Red River Showdown

Table of Contents

 

 

 
The man was taking Clint's gun belt to a narrow room guarded by more gunmen.

“Is anyone expecting trouble on this boat?” Clint asked.

The big man shook his head and crossed his arms. “This is all just a precaution. Just have a seat and play some cards. Leave the rest to us.”

“Someone may have stowed away,” Clint said. “And I don't think it was just so he could sit in on a game.”

That caused all the gunmen to straighten up and take notice. Their hands drifted toward their pistols, making Clint feel practically naked since his gun wasn't even in his possession.

“We'll look into it,” the big man said. “Anything else you want to tell us?”

“Just that he's dangerous and good with a knife.”

“Thank you. Good luck with your game.”

Clint walked toward Mia's table. Now he just needed to figure out why nobody had asked what the stowaway looked like or where he was headed.

One possibility was that the guards were overly confident that they could find anyone who didn't belong on the riverboat.

Another possibility was that they already knew about the man with the knife. Either way, Clint decided to keep what he'd seen under his hat until he was talking to someone he knew he could trust. On a riverboat full of poker players, someone like that might be a little hard to come by.

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

 
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DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

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TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

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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.

 
RED RIVER SHOWDOWN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / July 2007

 
Copyright © 2007 by Robert J. Randisi.

 
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eISBN : 978-0-515-14323-2

 
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Clint received the letter in an envelope sealed with wax. When Rick Hartman handed it to him, he did so with a raised pinky and an exaggerated flourish.

“A letter for you, sire,” Rick said as he waved the envelope in front of Clint's face.

Clint was sitting at a small table in Hartman's saloon. Sometimes, Rick's Place felt like the closest thing Clint had to a home. And sometimes, that home came complete with a brother that seemed to thrive on getting under his skin.

“Are you going to hand that to me or dance around with it some more?” Clint asked.

“Go on and take it, my lord.”

After making a slow reach for the envelope and having it pulled away at the last second, Clint snatched it from Rick's hand so quickly that the saloon owner didn't even realize right away that the envelope was gone. When he finally noticed his hand was empty, Rick chuckled and walked back around his bar.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the West Texas heat was bad enough to keep even the serious gamblers away. That meant the saloon was practically empty except for Rick, Clint and a few regulars that were too drunk to move.

“Who's it from?” Rick asked from across the room.

Clint was finishing up a plate of fried chicken and wiping his hands as he said, “If you'd give me a moment, I'll open it and see. Actually, I'm surprised you didn't already take a look for yourself.”

“I almost did. It ain't too often that I get mail as fancy as that. What's that on the back?”

“Wax.”

“I know that, smart ass,” Rick replied. “What's that seal?”

After wiping his hands clean, Clint picked up the envelope and took a closer look. “Looks just like a fancy M.”

“You recognize it?”

“No. Should I recognize it?”

Rick walked around the bar again and brought a beer along with him. He sat down across from Clint. “In the old days, them seals meant something. Sometimes, it was even a royal . . . uhh . . .”

“Crest,” Clint said before Rick could swing in the breeze for too long. “You mean a royal crest.”

Rick snapped his fingers and nodded. “That's right!” In a thick, almost theatrical drawl, he added, “Us Texas boys don't know too much about kings and such.”

“And I do?” Clint asked.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Aren't you going to open it?”

“After all this buildup, I thought I should savor the moment.”

Lifting his beer to his mouth, Rick grumbled, “Jesus, he gets one royal decree and he thinks he's something special.”

Although Clint had been purposely dragging this on because he could practically feel Rick's curiosity boiling over, he couldn't get himself to wait much longer. Clint slipped one finger beneath the envelope's flap and pulled until the wax snapped free of the paper. Most of the ornate M remained intact, leaving a red stain where it had once been stuck.

Clint removed the small, folded piece of paper inside the envelope and was careful to keep it hidden behind his own hand.

“Well?” Rick asked. “What is it?”

“Do you recall what curiosity did to the cat?”

“Yeah. The same thing I'm gonna do to you if you don't stop acting like a jackass.”

Clint finally allowed himself to laugh as he dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair to read the card. The writing was as ornate as the seal and done in a much more flowing script than the lettering on the front of the envelope. It took a few seconds for Clint to adjust to the script after reading so many newspapers and hastily scribbled notes. Once his eyes got used to the elegant lettering, he nodded and looked back to Rick.

“It seems that I am cordially invited to the
Misty Morning
,” Clint said.

Rick's brow furrowed and he asked, “The
Misty Morning
? What the hell is that?”

“A riverboat. It seems there's going to be some high-stakes games held on this boat to christen its first trip along the Red River.”

“Good Lord Almighty,” Rick said. “You mean to tell me all that fancy presentation was to announce a card game?”

“Not just a card game. There's going to be tournaments held from the minute the boat gets moving. According to this, there's going to be poker, roulette, dice, faro and just about anything else that a man can lose money on.”

Shaking his head, Rick said, “Lose is right. That boat's probably got its own supply of cheats and cardsharps just as sure as it's got a supply of booze to keep the suckers' purse strings loose.”

“Good thing I'm no sucker,” Clint replied. “In fact, my luck's been running pretty good lately.”

“That why you haven't played more'n a few hands of poker since you've been back in Labyrinth?”

Clint spread his arms to motion toward the rest of the nearly empty saloon. “It's kind of hard to play a few hands of anything when there isn't anyone around.”

Rick was still shaking his head as he got to his feet and walked back to his bar. It seemed that he soon found the task of straightening the bottles more interesting than the letter in Clint's hand. “So it's been slow. You wanna gamble? There's plenty of places around here to do it. You want a poker tournament? I can throw one anytime you like.”