Louisiana Stalker Read online

  Just a Friendly Conversation

  Clint stepped into the room, listened, and heard the even breathing of a sleeping man. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. When he could make out the man in the bed, he moved to it and pressed the gun to the sleeping man’s forehead. The man woke up immediately.

  “Move and I’ll blow your brains out, Cooper,” Clint said.

  The man stayed still.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “Upstairs,” Clint said. “She’s all right.” He saw the man’s gun on the night table next to the bed. He grabbed it and tucked it into his belt.

  “Light the lamp,” he told Cooper. “We’re going to have a talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Light it,” Clint said. “We’ll get to that.”

  He allowed the man to sit up nervously and light the lamp by the bed.

  “Now what?” Cooper asked.

  “Now you tell me who you work for.”

  “If I do that,” Cooper said, “I’m dead.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you right now,” Clint told him. “Your choice.”

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

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  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

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

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  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.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  LOUISIANA STALKER

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for having an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA),

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-515-15392-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61046-6

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / December 2013

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  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

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ONE

  As Clint Adams rode from Texas into Louisiana, he looked behind him again. Still there, and still not hiding. It had been weeks now that this tail had been on him, but never any closer. Just a figure off in the distance, sometimes sitting a horse, sometimes just standing, watching.

  It had been weeks, states, and many miles . . .

  • • •

  It had begun in Arizona, the first time he’d noticed the man—and he thought it was a man—on his back trail. Not tracking, because that implied trying to catch someone. This rider kept the same distance between them at all times.

  He stopped in Jennings, Arizona, and waited, but the man never rode in. Days later when he left Jennings, there he was again, still the same distance away.

  All the way to New Mexico . . .

  • • •

  New Mexico was much the same, so he decided to take a more active pose. He tried to wait for the man to catch up, but he never did. He attempted to circle around behind him, but the man was too good for that. Too good for Clint to be comfortable about it.

  In a town called Runnels, New Mexico, he bought a high-powered spyglass. Outside of town he picked out a high bluff, got comfortable on his belly, and watched through the spyglass. It was as if the man knew the range of the piece. Clint could see he was wearing trail clothes, a holster and handgun. He was not carrying a rifle. Clint could not see the man’s face.

  He tried again several times over the next few days, but the range never improved. He was never close enough to make out the man’s features.

  His tail seemed very content with the way things were. Maybe he was just trying to get under the Gunsmith’s skin.

  He was succeeding . . .

  • • •

  As he crossed into Louisiana from Texas, Clint wondered how long the man was going to keep this up. At some point he must have intended to close the distance, either to take a shot or to make some sort of contact.

  He wondered how much patience this mysterious man could possibly have
.

  • • •

  He noticed something new the next time he used the spyglass. A cigar in the man’s mouth. He was a smoker. That was new. Still not holding a rifle. Still no apparent interest in doing anything but watching.

  Clint could have taken some sort of evasive action. He could have outrun the man with Eclipse, gotten away from him. After that, the man would have had to actually track him, and Clint could have avoided him.

  But he decided not to.

  He decided to let the man follow him all he wanted. He could have taken a shot at any time, and didn’t. If he’d wanted to kill him, he could have tried by now. So let the man follow for as long as he wanted to. At some point he’d either quit, or make contact.

  He stopped trying to get a look at him with the spyglass. Every so often he’d turn his head and look back, but that was all he was giving the man now.

  He rode on, Baton Rouge his ultimate destination.

  • • •

  The man following the Gunsmith looked on with satisfaction. Adams had put away his spyglass and stopped trying to get a look at his face. That was good. For a while he thought he was getting under Adams’s skin, but now the Gunsmith seemed to have accepted him.

  It took long enough.

  TWO

  Clint had not been to Baton Rouge in some time. Normally, if he was in Louisiana, it was to spend some time in New Orleans. Baton Rouge, though, was like a smaller version of New Orleans. There were beautiful homes, thriving businesses, and a lively riverfront.

  He rode into town, realizing that it was more city than anything else these days. It was late afternoon and the streets were still teeming with people.

  Clint decided to put his tail out of his mind. He intended to be in Baton Rouge for a while. If the man eventually decided to come in, that was his business. He directed Eclipse down the main street until he came to a livery stable.

  “Things have changed around here since my last visit,” he told the hostler.

  “How long’s it been?” the man asked.

  “Can’t remember,” Clint said. “I usually go to New Orleans.”

  “Hell,” the man said, “we got everythin’ New Orleans got.” He stroked Eclipse’s neck. “Ain’t got no horses like this around here, though. How you doin’, cher?” He rubbed Eclipse’s nose, and the big gelding withstood it.

  “You got a way with horses,” Clint said. “He’s not usually that patient with people touching him.”

  “You got a beautiful animal here,” the man said. “They’s need to be touched, and talked to.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess I’m putting him in good hands.”

  “You can bet on that,” the man said. “How long you stayin’?”

  “A few days, at least,” Clint said. “I want to see all that Baton Rouge has to offer.”

  “You have yourself a good time, and don’t worry none about this here big fella,” the man said. “He is in good hands.”

  Clint retrieved his saddlebags and rifle from his saddle, then gave Eclipse an affectionate slap on the rump as the man walked the big gelding into the stable.

  With his saddlebags over his shoulder and his rifle in his left hand—leaving his right hand free—he started back up the street, looking for a likely hotel. He didn’t want the best place in town, but neither did he want a dive. He found the place he wanted after a couple of blocks, on Government Street. It was called the Cajun House and had an appearance that made one think of mint juleps on the veranda. It was small, well appointed, looked to have been built just over the past few years, but then a lot of the buildings had that look.

  He entered the lobby and was greeted effusively by a young, well-dressed desk clerk.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the man said, “welcome to the Cajun House. What can I do for you on this fine day?”

  “I’d like a room, please.”

  “Of course, of course,” the young man said. “Please sign the register. We have a few rooms left.”

  “Anything overlooking the street?”

  “Let me see.” The man turned, examining his keys. “Why yes, I do have something.” He turned with the key, reversed the register so he could read the name. “Mr. . . . Adams. Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well . . . it’s a pleasure to have someone of your stature staying with us, sir.”

  “Thank you. My key?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, suddenly noticing that he was still holding the key. He handed it over. “Room six, gives you a nice view of Government Street, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “don’t hit the street with the word that I’m staying here as soon as I go upstairs.”

  “Um, well, no, sir,” the young man said, “I wouldn’t, uh, do that.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “because that wouldn’t make me very happy.”

  “No, sir,” the man said.

  Clint smiled, then took the stairs to the second floor.

  When he got to his room, he leaned the rifle against the wall in a corner and dropped his saddlebags on the bed. He walked to the window and looked out. The clerk was right—he had a good view of the street, both ways. At the moment it was alive with people, probably most of them returning home from work.

  Clint needed a bath and a good suit of clothes. The places he was planning to visit would require a certain manner of dress. He should have told the clerk to draw him a bath. He’d have to go back down and do that. Maybe the young man could also assist him in getting a shave and a haircut . . .

  • • •

  “Certainly, sir,” the clerk said when Clint reappeared at the lobby desk. “I can have the barber come in and take care of that for you before or after your bath.”

  “Let’s do it before, thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How soon can he be here?”

  “No time at all, sir,” the clerk said. “I’ll have him come directly to your room.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Clint said. “After all of that, I have to go out and find a good suit.”

  “I can help you with that, as well, sir.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I can also have the tailor come to your room. He can take your measurements and have your suit ready for you by tomorrow.”

  “That soon?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the clerk said, especially after the tailor realizes you’re a, uh, special guest.”

  “Special guest?” Clint said. “Does that mean my room is cheaper?”

  The clerk looked puzzled, then he laughed and said, “Oh, sir, that’s a good one.”

  THREE

  The tailor appeared at the door just as the barber was finishing up. While Clint opened the door, the barber was very busily collecting Clint’s hair from the floor and putting it in a bag.

  “You going to sell that?” Clint asked him.

  The man looked at him guiltily.

  “That’s okay,” Clint told him. “Just make sure you get a good price.”

  “Yes, sir,” the barber said. “Thank you.”

  “When you get to the lobby, ask the clerk to draw a bath for me, will you?” Clint said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The barber left and Clint closed the door behind him. As he turned around, the tailor was taking his tape measure from around his neck. He was a meek-looking man with a potbelly and very little hair on his head.

  “One suit, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “just one. And you can have it done by tomorrow?”

  “For you, sir, of course.”

  “Good.”

  Even while the tailor was taking measurements, Clint’s gun was never out of reach. The man was very effici
ent and was finished quickly.

  “I’ll have the suit here tomorrow afternoon, sir,” he said as Clint let him out.

  “That’ll be great,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He closed the door, collected some fresh clothes and his gun, and went down to take his bath.

  • • •

  When he left the hotel, he felt fresh and clean, newly shorn and shaven. The only thing remaining was to fill the hunger in his belly with a steak.

  He had his choice of good restaurants, so he simply stopped into the closest one. Before long he had a steak dinner in front of him, with potatoes and onions, green beans, and coffee. The place was crowded, but he was able to get a table in the back. From there he could see everyone, and no one seemed particularly interested in him. If his tail was in the room, he wasn’t being obvious about watching him. That meant it wasn’t likely he was there, because up to now he’d been very obvious.

  The steak was excellent, prepared just right, and the coffee was as strong as he liked it. Afterward he topped it off with pie—apple, because they didn’t have peach—and he enjoyed that, too.

  When he left the restaurant, it was dusk. The street was a damn sight less busy than it had been when he went in. It was a perfect time to walk the streets, get acquainted with Baton Rouge, and maybe stop in on the local law.

  Storefronts were closed and locked up, but Clint could see that Baton Rouge had every kind of business you could possibly think of. Restaurants were lit up and open, all busy. He also passed a few bawdy houses, where the women were right outside on the balconies, showing off their wares, which were—in many cases—not only lovely, but considerable. Made him have second thoughts about his rule not to pay for sex—almost.

  However, even given everything the town had to offer, he still found it lacking the charm of New Orleans’s French Quarter.

  He passed both the Baton Rouge Police Department, and later the sheriff’s office. He made the decision to check in with the sheriff, and not the police. He still preferred the sheriff’s and marshal’s offices to the modern police departments that were moving in on the Western towns of late.

  He stopped in front of the sheriff’s office and read the shingle there: BEAUREGUARD LEBLANC, SHERIFF. Quite a name, he thought as he knocked and then entered.