Doing What’s Right . . .
“I can’t go look for him, Mr. Adams,” Jason said. “I can look after my brother, and my sisters, but I know I’m too small, too young to go and find him. So I been saving money until I could find somebody to go and find him for us.”
“And that’s me?”
“I saw what you done yesterday, in front of the saloon,” Jason said. “You ain’t afraid of nothin’. You can do anythin’.”
“You can do it, Mr. Adams,” Jenny said. “You got to!”
“We need our pa,” Jason said.
“Yes, you do,” Clint said. “You do need your father.”
“Then you’ll do it?” Jenny asked.
“If you’ll call me Clint,” he said to her, “I’ll do it.”
“Oh, Clint.” She got up, ran around the table, and threw her arms around his neck.
What had he gotten himself into this time?
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THE MISSING PATRIARCH
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / December 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61339-9
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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
ONE
Jason McCall entered the house, carrying the meager result of his hunt over his shoulder.
“Rabbit again?” his brother, Simon, complained.
“Be quiet,” his sister Jenny said. She took the rabbits from her brother, carried them to the sink. “Your brother is doing the best he can for us.”
“Why can’t I go out huntin’ with him?” Simon complained.
“You’ll shoot your foot off,” Jason said. “Ain’t you supposed to be outside with your sister, helpin’ her clean out the barn?”
“Aw, that ain’t no job for a man!”
“Well, when you’re a man, you can make that decision,” Jason said. “Go out and help Jesse.”
“Aw, yes, sir.”
After Simon left the house, Jason sat down at the table, his shoulders slumped.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got to go into town.”
“What for?”
“We need some supplies.”
“How you gonna buy them?” Jenny asked. “We already owe enough money to Mr. Mason at the mercantile.”
“Maybe I can get some more credit from him,” Jason said. “Do we have any money?”
Jenny went to the cupboard, opened it, and took down a tin cup. She carried it to the table, dumped out the contents. All coins. Jason counted them.
“A dollar and fifteen cents,” he said. “I can probably get somethin’ for that.”
“We need some flour,” she said, “and some milk.”
“Okay,” Jason said. He stood up, and pocketed the money. “Maybe I c
an get some hard candy for the kids.”
“They don’t need candy,” she said.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Are you takin’ the horse?” she asked. “The buckboard?”
“I won’t have enough supplies to need the buckboard,” he said. “I’ll just saddle the horse.”
He went to the wall and took down his Winchester.
“Do you really need to take that?”
“I’m goin’ to town,” he said, as if that was answer enough.
In place of the Winchester on the wall, he put his hunting .22.
“I’ll be back for supper.”
“You better be,” she said. “Just make sure you bring back more flour. I’m usin’ the last of it for biscuits for supper.”
“Okay,” he said.
“And be careful,” she said. “Remember—”
“I remember,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t have to be reminded of their loved ones who had been killed. It was something he thought about every day.
He left the house, closing the door behind him.
Both Simon and Jesse were in the barn when he started saddling the horse.
“Can we come?” Jesse asked.
“You can’t come,” Simon said. “You’re a girl.” He looked at his brother. “I can come, right?”
“You’ll both stay here and help your sister,” Jason said. “I’ll be home for supper.”
“What you gonna do, Jason?”
“I’m just gonna get some supplies, Simon.”
“And some candy?”
“Maybe.”
Jason finished saddling the horse and walked the animal outside. The two little ones followed him out. He slid his Winchester into the scabbard on the saddle.
“You gonna shoot somebody, Jason?” Simon asked, his eyes wide.
“I ain’t gonna shoot nobody if I don’t have to, Simon,” Jason said.
Jason struggled into the saddle, settled himself, grabbed the reins, and then looked down at his eight-year-old brother and six-year-old sister.
“You two do what your sister tells you, understand?” he said. “Don’t give her a hard time.”
“Bring us some candy!” Jesse yelled.
“I’ll do my best.”
He jerked the horse’s rein to turn it, then kicked it in the sides to get it going.
“I wish I was goin’ to town,” Jesse said.
“You’re a little girl,” Simon said. “When you’re Jason’s age, you can go to town.”
She sighed and watched her big brother ride away.
“I wish I was twelve, like him.”
TWO
Clint Adams stared across the poker table at trouble.
He had promised himself he would stop playing poker in saloon games. He only wanted to play with true poker players, who knew what they were doing and knew that when they lost, it was because they were outplayed, or luck had gone the wrong way. They never blamed it on somebody cheating.
But he’d been in Santa Rosita for three days while a bone bruise on Eclipse’s front hoof healed. Most of the time he was sitting out in front of the hotel, watching the townspeople go by. In the afternoon he went to the saloon for some drinks. In the evening the same small restaurant for supper. In between he checked on Eclipse’s progress.
On this day the boredom got to be too much. When he went into the saloon to have a few beers, a poker game was going on in one corner. He watched for as long as it took him to drink two beers, then walked over. Before long he was in the game.
Three of the other four players were townspeople. One owned the mercantile, one was a town alderman, and the third was a lawyer. The fourth man had just sat in on the game an hour before Clint. He was passing through with two friends, who were sitting in another corner, watching. Clint didn’t find out any of this until he had already sat down and started playing.
It soon became evident that the fourth man, Rutledge, had the potential to cause trouble. When he lost a hand, it was always the fault of the cards (“Get me a new deck!”) or a player (“Where’d you learn to deal?”), but it was never his fault.
The present hand had come down to Clint and Rutledge. They were playing five-card draw. Rutledge had opened and drawn two cards. From the way he played, Clint was certain he had three of a kind. From the way he bet, it was probably something like three fives or sixes.
Clint had called the bet, drawn one card to the two pairs he’d been dealt, and had made a full house, jacks full. Rutledge would have had to draw a fourth six to beat him. Even if the man made a full house, Clint doubted he’d be able to beat jacks full.
The stakes had slowly been going up since Clint sat down: $5 bets had become $20 bets, and $10 had gone up to $50.
The dealer was Mr. Hackett, the lawyer. He set his cards down and said, “Mr. Rutledge, it’s your bet.”
Rutledge looked at his cards again, spreading them, then folding them in his hands. This was also his tell. Clint noticed that he folded, spread, folded whenever he had a good hand. But Clint felt sure he had this hand figured correctly. If he didn’t, then the man deserved to win it.
“A hundred.”
“That’s pretty high—” Hackett started, but Rutledge cut him off.
“Ask Mr. Adams if that’s too high,” he said.
The other three players looked at Clint.
“No, that’s fine. If Mr. Rutledge wants to raise the stakes, I have no objection. I’ll call the hundred, and raise a hundred.”
“This is getting too rich for my blood, gents,” said Mason, the mercantile owner. “I’m out of this game after this hand.”
“So am I,” said Barkley, the alderman.
“Then I guess this is the last hand, gents,” Hackett said.
“Then I’ll call the hundred and raise another two hundred,” Rutledge said.
“That sounds like you’ve got yourself a good hand, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Good enough.”
“Well,” Clint said, “nobody really wants to go overboard here, so I’ll just call that bet.”
“No guts?” Rutledge asked. “Afraid to raise?”
“Actually,” Clint said, “I’m trying to take it easy on you, Rutledge.”
“I don’t need you takin’ it easy, Adams,” Rutledge said. “I got you beat.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if you promise me you won’t be a bad loser . . .”
“I ain’t gonna lose at all!” Rutledge said.
“All right . . . how much you got left there?”
Rutledge stared at Clint for a moment, his resolve almost fading, but he firmed his jaw and counted the money in front of him.
“I got two hundred and sixty-five dollars left.”
“Then that’s the raise,” Clint said. “I call your two hundred, and raise two sixty-five.”
Folks around the table realized something was going on and got interested. In a few seconds there was a circle around the table. Adding to the interest was the fact that everybody knew who Clint was.
Rutledge stared at Clint for another few minutes, then pushed his money into the pot slowly. He dropped his cards on top of it.
“Sixes full,” he said. “Ha! Drew a pair to the three sixes. I call that luck.”
“Bad luck,” Clint said, laying his cards down. “Jacks full.”
“Wha—”
“Adams wins!” Hackett said.
Clint raked the pot in.
“Game’s over, gents,” Hackett said.
“No,” Rutledge said. “No, it ain’t. I can get more money.”
“No, need, Mr. Rutledge,” Hackett said, standing. “This game is done.”
Clint was gathering his cash while keeping a wary eye on R
utledge, who had all the earmarks of a terrible loser.
“What the hell kinda deal you call that?” he demanded of Hackett.
“A fair one, Mr. Rutledge,” the lawyer said.
“Well,” Rutledge said, moving his accusatory look to Clint, “if that was a fair deal, then—”
“Then what, Rutledge?” Clint snapped, cutting him off.
“If I was you, I’d choose my next words real careful.”
They all knew Rutledge was about to call Clint a cheater. The people originally circling the table drew back now. The other players cleared out as fast as they could.
“You got something you want to say to me, Rutledge?” Clint demanded.
“Ain’t fair, that’s all,” Rutledge said. “Sixes full shoulda won that pot.”
Rutledge—like the two men he rode with—was in his mid-thirties, was wearing dusty trail clothes like they had just come off the range from a cattle drive or something—only there were no cattle drives.
“How’s a man get to your age, Rutledge,” Clint said, “without knowing that life just ain’t always fair? In fact, it’s hardly ever fair. And that’s just something we all have to live with.”
Rutledge stood there, his hands folded into fists.
“You got something else you want to say?” Clint asked.
Rutledge’s body shook and then turned on his heel and stalked from the saloon. As the batwing doors swung behind him, his two friends followed him.
THREE
Jason McCall rode into Santa Rosita, stopping briefly to watch some boys his age playing some kind of game with a ball and stick. He wished he could spend time playing with them, but he had an eleven-year-old sister, an eight-year-old brother, and a six-year-old sister who depended on him.
He continued on and reined in only when he was in front of the mercantile store. He dismounted and went inside. He was happy to see that it wasn’t Mr. Mason who was behind the counter, but his clerk, Eddie. The clerk was in his late teens, and Jason knew him.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Hello, Jason,” Eddie said. “What can I do for you?”
“I need some flour . . .” Jason said, and mindful of how little money he had in his pocket, he mentioned only a few more items.
“Have you got money, Jason?”
Missing Patriarch (9781101613399) Page 1