.

  “What have you been up to?” Clint asked.

  “Asking questions.”

  “Same as me,” Craig said.

  “Any answers?” Clint asked.

  “None.”

  “Like me,” Craig said.

  Clint explained that he had already buried Ike.

  “Wow,” Casey said, “I hope I have a friend who gets me in the ground that fast. I hate the thought of my body lying around for people to gape at.”

  “I’m sure one of us can take care of that,” Clint said, looking at Craig.

  “He said a friend,” Craig commented.

  “We need to rent some tents so we can get in out of the rain,” Casey said.

  They went into the mercantile together.

  “I spoke with Bent Miller,” Craig said.

  “About the girl? Or Ike Daly?” Craig asked.

  “Both,” Casey said.

  “What did he have to say?” Clint asked.

  “He’s sorry,” Casey said.

  “Sorry he killed them?” Clint asked. “That’d be very helpful.”

  “No, he’s just sorry to hear that they’re dead.”

  “What did he say about the girl in Skagway?” Craig asked.

  “Her name was Frankie,” Clint said.

  “Yes, sorry,” Craig said. “What did he say about Frankie and his reputation for brutalizing whores?”

  “He said he didn’t know her, and he’s only slapped a few whores around. He says that’s not brutalizing them, it’s just keeping them in line.”

  “Did he actually say that?” Craig asked.

  “Yes,” Casey said. “Apparently he grew up watching his father keep his mother in line.”

  “None of the whores remembers seeing him around last night?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Craig said, “my questions didn’t specify Bent Miller.”

  “Fine,” Clint said, “I’ll have to go and ask again.”

  “We’ll continue to ask questions around town,” Craig said.

  “You can do that,” Casey said. “I’ll hit some of the gold camps.”

  “All right,” Craig said, “then all that remains is to set up our tents.”

  “You two do that,” Clint said. “I’ll get started talking to the girls again. And I might have a talk myself with Bent Miller.”

  “Adams,” Casey said as Clint turned to leave.

  Clint looked at him.

  “This has to be done within the letter of the law,” Casey said.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “We’re serious,” Craig said. “Don’t kill Bent Miller.”

  “I won’t, if he doesn’t force me into it.”

  “And, of course,” Casey said, “don’t get killed.”

  “I don’t intend to do either,” Clint said. “See you gents later.”

  As he walked away, Casey said to Craig, “He’s gonna kill him.”

  “I don’t think so,” the trooper said.

  Casey looked at him.

  “Unless he’s sure Miller did it,” Craig added.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The two lawmen picked out a tent each rather than share one. They had shared too many small campfires during their ride from Skagway to Forty Mile.

  After that they found a clearing outside of town where they could set the tents up. They did so in the rain, then went inside to change into drier clothes. When they came out, Craig was still wearing his red uniform tunic.

  “How many of those do you have?” Casey asked.

  “Enough.”

  “Okay,” Casey said, looking up at the sky, “now if it would only stop raining.”

  “Preferably before the temperature drops any more,” Craig said, “or we’re going to be knee-deep in snow.”

  “Probably a good thing Adams got his friend planted before then,” Casey said.

  “I’m going to walk around town and talk to people,” Craig said.

  “I’ll hit the mines, see what the miners have to say,” Casey said. “And maybe check on Miller to be sure Adams didn’t kill him.”

  “Is Mr. Adams as fast as his reputation says?” Craig asked. “Because Bent Miller is supposed to be extremely fast.”

  “Well,” Casey said, “my money would be on Adams.”

  “Miller’s younger.”

  “Still…”

  “It would be interesting,” Craig said. “I’ve never really seen an Old West shoot-out.”

  “Would you care to make it more interesting?” Casey asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean a small wager.”

  “On who would kill who?”

  Casey nodded.

  “That’s barbaric!”

  “Like I said,” Casey replied, “I’m just trying to make it a little more interesting.”

  Craig thought a moment, then asked, “How much more interesting?”

  “Come on,” Casey said, “I’ll walk you to town and we can talk about it.”

  “Mind you,” Craig said as they walked, “I’m not condoning this sort of thing…”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Clint went and talked to the whores again. This time they were all awake and dressed, and they all offered him a poke at a reduced price. At first, he tried to turn them down without insulting them. In the end, he simply told them he was too upset about his friend’s death.

  “I can help you deal with that, sweetie,” a girl named Simone told him. She had long black hair and was very slender, with an almost flat chest. Not his type at all.

  “I’m sure you could
,” he said. “But I just need you to answer some questions.”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  He entered her tent, found that it was not as stuffy as most of the others were.

  “I air it out,” she said, “after each customer. Open the back flap, and the front, let the cold air run through. I don’t like trying to sleep with the smell of my work in the air.”

  “I can understand that,” Clint said.

  She sat on her cot and crossed her legs. Most of the other girls were dressed, but this one was still in a dressing gown. It split, showing her very long, slender legs. They were probably her best feature.

  “Simone, do you know what Bent Miller looks like?”

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “I used to see him around Skagway.”

  “When did you come up from Skagway?”

  “About a month before you did.”

  “Has he been here to visit you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “The reason I came up here is that I could work for myself,” she said, “and not for a madam, like down in Skagway. That means I get to pick and choose my own customers. I don’t want him as a customer.”

  “Why not?”

  “He likes to hit women,” Simone said. “I don’t like to get hit.”

  “So you know girls he’s hit?”

  “I know a girl that crazy man tried to kill,” she said. “That’s not gonna happen to me.”

  “Did you see him around the tents last night?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anything last night?”

  “You hear a lot along here,” she said. “All kinds of shouting and yelling.”

  “What about violence?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you hear that, too.”

  “Any last night?”

  “No.”

  “Have you talked to any lawmen about Bent Miller?”

  “The handsome one in the red tunic,” she said. “I offered him a poke. He turned me down, too, like you did. But I think for a different reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I scared the poor boy,” she answered with a laugh.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “If you remember anything, will you try to find me and let me know?”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “And if you change your mind about that poke, you know where to find me.” She let her gown slip even more, showing leg and thigh.

  “I’ll remember that,” he said. “Thanks, Simone.”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  She walked to the tent flap with him and watched him walk away.

  Trooper Craig questioned as many people as he could find. The problem was it was early, and the miners were working. That left him with merchants, gamblers, and other miscreants to question, if they didn’t run when they saw him coming.

  He ended up in the saloon, talking to one of the bartenders.

  “Last night?” the barman asked. “It was crowded in here, but I do recall seeing Miller and his boss.”

  “Hector Tailor?”

  “If that’s his name. I know most people by sight.”

  “But you know Bent Miller?”

  “Every bartender knows Miller,” the man said.

  “And he was here last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All night?”

  “I dunno that,” he said. “I saw him at the bar several times, served him beers. After that he just melted into the crowd.”

  “So he could have left and come back.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Beer? On the house?”

  “Not right now.”

  As the trooper left, the bartender—whose name was Pete—realized this was the first lawman who had ever turned down a free drink.

  FORTY

  Marshal Casey went up to the various mines, talked to a lot of the miners about Ike Daly and Bent Miller. He also asked when they had last been to Skagway, and to a man, they hadn’t been back down there in months. Not since they started digging for gold. Casey believed them.

  Casey decided to go next to the Calvin Parker camp, and see Bent Miller and his boss.

  Rohm and Stash stared out at the river as it rushed by.

  “You think we oughtta tell Bent what we did?” Stash asked.

  “No,” Rohm said.

  “But he probably won’t care.”

  “Tailor will care,” Rohm said. “And Bent will have to tell him.”

  “You think so?”

  “Tailor is his boss.”

  “Bent Miller don’t care about a boss.”

  “Who’s that?” Stash asked,

  “Where?” Rohm asked.

  Rohm turned and saw the man coming up the bank.

  “Shit,” he said, “that’s Clint Adams.”

  “Relax,” Stash said. “He ain’t comin’ for us. Just relax.”

  The two men stood their ground and waited.

  Clint approached the two men, noticed that they were armed and watching him intently. He remembered seeing them in Skagway. They were Bent Miller’s men.

  “Afternoon,” Clint said.

  “Afternoon,” Stash said. “Help ya?”

  “I’m looking for Bent Miller,” Clint said, “or failing that, Hector Tailor.”

  “Well, we don’t know where Bent is right now,” Stash said, “but Mr. Tailor’s over in his tent.”

  “Which one?”

  “The biggest one.”

  That figured.

  “Okay, much obliged.”

  Clint walked up the slope away from the two men toward the large tent.

  “Hello, inside!” he yelled.

  “Come on in,” a voice called out.

  Clint entered, was impressed with the interior of the tent. It was warm, roomy, had a large table in the center. Hector Tailor was standing at the table, and there were plans spread out across.

  “Mr. Adams,” he said. Clint noticed that he rolled up a particular set of papers, as if he didn’t want Clint to see them.

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

  “I was actually looking for Bent Miller,” Clint said, “but in his absence I’ll talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, two murders, really.”

  “Murders?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “one in Skagway and one here, just last night.”

  “Who was killed last night?”

  “My partner, Ike Daly.”

  “Oh no,” Hector said. “How?”

  “He was stabbed from behind,” Clint said. “Looks like he was robbed.”

  “Looks like?”

  “Well, yes,” Clint said. “It appears he was robbed, but that might not be the reason he was killed.”

  “Why else would he have been killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’m looking into it, and so are the two lawmen who arrived here this morning.”

  “Two lawmen?”

  “Yes, a U.S. marshal and a trooper from the Royal Canadian Mounties. They both rode in today, from Skagway.”

  “They rode in from Skagway?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “A girl was killed there, as well.”

  “A girl?” Hector said. “One of the whores?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “And they rode all the way here just to find out who killed a whore?”

  “A girl,” Clint said. “A person. And they want to know who killed her. So do I.”

  “Why look for Miller?”

  “Because he was the last man with her. And because he has a reputation.”

  “If that was a reason to suspect someone, then you would be suspected, as well.”

  “I don’t have the same kind of reputation he has,” Clint said.

  “As a gunman?”

  “As a man who beats women.”

  “And so what makes him a suspect in the kil
ling of Daly?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Clint said, “Ike was competition, wasn’t he?”

  “For what?”

  “For gold.”

  “Well, we’re all competing for that.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “but I just realized how your claim and Ike’s butt up against each other.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Well, you know that,” Clint said. “I’ll bet that set of plans you’re hiding from me shows that.”

  Hector went pale and asked, “What plans?”

  “The ones you rolled up when I walked in,” Clint said. “Mind if I see them?”

  “Um,” Hector said, “yes, I do mind, actually. You have no right.”

  “I could force you to show them to me.”

  Hector’s eyes flicked all over the tent, as if he was looking for help, or for somewhere to run.

  “And if Bent Miller killed Ike, I’m willing to bet it’s because you told him to.”

  “You’re—you’re crazy.”

  “Then show the plans to me.”

  “N-No.”

  “Then I’ll just take them off you.”

  As Clint approached Hector, the man backed away and began shouting, “Help! Help! Bent!”

  Marshal Casey was walking up to the Parker mine as the shouting began to come from the big tent. He didn’t know what was amiss, but he started running toward the tent.

  Stash and Rohm heard the shouting, knew it was their boss yelling for help.

  “What should we do?” Rohm asked.

  “Nothin’,” Stash said. “Look there.”

  They saw another man running toward the tents, a man wearing a gun and a badge.

  “What’s happenin’?” Rohm wondered.

  “I don’t know, but it ain’t our business,” Stash said. “Helping him would be up to Bent, and he’s not around.”

  “So we just stand here?” Rohm asked.

  “No,” Stash said. “We get out of here.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Marshal Casey ran into the tent as Clint wrested the plans away from Hector Tailor.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Casey demanded.

  “Marshal, arrest that man,” Hector said. “He attacked me!”

  “Adams?”

  Clint ignored them both. He unrolled the plans and looked at them.

  “Stop him!” Hector shouted.

  “Shut up!” Casey ordered. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked Clint.

  “Look at these,” Clint said.