Let It Bleed
Page 1
Recoil in Fear . . .
Temple felt Clint’s hands on him, and then he was rolling on the ground.
“What the—” he said, trying to get up. Only then did he realize there had been a shot.
“Stay down!”
“What the hell happened?”
“Someone took a shot at us.”
“Us?”
“Me,” Clint said. “You. Come here.”
He pulled Temple across the street, where they took cover behind a horse trough.
“Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “It’s too dark.”
“Why don’t you have your gun out?” Temple asked. “Isn’t that what gunfighters do at the first sign of trouble? Draw their gun?”
“Not if they don’t know what to shoot at,” Clint said.
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LET IT BLEED
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Robert J. Randisi.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14539-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / January 2015
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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.
Version_1
Contents
All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ONE
Harry Temple rode into the town of Abilene, Kansas, feeling the weight of a two-year hunt on his back. The saddle he sat on and the gun belt around his waist were worn. That was because they had once belonged to someone else. The trail clothes he was wearing still felt odd to him, not because they, too, had once been worn by someone else, but because he’d once dressed in very different clothes.
Temple was from the East. Born and raised in Philadelphia, he wasn’t used to cowboy boots and gun belts. At least, he hadn’t been until about two years ago, when he came west. This was a whole new Harry Temple, not the one who had spent his first thirty-two years in Philadelphia, and then several years working in Boston.
Over the past two years the man had changed drastically. Not just in the way he dressed, but the way he thought, and felt and acted.
He reined in his horse in front of the first saloon he came to and dismounted. After tying the horse to a hitching post among a few others, he entered the place and found himself a spot at the crowded bar.
“Beer,” he said to the bartender.
“Comin’ up.” The bartender’s hand dwarfed the mug he set down in front of Temple. He was a big, meaty man in his forties. “There ya go.”
“Thanks.”
Temple heard some raised voices in the back of the saloon and looked that way, as did the others at the bar. There was a crowd of men back there, watching some activity or another.
“Passin’ through?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing,” Temple said. “What’s going on back there?”
“Poker game.”
“High stakes?”
“Not really.”
“So what’s all the fuss about, then?”
The bartender leaned his massive forearms on the bar.
“It’s who’s playin’.”
“And who’s that?”
“The mayor, the district attorney,” the bartender said, “a couple of local ranchers.”
“Doesn’t sound like a whole lot to attract a crowd like that.”
“There’s one more player in the game.”
“And who’s that?”
“Clint Adams.”
Temple paused with his mug halfway to his mouth.
“The Gunsmith?”
“The same,” the bartender said.
“Well, friend,” Temple said, “where I come from, that’s called burying the lead. Maybe it’s worth taking a look. Thanks.”
He took his beer and walked to the rear of the saloon.
* * *
There were five men around the table, as the bartender had said, and they weren’t hard to identify. The best dressed of them, a big, florid-faced man, had to be the mayor. Another man wearing a suit, a few years younger—with his jacket hanging on the back of the chair and dark sweat rings soaking his white shirt beneath his arms—had to be the district attorney. Two other men, both in their fifties, wearing clean ranch clothes, had to be the ranchers.
That left the fifth man.
Clint Adams.
Tall, wearing trail clothes that were worn but not old, he also seemed to have most of the chips in front of him. He sat, calmly looking at his cards, while the other men made their plays, and then he tossed some chips into the pot. While Temple watched, more times than not, he also raked in the pot.
Temple nursed his beer while he watched the game progress. An idea was forming in his head, and he wanted to let it roll around awhile, as he always did. He prided himself on never jumping the gun, and always giving situations enough thought. He’d done that even with the decision he’d made that had backfired on him and sent him out here to the West. And even so, he didn’t completely regret it.
The people around him changed positions, as some left and new ones came. They weren’t there to see the game as much as they were there to see the Gunsmith.
Temple could see the chips on the table, and from listening closely, he knew what the denominations were. They may not have been playing high stakes, but there was still hundreds of dollars on the table.
He asked a passing girl for another beer, and settled in to watch Clint Adams clean them all out.
TWO
While Temple nursed his second beer, people gradually lost interest as Clint Adams won three out of every four hands. Eventually the mayor and the district attorney tapped out and quit, leaving only Clint Adams and the two ranchers. From the conversation, it soon became clear that Adams was friends with one of the men; maybe they’d known each other before he came to town.
“I’ve had it,” the other rancher said. “Thanks for the poker lesson, Adams.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Blake,” Clint Adams said. “Anytime.”
The rancher stood, shook hands with Adams and the other man, and left.
Clint Adams looked up and saw Temple standing there.
“You looking for a game?” he asked.
“Me?” Temple said. “No, sir. I’m no gambler. I was just passing through, saw the crowd, and stepped up to see what the fuss was.”
“Lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me,” Clint Adams said.
“You’re too modest,” the other man said. He was older, with the gray hair and wrinkles to go with the years. “What’s your name, son?” he asked Temple.
“Harry Temple.”
“My name’s Abraham Corman,” the older man said. “This is Clint Adams.”
“I know that,” Temple said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams. You, too, Mr. Corman.”
“Well,” Corman said, “I better get on home. My wife’s gonna be waitin’. Clint, you want to come to dinner?”
“Thanks, Abe, but I think I’ll just stay in town tonight, spend some of my winnings on a steak and beer.”
“Suit yourself. Make sure you stop by before you leave Abilene, though.”
“You know I will.”
Corman left while Clint Adams collected his chips and went to cash them in.
Temple took his beer back to the bar.
“Another one?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Temple said, “I think I had enough. You can answer a question, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Clint Adams,” Temple said. “Any idea how long he’ll be in town?”
“Not sure,” the barman said. “He came to town like you, just passing through. Found out he knew Abe Corman.”
“Any idea how long he’s staying?”
“I don’t know that either. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Temple turned and looked around the saloon. Clint Adams had collected his money and left.
“Any idea where I can get a good steak?” he asked the bartender.
“Now, there I can help you,” the bartender said. “Go across the street and two blocks west to Jake’s Steakhouse. Best in town.”
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“Two bits,” the barman said. “First beer was on the house for a first timer.”
Temple dropped two bits on the bar and said, “Thanks.”
He turned and left the saloon.
As he entered Jake’s, he saw Clint Adams sitting at a back table, working on a beer and probably waiting for that steak he’d mentioned.
“Take any table,” a waiter said as he passed. The place was busy, tables occupied by couples, families, and some lone men.
He started across the room to a table, but his attention was attracted by Clint Adams waving at him.
“Why don’t you join me, Mr. Temple?” he asked.
Temple looked around, then walked over to Clint Adams’s table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Temple said.
“I ordered a steak,” Clint Adams said. “Supposed to be the best in town.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“From the bartender?”
Temple nodded.
“Me, too.”
The harried waiter came over and took Temple’s order, brought him a beer.
“Seems like you did pretty well at the game,” Temple commented.
“I hope that doesn’t mean you can’t pay for your steak,” Clint Adams said.
“I can pay,” Temple said, “don’t worry about that. But I’m curious about something.”
“What’s that?”
“Why would a man like the Gunsmith invite me, a stranger, to eat with him?”
“Maybe it’s because I want to find out what that stranger wants with me. You got something on your mind, mister. What is it?”
THREE
Clint had been in Abilene for several days. Intending only to pass on through, he’d spotted someone he knew on the street. Turned out Abe Corman owned a ranch nearby, invited Clint out to see it and have a meal, so his one-day visit stretched out some.
The poker game in the saloon had started innocently enough among Clint and some other patrons, but soon the mayor joined in, and then the district attorney, and finally Corman entered the saloon with another rancher, and they joined the game.
When the word got out that the Gunsmith was playing poker, it attracted some crowds, which Clint was not pleased about. But he enjoyed poker very much, especially when he was winning, so he continued playing, and eventually, the novelty wore off.
Except for one man, who got a second beer and kept watching . . . and then walked into the same restaurant . . .
* * *
“What makes you say that?” Harry Temple asked.
“You spent a lot of time watching a poker game being played by a bunch of people you didn’t know,” Clint said. “And you seemed real interested in me. I’ll bet you even asked the bartender about me, which is why you’re here.”
“Well, you’re right,” Temple said, “I did ask him about you, but then I asked him about a good meal and he sent me here. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Then it
’s a coincidence,” Clint said, “although I don’t much believe in those.”
“As a matter of fact . . .” Temple paused as the waiter appeared with their steaks. Both men leaned away from the steaming plates as their server set them down, almost expecting them to end up in their laps.
“You happen to be right,” Temple finished when the waiter was gone. “When I rode into town, I had no idea you were here. Once I found out, I got interested.”
Clint cut into his steak, saw that it was almost perfectly cooked. He was able to cut the potatoes and carrots very easily with his fork.
“So what’s on your mind?”
“I was a journalist in Boston—”
“I don’t do interviews,” Clint said, interrupting him. “It’s a rule of mine.”
“Let me finish, please.”
“All right,” Clint said. “Sorry. Just wanted to get that out there.”
“Up to two years ago I was a journalist in Boston,” Temple said. “Then everything changed. There was a killer at large in the city. I got word from an informant about who it was. I checked with the police, and they asked me not to run the story.”
“But you did.”
“Like I said before,” Temple answered. He had cut into his steak, but had not yet put any into his mouth. Clint chewed and waited. “I was a journalist.”
“The story comes first, right?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So what happened?”
“The killer left town.”
“And the police held you responsible?”
“Hell, I was responsible,” Temple said, “but it wasn’t even that. They were just happy that he left Boston.”
“But you weren’t.”
“No,” he said. “If I had sat on my story, he might have been caught.”
“So now . . . what? You’re looking for him? Hunting him?” Clint asked.
“I heard stories about killings in Cleveland,” Temple said. “But by the time I got there, he was gone. That was two years ago. And yes, I’ve been tracking him ever since.”
“Tracking?”
“Well, I’m not a tracker, of course,” Temple said, “but I’ve been following stories of cases that sound like him.”