Hellgate, Montana (Hellgate, Montana Book 1)

By Al Halsey

There are more than just demons and witches that haunt the daylight and the dark.

The Roman Catholic Church found men willing to take on the powers of darkness and called them The Retributers–men with a pure soul, no regrets, and no designs on a long life.

Retributer Jeremiah Brandt headed for the most supernaturally and unnaturally infected place on the frontier–the bright blue Montana Territory sky of the Hellgate Valley. The longer he stays the more he thinks of it more of than just a place to collect bounties–it’s home. He wasn’t looking to lose his heart or his life, he just wanted to do his job in relative peace.

Yeah, right.

You mess with Jeremiah Brandt you are asking for a whole heap of trouble, and if you are an unnatural messing with Jeremiah Brandt you’re aiming for more trouble than you can handle in your entire immortal life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781618684783

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A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-478-3

Hellgate, Montana copyright © 2015

by Al Halsey

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Jessica Yohn

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Table of Contents

Chapter One – Hellgate, Montana

Chapter Two – Depends on the Angle

Chapter Three – Compass and Square

Chapter Four – Three Seconds

Chapter Five – Bloody Benders

Chapter Six – Gates of Hell

Chapter Seven – Cerberus

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For my son Connor

Chapter 1

Hellgate, Montana

That’s a nice gun, stranger, the shopkeeper said evenly. Ain’t seen you around here before.

Jeremiah Brandt grinned politely, rubbed the tip of his finger on the handle of the Colt Peacemaker on his hip, and then tapped it with his silver ring. That’s ‘cause I ain’t never been in here before. He looked around the shop, packed wall to wall with every imaginable dry good and sundry under God’s green Earth. Floor to ceiling, the shop was covered with glass cases and shelves. The dark wood walls and floor made the store a rather dreary place. You’ve a well-stocked store, that’s fer sure. ‘Bout every staple and useful item ever created, I’d reckon. Pretty soon, inventors is gonna run outta things to think up. An age of miracles and wonders.

This here is the finest shop in Missoula, stranger. If you need somethin’, just ask. I can order anything you can imagine, and it will only take a month or two to get it from San Francisco. My prices are fair; I try to treat my customers right. The old merchant ran his finger across his moustache, then down the side of his cheek as he smiled. I’m Phil Harrison. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister, he held out his hand and paused while he looked at Jeremiah.

Brandt. Pleased ta meet ya, Mister Harrison. I was just in San Francisco not all that long ago. I’ll keep that in mind. Jeremiah Brandt took the old man’s hand and shook, solid as iron.

Harrison beamed. The shopkeeper shuffled back behind the glass case and picked up a rag, swiping the clear surface in tight circles. Any questions, please let me know. I have a bunch of prospectin’ supplies coming in the next few days.

Missoula is a heckuva town, from everything I hear. That’s why I came, Jeremiah said. Quite the place, as long as you keep loose tobacco and rollin’ papers. I should be in here quite a bit.

"We’re gonna catch up to them big cities, I bet. We’ve had our own newspaper for almost five years now. The Missoula and Cedar Creek Pioneer. Now that’s progress. Chinese laundry, saloons, even a restaurant. We got it all, yes sir. Soon we are going to be a match for San Fran. Some talk an army fort might be built right here in a few years. The shopkeeper smiled. Think of the business to be had, the money to be made. The profits. Soldiers with their government pay. I can’t wait."

A crooked smile appeared on Jeremiah’s face. It’s very cosmopolitan in San Francisco, that’s fer sure. They’re trying so hard ta be Europe. He shook his head in disgust. Maybe even worse, London. Y’know in Edinburgh, Scotland, them fellas wear skirts? Spend their free time whackin’ little balls with sticks. They call it golf. It’s almost unchristian. They should spend more time drinkin’. It’s a heckuva lot different than Yuma, where I’m from. No fella there would wear a dress, I can tell ya.

They say that they have cable cars in San Fran. Can you imagine such a thing? Cable cars. This modern age, it’s absolutely unbelievable. Harrison laughed. You’re from Yuma. I remember when it was called Colorado City, clear back in the day, before they changed it to Arizona City after the flood. I liked that name better anyway, honestly. The shopkeeper waved his hand in the air, looking at the imaginary sign. Arizona City. That has big city class.

Yep. Changed it ta Yuma. I still call it Arizona City sometimes, Jeremiah smiled crookedly again, lost in thought. Old habits are hard ta break. Very hard.

The shopkeeper smiled back. I don’t think that name, Yuma, will ever stick. It’s too hard to remember. I bet they’ll change it back. Ain’t never been there, but I hear it’s insane sometimes. Gunfighters, bandits, Mexicans. The whole of the wild southwest is a rough and tumble place.

Jeremiah laughed. I left not that long ago, and they ain’t changed it from Yuma yet. It’s stuck fer two years so far. Maybe it’ll stick fer at least another couple. Time will tell if’n they’ll change it back. His finger still traced the handle of the revolver; the raised relief of the Crucifixion on the handle soothed him. Well, thanks for yer time. Nice ta make your acquaintance. I’m sure I’ll be back.

You’re always welcome here, the shopkeeper said. Should I plan on changing my maps in 1877?

If they keep changin’ the name, you might have ta right now in 1875. People jus’ can’t leave well ‘nough alone sometimes, Jeremiah said. His smile weakened as he thought about his old home and leaving it behind, the good and the bad with it...and his dead wife. Change can be tough. It sure wasn’t easy leavin’ Yuma; been my home fer a mighty long time now.

The shopkeeper raised the spectacles on a string around his neck onto his nose, then squinted at the pistol’s handle. You stickin’ around for a while, then? There’s a lot of work for miners in this area, prospectors, and ranch hands. This area is growing like crazy, and it’s about ready to really swell again. There will be a demand for good strong men like you.

Jeremiah’s intermittent crooked smile hardened into taut lips. I hunt for a livin’, but I can tell ya know that by the way yer lookin’ at my shootin’ iron. It’s all right if’n ya want a closer look. Slowly, he pulled the pistol from its holster and pointed it away from the wide-eyed shopkeeper.

I thought you’re one of those retributors when you first walked in. A couple have passed through, but they never stay very long. That engraving on your gun and your ring give it away. You best be careful around here. A lot of locals ain’t gonna much cotton to your type staying here for more than just a couple days. It could get really ugly, Mister Brandt. Best you take care of yer business and head on out. I’ve seen those kinds of guns before; those Colt Peacemakers can fire quite a bullet. It might not be enough if you make many enemies.

Two hundred and fifty-five grains. It’s a large bullet. They ain’t gonna have much choice whether I stay or go. I’m here ta stay. I’m here ta work. I’m here ta hunt.

Phillip bit his lower lip and looked down at the glass. You’d better be a good shot. You seem like a stand-up fella, and I’d hate for something to happen to you. This is gonna turn out to be a dangerous town for someone in your line of work, Mister Brandt. Be very careful.

Jeremiah nodded and the smile returned, dark thoughts shoved to the back of his mind. He doubled up his fist and held his ring up to the shopkeeper. I can shoot the nipple offa banshee’s tit at fifty yards. And I have. Jeremiah tipped his hat and walked out. The heels of his boots clomped against the hard pine floor as a bell attached to the door rang.

* * *

Jeremiah Brandt strolled through Missoula, taking in the sights and sounds of the town. Smoke wafted from chimneys and created a haze that hung over the settlement. The smell of food, animals, and burnt wood all jumbled together. The air was not as dry as the Yuma climate he was used to. The scrubby sage plains and the Arizona desert had burned hot in his lungs. Montana Territory was much more pleasant on a summer day.

Random sounds echoed against wood buildings: children’s laughter, a dog barked. A piano banged out a drinking song in some fancy saloon. Some lush hollered unintelligibly followed immediately by shouts. In a small way, it made him homesick for Arizona, but not its hot, dry climate.

He familiarized himself with the layout of the town and loitered on a new bridge. Jeremiah rolled a smoke and watched the cool water flow underneath. Two boys with homemade poles fished to no avail; they laughed and fidgeted, but most likely scared off any fish that might have struck at the baited hooks. He continued to walk near the waterway and tried to spy the cagey fish that would not take the bait.

Two Chinamen argued in the street, and one held the carcass of a plucked duck. Their words came fast and rapid. Their celestial tongue a tangle of syllables that he could not understand. While Jeremiah knew how to cuss in five languages, Chinese was not one of them. Given that he had seen so many of the foreigners since coming through San Francisco and Seattle, it might be the next one he needed to learn.

The retributor looked across Clay Street near the corner of Front Street. His stomach grumbled from the long day. He spied a hotel, one of the newer buildings, and worked his way across the dirt road. Several locals looked on. They chatted quietly and spit dark brown liquid on the ground. They nodded as he passed, and he politely nodded back, then stopped at double doors. He peered into a busy saloon on the east side of the building until his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. He felt the eyes of the locals. They gazed curiously at the stranger from out of town. Jeremiah tried not to be flashy, dress as a swell, but the silver pistol was a dead giveaway of his business. From somewhere nearby, the smell of opium being boiled was unmistakable. No doubt Chinamen in their den. He pushed through the tavern doors, ready for a meal and a drink.

He entered. The patrons of the establishment were subdued. Their various attires indicated their professions: ranchers, miners, and trappers. A dark-stained bar spread in front of a wall holding shelves of liquor bottles. A massive mirror was centered between the shelves, and a friendly-looking barkeep polished shot glasses. He was an older man who had short, gray hair that had thinned out on top. Heads turned as Jeremiah entered. He strode between the tables and noticed several poker and faro games in progress. There was little doubt that some of those decks had more than four aces. Crooked cards dealt from the bottom of the deck kept him away from such competitions. It was far too hard to earn money just to let some card shark take it.

What can I do for you, stranger? the keep asked politely. Jeremiah pulled up a tall stool and sat, then gently placed his hat on the bar. A clank echoed as one of the trappers spit into a spittoon. The smell of wet tobacco mixed with the acrid smell of the leaf as it burned in someone’s pipe. My name is Henry Daniels, been the keep here since it opened. Plenty of selection. Pick your poison. Just tapped a keg of beer if you are so inclined, Mister.

Whiskey. And a beer. Jeremiah shifted on the stool, and his silver-plated spurs clanked on the wood. His knees felt relieved after today’s long walk.

Local rotgut or somethin’ special? I got a couple of bottles of whiskey from Tennessee, but it’s pricey. Two bits for local hooch, two dollars for a shot shipped in by stagecoach. The keep held up two jugs.

Tennessee, please. Ya know a place I can get me some food? Somethin’ hot?

The barkeep set a dark bottle on the bar, then a clean shot glass. The bottle uncorked with a pop and two fingers of whiskey flowed. Not a drop spilled onto the stained pine. The hotel has a restaurant through those doors over there. It’s a quality establishment: hats off, no spitting, and you have to check your guns in. Civilization lies thattaway, if you feel the need. This is a saloon.

Ain’t that quality then, Jeremiah grumbled. I don’t take the shooter off. Maybe I can just eat here, if’n ya would be willin’ ta accommodate?

The old man looked puzzled for a few seconds. We can do that, I s’pose. I don’t do tabs here. That’ll be two-fifty for the drinks. Hank sat a mug of beer on the bar. The foamy head ran over the ceramic stein. Jeremiah laid ten Seated Liberty quarters on the bar and took a swallow of the liquid. The beer quenched his parched throat.

A steak would be fine; cooked through and through. I don’t like ‘em mooing. Lots of garlic, if’n the kitchen has it. And biscuits. A man’s gotta have his biscuits. Ain’t supper without biscuits, my mama used to say. His fingers circled the small glass and in a smooth, practiced motion, he downed the whiskey with a single swallow, then clacked the empty glass on the wood. The liquor burned on the way down. The alcohol worked its way towards his toes, and his gullet warmed. Whoa, he whispered and took a swallow of warm beer, dousing the fire a bit.

Stout stuff. Shoulda warned ya. The keep smiled. But ya drink whiskey, you know what you’re getting into. Tennessee makes it strong.

Tis true, Jeremiah gasped. His tongue felt like it was on fire, even with the beer. The barkeep wandered around the bar and through the wood doors to the hotel. A few minutes later, he returned and continued to polish shot glasses.

A through and through cooked steak is on the grill right now, like you asked, he said. You’ll need to pay when she brings it because yer eatin’ in the bar. Civilized types can pay after dinner when they eat in the hotel. Like I said, ain’t civilization on this side of those doors.

Jeremiah nodded. I can do that. ‘Sides, I can’t take too much civilization at once.

Your hair has the look of someone who has spent a lot of time in the sun. It’s bleached out. If you want to clean up, get a shave, there are some reputable places here in Missoula, the keep said. I would be happy to help you.

Jeremiah looked past the shelves of liquor at the smudged mirrors. The dark eyes of his reflection stared back from around a whiskey bottle. His hair was longer than it should have been, down to his shoulders. The ends were bleached like the keep had observed. Five days of beard darkened his face. His dark wool shirt was disheveled and stained, needing to be worked over at a Chinese laundry. That wouldn’t hurt.

The keep looked in the mirror. Well, if you are from down south, it gets cooler here in Missoula. You will have to get used to it.

The change was welcome. The tall trees of the Rockies, the hot springs of the Lolo Pass were a world apart from the cacti and scrub of the scrubby desert of Arizona. Jeremiah nursed his beer, and then wove the tale of the last several months. The bartender listened intently to the story as he recounted his journey from Arizona.

He had travelled across California to the coast, then jumped from city to city by ship northwards until his arrival in Seattle. Jeremiah laughed as he recounted his first sight of the Pacific Ocean, then the first few miserable nights on a ship. It rocked with every cruel wave. He had never been so sick. Most of his time was spent on the stern of the vessel. He puked endlessly as some Germans laughed at him, no doubt making snide remarks in their choppy, harsh tongue. A steamboat named Mountain Gem carried him up the Columbia to Lewiston in the Idaho Territory, a regional crossroads of river travel and commerce. The keep asked about the Columbia River and the Pacific Ocean, amazed so much water could be in one place.

Jeremiah recounted the overland trip up through the mountains. He stayed in so many small mining camps he could hardly remember the names as he traveled eastward. Through the lands of the native peoples he journeyed, the territories of the noble Nez Perce and the brave Kootenai. The Indians were friendly, interested in trade, even as their lands were being taken out from under them by the government. He thought of the Apache in Arizona, so far away; some of them were his friends. Another thing left behind.

Damn shame how some of those people are bein’ treated, the bartender said dryly, and Jeremiah nodded in agreement. Noble savages. It’s not Christian, I tell ya. People should be more respectful to their fellow man, more tolerant even. I fear history may judge us harshly for our treatment of the Injuns.

The retributor pondered the thought as Henry pointed towards the doors. He glanced in the mirror to see a Chinaman opening the swinging doors. I agree—

No damn Chinaman using the front entrance! The bartender shouted as he interrupted Jeremiah. You Celestials know better than that. Back entrance only!

The plainly dressed man bowed politely, then quietly backed out the door and disappeared around the corner as Jeremiah swallowed a gulp of beer, still deep in his contemplations. An attractive young woman with dark hair and eyes brought two plates. The smell of the food interrupted his thoughts. One had a thick steak, steam rising from the meat, and several small potatoes. The second had several biscuits spread with butter. The smell of the steak mixed with the warm bread pleased the retributor. Silverware please, ma’am, he said quietly. She pulled a knife and fork from an apron pocket and laid them on the bar carefully.

"My name is Grace, not ma’am. Grace Morris. My father