Out of the Past

Table of Contents

 

 

“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?”

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

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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.

OUT OF THE PAST

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / July 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Robert J. Randisi.

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eISBN : 978-1-4406-3717-9

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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 Clint 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.

“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?”