JULIENNE
                                                IDAHO
                                               

Behind the counter of Rick's Bar, barmaid Lucy Scanlon was dreading another working day, knowing that at 16, she was wasting her formative years. She wiped down the counter top, and sighed. The job would be better without Rick Carter. The trouble was, his hands strayed, and Lucy was his target. Oh, the man had tact; he never tried anything when folks were around, but would slide behind her when the parlor was empty, and search roughly under her skirt. She fought him off. Surprised at her strength, and anger, Carter had not tried again, until yesterday, when his card-playing friends had gone home. "Leave me alone," she had said, "or I leave the job right now."

     "Aw, come on, young Lucy," Carter coaxed. "You have a gorgeous body and I am a willing man. We could have a good time together."

     "Your wife wouldn't like that."

     "She doesn't have to know a thing."

     Lucy flung aside the cleansing cloth. "I'm leaving."

     "That would be unwise. You've just lost your pa, and your ma is ill. You need the money from this job to help at home. Think about that; jobs are hard to get around here."
 

     "Okay, then just leave me alone or..."
 

     "Or what?"
 

     "Or I tell the sheriff."
 

     The warts on Carter's jaw turned pink. "You'll tell the sheriff! Since when has the fat man taken notice of folks in this town? On hot days he sits on his veranda and cools his fat ass while the rest of us put in a full day's work. He leaves any problems to deputy Amos, that's what our town sheriff does."
 

     Overnight, Lucy had reflected on what Carter had said. She did have a choice; leave either this job, or stay, just for the money. Carter was right; she could think of no other job vacancies in town. Sure, there were other farming jobs, but Ma required assistance on the Scanlon farm and Lucy gave her that help.
 

     This morning, Carter had let her in by the side door and the sly glance she caught from him put her on guard. He retired to the kitchen for breakfast, after giving orders; clean the counter; tidy the tables; run the vacuum cleaner over the carpets; check there was fifty bucks starting money in the till. He wanted the place tidy when the boys came in to play poker. She cursed in silence. Her chores seemed endless - and all for fifty cents an hour.

     The bar was stuffy. She opened several windows. Directly across the road was Duffy's Cafe, a clean, popular meeting place for the town's youngsters. She wished there were a vacancy for her in that snack bar...


 
     Amos Camano paused at Jones's desk in the office. "You don't look too bright this morning, sheriff." 

     Jones did indeed appear ill, with blotched face and puffed pouches under the eyes. "I have a headache, Amos. Would you put ice in a towel so I can use it on my temples?"

     Camano nodded, opened the fridge and brought out the ice cube tray. "How did things go with the dog?"

     "I never got one minute's sleep with that hound."

     Camano snapped the ice cubes apart and rolled them up in a towel, gave it to Jones. "I didn't hear him yapping."

     "No, I'll give you that; he was quiet through the night but he upset my sleep pattern; upset it so bad that I may never get it back."

     "Did Mrs Jones take to him?"

     "Oh, sure, she loves him; named him Rex, after a dog she had when I first met her. She and the dog get along just fine." Jones pushed the towel against his left temple. "Hey, this ice is just beautiful. I might yet survive till lunchtime. All I ask for this morning is peace - and quiet."


     Camano checked his attire, adjusted the rake of his Stetson in a mirror, and took his early stroll along the boardwalk, staying where he could in shade, for already shimmering heat was rising from the street. Out of habit, he stopped and looked back across the road to Bennett's gasoline station and saw Jack Bennett working on an old Cadillac; next in line was Duffy's Cafe, then the Julienne bank, after that came Marriott's General Store, and last, Tristan Green's property.

     On this side of the street, Camano would pass the pine building of Rick's Bar, then Anderson's Bakery, where aromas were coming to him of fresh baked bread and confectionery. Then it was the Watson store for clothing and cooking utensils. Another few strides would take him to the school, where his daughter, Lauren, would be. After the school stood Doc Bailey's surgery - and that was the end of High Street.

     Camano shrugged. Okay, so that was Julienne - a small town, but it was better than...he halted. A red Chevrolet came slowly toward him, having turned on to the street from beyond Tristan's place. He frowned. There was only one trail from that direction: the route from the old railroad at the foot of the valley and it would have taken an ace driver do have dealt with it. The car had two occupants. Neither man looked at him, just moving slow as if sizing up the town. The car stopped outside the bank. Camano drew a deep breath but relaxed when it moved and pulled into Jack Bennett's gasoline station.

     A bunch of men, laughing and joking, arrived by jeep and pushed into Rick's Bar. Camano knew them to be farm workers from nearby fields calling in for their card games with Carter. They would play a couple of hours, drinking, having fun, and by late morning they would move out to their homesteads.

     There was movement to Camano's right, he saw Sheriff Jones setting up chair on the office veranda. Camano moved along the street, could hear classes talking at the school. He walked behind the school, came back to High Street next Doc Bailey's surgery and saw the red Chevrolet parked outside Rick's Bar. There was no sign of the passengers. Hairs rose on the back of Camano's neck. He knew the signs.


     Tommy Wade slunk onto a seat in a corner of the Bar, scared as hell, for Frank Rickard had awoken in foul mood. Rickard stared round the bar, noting Carter and his cronies at a card table. He joined them. "Hey, hello you guys, how about dealing me in?"

     "This is a private card game, mister," said Carter.

   "Is that so?" Rickard circled the table, noting the cards dealt. "Well," he grinned, "none of you have much to gamble with. How about letting me in so I can teach you how to play?"

     "I said this is a private card game," said Carter. "If you want to stick around then buy a beer. The girl at the bar will serve you."

     Rickard swung round to the bar and saw Lucy coming through from a side room with a tray of empty glasses. He liked what he saw. She was young, well stacked; cute, and she possessed exactly the young body he was yearning. He went to the bar and slid onto a stool. "Hello, young lady, give me two beers, and pull one for you."

     "She doesn't drink alcohol," Carter called out.

     Rickard glanced across at him. "You have a big mouth, mister, Do you own this dump, or what?"

     "Yes, I do. The girl don't drink alcohol while she's on duty."

     Rickard grinned at Lucy. "What do you do when you're off duty?"

     "I mind my own business."

     "Say, that's a smart answer. Well, considering you are working, will you provide Tommy over there in the corner, and me with a beer each? If you have sandwiches, we'll have a selection of what you've got."

     "We don't provide sandwiches," growled Carter. "If you want food, I suggest you try Duffy's Cafe across the street."

     "I take it the service is more friendly at Duffy's than it is here," Rickard jeered, turning round square on his stool to face Carter.

     Carter had a hangover, and, as usual, it loosened his tongue. "We don't have to serve you, mister. If you don't like the service or the scenery, then get the hell out."

     Rickard recalled prison guards giving him similar treatment, but now he was out of stir, he took no drivel and nobody pushed him around. The 9mm automatic lay snug under his grey cotton shirt and his thin leather jacket. However, what interested him more than beer or food, was Lucy behind the bar. He turned back to face her, smiled, and said softly, "Little girl, maybe you and I can spend time together. You know - our bodies linked as one. What do you say to that?"

     Lucy pulled two beers and set them in front of him. "I say no thank you."

     Rickard grinned. "I like that: a girl who shows me respect. How much do I owe you?"

     "That will be two dollars and fifty cents."

     "Okay, pretty girl, here's a five-dollar bill. Now supposing you keeps the change and we talk things over when you have a break."

     "No tips," Carter called out.

     Rickard scowled, picked up a beer, drank from the tin, winced, spat out the beer and flung the tin to the carpet. It bounced then rolled to lie against the counter. He called to Carter, "You charge two dollars and fifty cents for two glasses of crap?"

     The swing doors opened. Deputy Camano came in asking was there a problem.
Rickard saw the badge fastened to Camano's shirt: the badge representing what he despised the most - mindless authority. He turned to Tommy Wade. "Take a look who just walked in, Tommy - we got Wyatt Earp." Then to Camano, "How are things, Wyatt? Have you settled with the Clanton gang yet?"

     Camano had seen his share of warped men. Dangerous men, men with fragile mentality hanging between unstable and hazardous, ex-cons wanting retribution to pay for their imprisonment. Somehow, to Camano, these man always exuded a weird odour: and Rickard had this stench in Spades. He noted Wade sitting in a corner next a window. He looked back to Rickard. "I suggest you drink up and leave town."

     Rickard grinned. This town deputy was a pushover. "Make me leave," he said.

     The swing doors were pushed open. Sheriff Jones loomed in the doorway. "What's the problem, Amos?" Jones stepped past Camano, saw Wade at the window seat, then stared at Rickard, at the glass on the carpet and the spilled beer spreading. Nobody spoke. Carter and his cronies did not move. Jones smiled briefly, the effort sending a singe of pain through his head. "I said what's amiss Amos? Is there something wrong with the beer?"

     "You call this crap beer!" snarled Rickard. This sheriff was big and fat, a typical wise-guy sheriff who made mistakes and blamed others for his own errors. "I paid two dollars fifty for two beers, sheriff. I drank beer and it tasted piss. You get my meaning?"

     Jones removed his Stetson. Wearing it had aggravated his headache. Sparks were flashing before his eyes. A headache with sparks added up to reprisal, and this gray-faced jerk leaning against the bar was just the reprisal Jones was looking for. He replaced the Stetson on his head, advanced within a stride of Rickard, said quietly, "Listen, boy. I'm taking siesta at the Law Office when somebody disturbs my silence. Noise bothers me deeply. I take action against noise and unrest. I saw you and your friend leave a Chevy outside and come in here, then dang me I hear somebody yelling that the beer is crap."

     "It is crap," Rickard snickered, moving slightly to give himself better access to the 9mm. "I say it again - the beer is crap, and what are you doing about that?"

     "What am I doing? I'm saying get out of my town - and stay out."

     Rickard pointed to the beer Tommy Wade should have had. ""I paid two dollars fifty. I want my moneys worth."

     Jones nodded to the fallen tin. "You threw your beer can to the carpet - is that right?"

     "I did."

     "Well, I reckon it will cost two dollars fifty to clear up the mess, so you are even: now get moving."

     Frank Rickard had mixed with no-nonsense prison guards, and, surprisingly, he was putting this fat sheriff in that same league. There was just...something about this sheriff that spelled trouble. Maybe it was time to slip out of town, and return later - to see Lucy.

     Jones, without looking at Wade, beckoned him. "Come here, boy and join your friend." Wade groaned. What was Rickard doing? This hulking sheriff looked one awkward hombre. Wade put on the best smile he could, came over and stood next to Rickard. Jones could see Wade was the weaker of the two. "What's your name, son?"

     "What's in a name?" said Rickard. "We're just passing through, sheriff. Names don't mean a thing."

     "They mean something to me, boy. I asked your friend his name - so keep your mouth shut while he answers." Jones lowered his eyebrows, said to Wade, "What is your name, friend?"

     "Tommy."

     A smile flickered across Jones' face. "Where are you from, Tommy?"

     "Don't tell him," Rickard cut in.

     Jones breathed in deep. "Okay, I'll make you boys a proposition - you leave town now, or I take you in. Am I making myself clear?"