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
Ambushing an Ambush
Clint ran down the street toward the boardinghouse. When he came within sight of it, he could see Hannie standing on the street out front, waiting. Good, at least she hadn’t gone rushing in.
Then he saw movement on one side of the house and quickened his pace.
Doyle snuck along the side of the house . . . and drew his gun. He had a clear view of Hannie, who was staring intently at the door. This was going to be easy.
As he aimed his gun at her, she was still staring ahead, flexing her fingers, waiting to draw her gun. This would be her last killing and then she’d take off the gun for good.
Getting closer to Hannie, Clint could see Doyle, cowardly planning on shooting her from ambush.
“Hannie! Watch out!” called Clint.
Hearing Clint’s shout, Hannie didn’t know which way to look, so she turned her back to look at him, giving Doyle a clear shot between her shoulder blades—and he cocked the hammer . . .
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
LONGARM by Tabor Evans
The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
WILDGUN by Jack Hanson
The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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.
EAST OF THE RIVER
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / April 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-02237-5
JOVE®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
ONE
Clint Adams had admitted to himself a long time ago that he preferred life west of the Mississippi. Even when he went east, it was usually to St. Louis. This time, however, he was riding all the way to Indiana—to Marion County and, to be exact, the town of Ajax.
As he rode into town, he was unimpressed with Ajax. He wondered if the people who named the town knew anything about Greek mythology. Ajax the Great was the legendary king of Salamis Island, son of Telamon. But Ajax the Lesser was the son of King Oleus of Locris. Clint would have hated to be one of two Clints and described as “Clint the Lesser.”
The only reason Clint knew this was that he read a lot, especially when he was on the trail. Mostly he read Dickens and Twain, but often he read history.
Ajax was a small town, but he’d been in smaller. The buildings were old, in disrepair, although in places you could see that someone had made an effort. There were some new boards here and there, and a couple of buildings with whole new walls, as if the old one had fallen and been replaced. But why anyone would pick this town for a poker game was beyond Clint.
He found the hotel—the only hotel in town, so why put a name on it other than “HOTEL”? This building was the newest in town, but that wasn’t saying much. It seemed to be the only one that didn’t look like a stiff wind would knock it over.
He dismounted, and wrapped Eclipse’s reins carelessly around a hitching post as a formality. The horse would not go anywhere without him.
As he entered the hotel, he was surprised at the opulence he found. The furniture was plush; there was a crystal chandelier in the ceiling. The man standing behind the desk wore a black suit, his hair plastered down by some kind of hair tonic.
“Welcome to the Hotel, sir,” the man said.
Clint approached the desk and said, “I
’m looking for Harry Dial.”
“Mr. Dial, the owner? Yes, sir. Can I say who—”
“Tell him Clint Adams is here.”
“Clint Adams?” The clerk, a man probably in his thirties, suddenly got a lot younger. “Really? You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”
“Has anyone else arrived?”
“Anyone else?”
“You know, for the game.”
“Oh, uh, the game,” the clerk said. “Uh, no, sir, nobody’s here.”
“Okay, just tell Harry I’m here.”
“Uh, sure, Mr. Adams, sure. Uh, Mr. Dial is in his room, room one? I’ll go up and—”
“Is he alone?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“Who’s with him?”
“Well, uh . . .”
“A woman?”
The clerk grinned and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll just go and tell him—”
“That’s okay,” Clint said, putting his hand on the man’s arm, “I’ll announce myself.”
“Uh, yes, sir, it’s, uh, up one flight.”
Clint turned and went to the stairs.
Harry Dial flipped the blonde over onto her belly and filled his hands with the cheeks of her ample butt. He loved girls with big butts, and Sophie had the biggest of all the girls who worked at the cathouse.
“Ooh,” she moaned, “you’re gonna leave marks on my ass, Harry.”
“That ain’t all I’m gonna leave,” he growled.
He lifted her up so she was on all fours, then spread her cheeks and pressed his rigid penis against her—
The knock on the door interrupted him.
“Go away!”
The knock became a pounding.
“Jesus!” he said, getting off the bed. “Don’t go anywhere, Sophie.”
Sophie turned and sat, and said, “Where would I go, Harry? You’re payin’ me for my time.”
“Yeah,” he said, walking to the door, “just remember that, girl. I’m payin’ you for your time . . . and your ass!”
“Haw, Harry!” she said. “You’re such a romantic!”
Harry opened the door wide, stood there naked, and shouted, “What?”
“Let’s play cards, Harry,” Clint Adams said.
TWO
“What do you mean nobody’s coming?” Clint demanded.
The blonde on the bed had had such large, pale breasts that Clint had been momentarily stunned into silence. He couldn’t take his eyes off her large, pink nipples.
“Clint!”
Dial saying his name had broken the spell.
“Harry, what’s going on?” he’d asked.
“Jesus, Clint, I tried to get ahold of you. I sent telegrams, but I guess none of them ever caught up to you. So I just figured I’d tell you when you got here.”
“Tell me what, Harry?”
“Look,” Dial said, “let me get dressed and meet you in the lobby. Huh? Two minutes.”
Harry’s erection had wilted, so Clint was pretty sure he was only going to use the two minutes to get dressed.
“Okay, Harry,” he said, “two minutes.” He looked at the woman. “Ma’am, sorry to interrupt.”
He turned and went down to the lobby. Exactly two minutes later Harry appeared, fully dressed, and took Clint across the street to the saloon, where they were now, seated at a table with a beer each.
“Harry?”
Dial had just told Clint that none of the other players were coming.
“Like I said,” Dial repeated, “they can’t come. They canceled.”
“All of them?”
“Well, a few,” Dial admitted, “but when I got the telegrams with the cancellations, I figured, why go ahead with the whole thing? There wouldn’t be enough money to make it worth anyone’s while.”
“So you sent telegrams to everyone, telling them not to come?”
Dial shrugged and said, “Well, yeah, it seemed the right thing to do.”
“Except for me.”
Dial again shrugged his big shoulders. He was built like a bear, and since Clint had seen him naked, he knew that the man had almost as much hair all over his body. He tried to block the picture out of his mind, replace it with the naked woman on the bed.
“I told you, I tried to get hold of you, Clint,” Dial said. “I really did!”
Clint had been on the trail for at least two weeks, so if he gave the man the benefit of the doubt, he couldn’t really fault him.
“Crap,” he said, sitting back heavily in his chair, “What the hell am I going to do in this hole without that game?”
“Well . . . we do have a cathouse.”
“I don’t pay for girls, Harry,” Clint said.
“I forgot that,” Dial said. “Well, I could pay—”
“No,” Clint said, “That’s okay, Harry. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I feel responsible for you coming all this way for nothin’,” Dial said.
“That’s because you are responsible,” Clint pointed out.
“Yeah, well . . .” Dial shrugged.
“Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll get a night’s sleep and head out in the morning.”
“For where?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “St. Louis, I guess, and then across the river. Unless you know of another game taking place somewhere?”
“Not east of the Mississippi.”
“See?” Clint said. “I knew nothing good could come from crossing to this side of the river.”
“What’s wrong with this side of the river?” Dial demanded.
“Oh, nothing much,” Clint said, “except that it’s east.”
“Now, wait—”
“No offense meant, Harry,” Clint said.
“Really? How the hell could I possibly not take offense at that?”
“Can I get a good steak in this town?”
“Yes,” Dial said, “I can take you someplace for a good steak, but first I have to go and finish what I started.”
“What’s tha—Oh, right,” Clint said. “I interrupted you.”
“Come back to the hotel with me,” Dial said, standing up. “We’ll get you a room. After that you can see to your horse. And by that time I should be ready to take you for that steak.”
“Okay,” Clint said, standing, “but I’m telling you now, it’s going to have to be one hell of a steak to make this trip worth it.”
“I said it would be a good steak,” Dial said. “But that good? I don’t know.”
THREE
Twenty miles away, in the town of Dexter, Indiana, young Sam Archer entered the family general store. He was wearing his hat cocked at a rakish angle and his gun too low on his thigh.
His older brother, Thomas, was waiting on two middle-aged women while his other older brother, John, was in the storeroom. The oldest of the four brothers, Mort, was out at their farm, which was on the outskirts of town, in Orange County, while the store was in Marion County.
As the two women left with their purchases, Thomas looked at his brother and asked, “What are you supposed to be?”
“Whataya mean?”
“That hat,” Thomas said. “Straighten it out.”
“What?” Sam asked. He went to a mirror on the wall by the new hats. “I like it like this.”
“It looks stupid.”
“It does not!”
“Let’s get a neutral opinion,” Thomas Archer said. “John?”
Sam turned to see his brother John entering the room from the back.
“What?”
“What do you think of the way little brother’s wearin’ his hat?”
John looked at Sam and said, “It’s stupid.”
“It is not!”
“And what’s with that gun?” John asked.
“What’s wrong with my gun?” Sam demanded.
“It’s too low,” Thomas said.
“I wear it there for a fast draw.”
“What do you need with a fast draw?” Thomas asked.
“Come on,” Sam said, “you know I’m fast.”
John looked around, making sure the store was empty before he continued.
“Little brother, for what we do you don’t need a fast draw.”
“Besides,” Thomas said, sliding a pencil behind his ear, “either one of us could pick up any gun in this store and outdraw you with it.”
“You could not!”
“Yeah,” John said, “we could. What are you doin’ here, kid?”
“Mort sent me for supplies.”
“Where’s the wagon?” John asked.
“In front.”
“Well, pull the damn thing around back and load up,” Thomas said.
Sam looked in the mirror again, uncocked the hat, then recocked it and walked out the door. John walked over to where Thomas was standing behind the counter. Both men were wearing white aprons.
John looked around carefully to make sure they were alone before he spoke.
“We’re gettin’ short,” he said.
“How short?” Thomas asked.
“That depends on how much Sam takes back to the farm with him.”
“Then I guess it’s time for us to go out again,” Thomas said.
“Yeah.”
“Time to talk to Mort.”
John leaned on the counter. “I’m gettin’ real tired of havin’ to check with Mort every time this comes up.”
“He is the oldest, John,” Thomas said. “And this is a family business.”
“Yeah,” John said, “I know. Okay, I’m gonna go in the back and help little brother load up, then I’ll saddle up and ride out to talk to Mort.”
“Fine,” Thomas said. “I’ll hold down the fort here.”
Mort Archer heard his brothers approaching before he saw them. He stepped outside onto the porch and saw Sam driving the wagon and John riding his horse. There was only one reason John would be coming out to the farm this early in the day.
East of the River Page 1