Riverboat Blaze Read online

  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

  FORTY-FOUR

  Teaser chapter

  Mayday Mania!

  Clint and Angela were flattened against a wall on the second deck as people ran by. The majority of the passengers did not seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation. They were still running to and fro rather than abandoning ship. People were being knocked off their feet and trampled.

  Clint helped an older woman to her feet before she got trampled and said to her, “You have to jump overboard.”

  She stared at him as if he was crazy, shook loose, and started running.

  “You can’t help everyone, Clint,” Angela said. “We have to save ourselves.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get off this thing.”

  They had to push through a wave of people in order to get to the rail.

  “Can you swim?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  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.

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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.

  RIVERBOAT BLAZE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / January 2011

  Copyright © 2011 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 : 978-1-101-44602-7

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  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  THE PRESENT

  The Dolly Madison was the biggest, most well-built riverboat Clint Adams had ever been on. That’s why it was such a shock when it started sinking.

  But that came later . . .

  TEN DAYS EARLIER . . .

  “It’s called the Dolly Madison,” Dean Dillon said. “It’s the biggest stern wheeler ever made, over seven hundred feet long.”

  “I thought the Great Eastern was the biggest,” Clint said.

  “It was,” Dillon said, “or rather, it is, until we take our maiden voyage. Our paddle wheel is sixty feet in diameter. The Great Eastern is only fifty-seven. We weigh thirty-three thousand tons!”

  “When is the big day?”

  “A week,” Dillon said.

  “From where?”

  “New Orleans,” Dillon said. “And I want you to be on it.”

  “Oh, uh, Dean—”

  “On the house!” Dillon hurriedly added. “You’re my friend, Clint, I want you to share this with me.”

  Clint thought it was more likely Dean was trying to get some big names lined up for his boat’s maiden voyage. Not that he could blame him. If Dean had the largest paddle wheeler on the Mississippi, it was going to be a major accomplishment.

  “You got anything better to do?” Dillon asked.

  Clint studied his friend’s face. Dillon had come all the way to Labyrinth, Texas, to invite Clint in person. Maybe the friend in him did want to share the experience with Clint, but the businessman wanted the Gunsmith on that boat.

  “Whataya say, Clint?” Dillon asked.

  “When are you leaving?” Clint asked.

  “Tomorrow morning.” Dillon had only arrived that morning. “I’m heading right back.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Before you leave, I’ll let you know if I can make it.”<
br />
  “Okay,” Dillon said. “I’ll accept that.”

  He finished his beer and put the empty mug down on the table.

  “See you in the morning,” he said. “Stage leaves at nine.”

  He turned and left Rick’s Place, the batwings swinging in his wake.

  Rick Hartman came over and sat in the chair Dillon had just vacated.

  “So, what did he want?” he asked Clint. “He came running in here like his ass was on fire.”

  “I’m invited to be on the maiden voyage of the Dolly Madison, the largest paddle wheeler ever to hit the Mississippi.”

  “He owns it?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Then it’ll probably sink.”

  “Well,” Clint said, frowning, “did you know that a paddle wheeler can weigh as much as thirty-three thousand tons? How the hell does something that big manage to stay afloat?”

  “You got me,” Rick said. “I’ve never liked boats, myself. Trains, yeah, but boats?”

  “I do like them,” Clint said. “At least, I did until I learned how much they weigh.”

  “So, are you gonna go?” Hartman asked, sitting back in his chair.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I like New Orleans, I like the Mississippi, I liked riverboats—maybe I still do, despite their weight.”

  “When is this historical voyage supposed to take place?”

  “In a week.”

  “And do you have any other plans?”

  “No.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you go?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “it is Dean Dillon.”

  “There you go!” Hartman said, with a smile. “It’s a scam. It’s got to be.”

  Dean Dillon had been—in no particular order—a gambler, a con man, a thief, a liar, and a businessman. Whichever one he put his mind to at any given moment, he was a damned good one.

  The question was—which one was he being now?

  TWO

  THE PRESENT

  The deck pitched and Angela DuBois, standing next to him, almost fell, and would have if he hadn’t caught her.

  “Jesus,” she said, eyes wide with fright, “we’re really going down?”

  “Looks like it,” Clint said.

  People were running back and forth on the deck. Crew members were trying to shout instructions to the passengers, but they were panicked and weren’t having any of it. And then, suddenly, there was fire.

  “W-what do we do?” she asked.

  Clint took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  “Can you swim?”

  FIVE DAYS EARLIER . . .

  When Clint arrived in New Orleans, he breathed in its scent. New Orleans was a special place, unlike any other city in the United States. The architecture was French, the population was cross-cultural and multilingual. He loved the people and the food.

  He stopped at the Jean Lafitte Hotel, put Eclipse up at the hotel’s livery, and got himself a room.

  “Ah, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said, “we’ve been expectin’ you, suh.”

  “You have?”

  “Your room is taken care of,” the clerk said. He was very Southern, in his thirties, well-groomed, and probably better educated than most desk clerks in the West.

  “By who?”

  “Mr. Dillon, suh,” the clerk said. “He left strict instructions that your money is no good here. Everything will be paid for by him.”

  “That’s very nice of him,” Clint said.

  “Yes, suh.”

  A bellboy came over and grabbed Clint’s carpetbag. He had decided a trip to New Orleans was worth more than just his saddlebags packed with a couple of extra shirts.

  Clint followed the boy to his room, which turned out to be a two-room suite. Dillon must have been doing real well. Or he was showing off.

  “Thank you,” Clint said, tipping the boy and ushering him out of the room.

  He went to his window, which overlooked Bourbon Street. He was trying to decide what restaurant to eat in when there was a knock on the door. He walked to it and opened it with his gun in his hand.

  “’Bout time you got here,” Dillon said, barging in.

  “I got people for you to meet.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Dean,” Clint said. “Thanks for the room.”

  “Nice, huh?” Dillon asked. “Top of the line for you, Clint.”

  “Dean, I’ve already agreed to be on your boat,” Clint reminded him.

  “And that’s why you’re gettin’ treated so well,” Dillon said. “Come on, you must be hungry.”

  “I am.”

  “I got some people waitin’ at a restaurant down the street, it’s called Remoulades.”

  “What is that, somebody’s name?”

  “No, I think it’s some kind of sauce,” Dillon said. “Come on, time’s wastin’.”

  Dillon was wearing a white suit and white fedora. Clint was in trail clothes.

  “Don’t you think I ought to change into something clean?” Clint asked.

  “Well, make it quick,” Dillon said. “I got people waitin’.’

  Clint went into the other room to wash up and change.

  He had nothing like Dillon’s white suit, but he did have clean trousers and shirt. He also kept his gun on.

  “You really need that?” Dillon asked, as they walked along the paved sidewalk.

  “Have you met me?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah, okay,” Dillon said, “but try not to shoot anybody.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Dillon took Clint down to the street, where they walked two blocks to the restaurant.

  “Who are the people we’re meeting?” he asked, as they walked.

  “Investors,” Dillon said, “other passengers. Friends. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  Clint grabbed Dillon’s arm, halting their progress down the busy street.

  “Dean, don’t introduce me as the Gunsmith,” he said. “Introduce me by name.”

  “Somebody’s gonna know you’re the Gunsmith, Clint,” Dillon said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Let them ask. I’ll answer them.”

  “Okay,” Dillon said, “whatever you say.”

  THREE

  They continued on and Clint followed Dillon into Remoulades. It was busy, all the tables occupied. Dillon led him to the back of the room, where there was a table for twelve holding ten people at the moment.

  “Hey, there’s our host!” somebody yelled.

  “I thought you were gonna stick us with the bill, Dean,” another man called out.

  “Not a chance,” Dillon said, sliding in to sit next to a blond woman. That left one seat for Clint, across from the woman.

  “Hey, baby,” Dillon said. He leaned over and kissed the woman’s cheek, but she was looking at Clint.

  “Clint, this is Angela,” Dillon said. “Best damn blackjack dealer on the Mississippi. Baby, meet my good friend Clint Adams.”

  “Happy to meet you, Mr. Adams,” she said. Clint guessed she was in her late twenties, a girl just coming into womanhood.

  “Down the table you got Hal Miller, Danny Rawlins, and Bill Kennedy. They’re my investors.”

  “And our money is safe with you, right, Dean?” Miller asked.

  “Safe as can be, Hal,” Dillon said.

  Miller and Rawlins were in their forties, Kennedy about ten years older than that. They were all well-dressed, looked like businessmen.

  “Across from them are some of our passengers,” Dillon said. “Troy Galvin, poker player.”

  Galvin, a handsome man in his thirties, inclined his head a few inches.

  “That’s his lady next to him, uh . . .”

  “Kathy,” she said.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Dillon said, “Kathy.”

  Kathy had a pretty if sullen face, looked about twenty-five, and didn’t seem very happy to be there.

  “Then we’ve got Johnny Kingdom—”

&n
bsp; “I’ve heard of Johnny Kingdom,” Clint said.

  “I’m flattered,” Kingdom said. He was in his late thirties and had had a reputation in poker circles for about ten years. “I’ve heard of you, too, Mr. Adams. The Gunsmith, right?”

  Dillon gave him an “I told you so” look.

  “That’s right,” Clint said.

  “Oh really?” Angela said, looking at him with even more interest.

  “Is Mr. Adams going to be a passenger?” another man asked. He was so slender his clothes looked too big for him. And his hands shook. Clint didn’t know if he was nervous, or if they shook for another reason.

  He was also sweaty, and held a white handkerchief in his hand, which he used to wipe his brow.

  “Yes, Mr. Corso, Clint is gonna be a passenger,” Dillon said.

  “T-that’s good to hear,” Corso said. “I mean, that you hired a man like the Gunsmith for security.”

  “I’m not for hire, Mr. Corso,” Clint said.

  “That’s right,” Dillon said. “Clint is coming at my invitation. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “I see,” Corso said. “Still . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  There were three more people to be introduced, two men and a woman. They were passengers. The men were brothers, Sam and Lou Warrant. The woman, although she was sitting between them, did not seem to be with them. She was introduced as Ava Cantrell.

  She leaned across Lou Warrant to shake Clint’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Adams.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Cantrell.”

  She had black hair and thick, luxurious lips.

  “Ava is our singer,” Dillon said. “Sam and Lou . . . well, they’re friends of mine.”