Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
Daddy Was a Gunman
“I’m not leavin’.”
“Then do something.”
Clint sat there, slouched, seemingly relaxed, staring up at the younger man.
“Damn you!” Bravo shouted, and went for his gun. As he did so, Clint kicked the chair opposite him into Bravo, knocking him off balance. Clint came out of his chair, closed the distance between the two of them and snatched the gun from Bravo’s hand. Then he pushed the young man, sending him spinning and sprawling into the center of the room.
Clint closed in on him again, got down on one knee and asked, “Tell me who put you up to this?”
“Whataya doin’?”
“Keeping you alive,” Clint said, then pointed the young man’s own gun at him, cocked the hammer and added, “Maybe.”
Bravo stared down the barrel of his own gun and asked, "W-whataya wanna know?”
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OUT OF THE PAST
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Jove edition / July 2008
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ONE
Clint Adams stared down at the cards in his hand. He had three aces, and it was the best hand he’d had in the three days since he’d arrived in St. Joe, Missouri, three days ago. That wasn’t saying much for three days of poker. The only good thing was that he’d been playing pretty low stakes up to now.
Today’s game was a little different. There was some new blood at the table, as several of the earlier players had moved on for various reasons. They’d either busted out or had finished their business in town. The new players who had taken their places had not been averse to higher stakes, so sitting with three aces in his hand and more money in the center of the table than at any time in the past three days was good news.
Especially since this was draw poker and he had his three aces before the draw.
Two players had dropped out and the two remaining players were new to the game.
The dealer’s name was Victor Michaels. He had only arrived in town that morning, and within an hour of checking into his hotel, he’d headed over to the saloon, where he’d introduced himself and joined the game. But not once had he said what his business was.
The other player still in the game was a drummer named Elias Wells. His drummer’s case was at his feet, which he claimed was filled with women’s underwear from Paris, France. He was hoping to place some items with a shop that sold ladies intimates.
Wells had to draw first.
“Three cards,” he said. He had called Clint’s twenty-dollar bet with a pair. It was the largest bet that had been made at the table in three days, and it had knocked out the other two players, both citizens of the town.
“Two,” Clint said.
Michaels dealt two cards to Clint, then looked at his own hand and said, “Dealer takes one.”
Logic said he was trying to fill a straight or a flush, or had two pair. Anybody else and Cl
int might have suspected a bluff, but the man had not yet indicated he was that type of a player.
Of course, he could have just been waiting for a large pot.
“All right, Mr. Adams,” Michaels said, “you’re the opener. It’s your bet.”
Clint was seated so that he could see the door and the rest of the room. He noticed someone peering over the tops of the batwings, eyes scanning the room. From his vantage point—seeing only the top of the head, the eyes and the legs—he assumed it was a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. His mother had probably sent him to bring drunk Daddy home for supper.
“I’ll open for fifty.”
“Fifty?” Michaels repeated.
“Too steep?” Clint asked.
“Oh, no, no,” Michaels said, “not at all—for me, anyway. Mr. Wells?”
“Is it my turn?” the drummer asked.
“No,” Michaels said, “I was simply asking if you objected to the size of Mr. Adams’s bet.”
“Fifty dollars? No, no, it seems quite reasonable to me.”
“Very well,” Michaels said, “then the bet is fifty dollars to me.”
He studied his cards for a few moments before acting.
“I’ll call the fifty,” Michaels said, “and raise a hundred—unless that is too steep?”
He looked at Elias Wells.
“Hmm, oh. Too steep? I’m afraid—yes, I’m afraid that is too much for me . . . with these cards anyway.”
He dropped his hand facedown on the table, then sat back with his arms folded to watch along with the other sidelined players.
“A hundred to me, eh?” Clint asked.
“That’s right, sir.”
Clint had played for much higher stakes than these, so a hundred was not going to deter him.
“I call your hundred, Mr. Michaels,” he said, “and raise a hundred.”
While waiting for the dealer to make up his mind about folding, calling or raising, Clint looked over at the door again. The kid had stepped inside and was asking a man a question, while pointing back in the direction of the poker game. Probably wanted to know what was going on.
“Well,” Michaels said, “I’ve gone too far now to give it up. I’ll have to call you and raise another two hundred.”
“You have a lot of confidence in one-call draw, Mr. Michaels.”
“Please,” the man said, “since I’m about to take a lot of your money, why don’t you call me Victor?”
“All right, Victor,” Clint said. “Why don’t I just push the rest of my money into the middle of the table and we’ll see just how good your four-card draw was?” Clint asked.
TWO
“I’m afraid you’ve got a little more there than I do, Clint . . .” Michaels said, looking down at the money in the middle of the table.
“Well, I can pull some of it back if it’s too much,” Clint offered.
“No, no,” Michaels said, “I’ll just have to go into my pocket, if that doesn’t offend anyone else’s table stakes sensibilities.”
“I don’t think anyone here is offended,” Clint assured him.
“Okay,” Michaels said, drawing his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, “that looks like . . . about four hundred and seventy-five dollars?”
“Exactly,” Clint said, “you have a good eye.”
Michaels put five one hundred dollar bills into the pot and withdrew twenty-five dollars change.
“Well,” he said. Then, “I think four kings is pretty good for a one-card draw, don’t you, Clint?” Victor Michaels asked.
“I think that was damn good, Victor,” Clint said. The man nodded, smiled and reached for the pot. “It would’ve been even better,” Clint went on, laying his cards on the table, “if I hadn’t drawn a fourth ace.”
Victor Michaels looked poleaxed. The color drained from his face and he sat back while Clint raked the pot in.
“Wow,” Elias Wells said, shaking his head, “how often do you get to see two four-of-a-kinds in the same game— and in the same hand?”
“I never did see it,” one of the other men said.
“It’s very rare,” Clint said, “So rare, in fact, that you didn’t see it this time, either. Not fairly, anyway.”
“What?” Wells asked.
“Well, I guess that cleans me out,” Michaels said, starting to rise, but Clint clamped his hand on the man’s wrist to stop him.
“Mr. Michaels didn’t get that fourth king from the deck,” Clint told Wells.
“Well, where . . . you mean, he’s been cheatin’?” Wells asked.
He reached for the wrist Clint was holding, felt up and down the sleeve.
“He ain’t got nothin’ up his sleeve,” Wells said.
“That’s because he got it from his pocket when he withdrew his wallet and most of us were looking at the hundred dollar bills he laid on the table. Go on, check his pocket. I’m sure you’ll find the card he replaced in there with the wallet.”
“I don’t have to stand here and—” Michaels started, but Clint cut him off.
“Yes,” he said, “you do.”
Elias Wells open Michaels’s jacket, reached into the inner pocket and pulled out the man’s wallet—and a five of clubs.
“Son of a bitch!” Wells said, throwing both items down on the table.
“All right, all right,” Michaels said, “you caught me. I’ll just take my wallet and—”
“Leave it,” Clint said.
“What?”
“You can go, but leave the wallet. These men lost money to you. They’re going to get it back.”
“But . . . there’s two thousand dollars in there!” the man cried.
“That’ll more than cover their losses,” Clint said, “and buy a round of drinks for the house.”
Their conversation had drawn some attention from nearby tables, and while not a lot of people knew what was going on, the news of a round of drinks spread like wildfire.
“That’s it, Mr. Michaels,” Clint said. “You can go.”
“But I—”
“Get out while you can still walk,” Clint said.
While Victor Michaels staggered out the door, Clint picked up his winnings and said to the rest of the men at the table, “Split that money up and leave enough for drinks for the house.”
“That sounds good to me,” Wells said.
“And just take what you started with,” Clint added. “Don’t be looking to make a profit.”
“That’s fair,” Well said.
He and the other men opened the wallet and took what was theirs and then Wells shouted, “Drinks on the house!”
That wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough for everyone.
Clint walked to the bar and secured a place for himself, then signaled the waiter for a beer.
“Mr. Adams?”
He turned, then looked down to see the young lad who had been at the door looking up at him.
“Yes? What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, you are Clint Adams, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I need to talk to you, sir.”
“What about? You know, you shouldn’t be in here. What are you, thirteen?”
“I’m almost sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” Clint said. “You’re a little small for your age, aren’t you, son?”
“You might be right about that,” the youngster said, “if I were a boy.”
“What? You mean—”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’m a girl.”
“Well . . . then you really shouldn’t be in here, should you? What’s your name?”
“Sandy.”
“Well, Sandy,” Clint said, “don’t you think your mother might be looking for you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Well, your father, then. Surely he’s wondering where you are.”
“I hope not, si
r,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m hoping I’m lookin’ at my father right now.”
THREE
Clint wasn’t sure he’d heard right above the din of the men bellying up to the bar for their free drinks.
“Come outside,” he said. He almost took the girl’s arm, but then pulled his hand away as if she were hot.
Together they left the saloon and stopped outside on the walk.
“What did you say?”
“I said I think you’re my daddy.”
“What makes you think that . . . Sandy?”
“Well, sir,” she said. “Momma told me.”
“When?”
“Just before she died,” Sandy said. “She told me to go looking for you if I ever needed help, because you’d help me.”
He studied the girl standing in front of him. Her hair was chopped short but it was red. Beneath the grime she looked pretty—freckled face and green eyes. She stood about five foot two and she stared at him boldly, but he could see a hint of fear lurking behind those emerald eyes. Fear of him? Or that he might reject her?
“Who was your momma, Sandy?”
“Anne Archer.”
Clint felt as if he’d been punched in the gut and stabbed in the heart at the same time.
“You knew my ma,” Sandy said.
“Oh, yes,” Clint said. “I knew her.”
“Did you love her?”
Clint thought about the question. Anne Archer was a beautiful woman who also happened to be a bounty hunter. She had two partners, Sandy Spillane and Katy Littlefeather. They were all exceptional women and very good at what they did, but it was Anne Archer he really connected with. Over the years their paths crossed and at times it seemed that they wouldn’t uncross, but in the end they’d end up going their separate ways. It had been many years since he’d seen her, or even heard from her . . . and now this. He felt an ache that came not only from sadness, but from shame.
And now this . . .
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll get something to eat and talk about . . . your mother.”
He took her to a small café off the main street and ordered them two steak suppers. The kid ate as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. Clint ate his own steak, watching her the whole time. He thought he saw little flashes of Anne Archer, but what he was looking for was something of himself.
Out of the Past Page 1