East of the River

Table of Contents

 

 

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 . . .

Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

 

The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

 

Today's longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

 

An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill's Raiders.

 

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 . . .

 

The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

 

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.

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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.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-02237-5

 

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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.

“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.”