Showdown in Desperation Read online

  Poker Face

  “Just keep your hand in the bag, friend,” Eddie said.

  Clint looked at Eddie and the double-barreled Greener he was holding.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said.

  “You’re not?” Eddie asked. “Good for you. Cesar, get his gun.”

  “Forget it, Cesar,” Clint said. “It’s not in my holster.”

  “It’s not?” Eddie asked. “Where is it?”

  “It’s in my hand, in this bag,” Clint said.

  Eddie grinned. “You’re bluffing. Cesar, get his gun, and his money.”

  “If Cesar comes near me, I’ll pull the trigger,” Clint said. “If you don’t put that shotgun down, I’ll pull the trigger.”

  “Go ahead, Cesar,” Eddie said. “He’s bluffin’.”

  Cesar walked tentatively toward Clint, and when he came within view of the holster, he saw that it was empty.

  “Aw, Eddie—” he said.

  Clint cut him off by pulling the trigger of his concealed Colt. The bullet tore through the bottom of the bag and drilled Eddie right through the chest. Clint hit the floor and upended the table. Eddie pulled both triggers of his shotgun as he died.

  The shotgun made a hellacious noise. The shot spread out and struck the table and the wall behind Clint.

  Then it was quiet.

  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.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

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

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

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

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

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

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  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 . . .

  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

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  SHOWDOWN IN DESPERATION

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Randisi.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices,

  promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14471-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / July 2014

  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.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  All-Action Western Series

  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

  ONE

  The stopover in El Legado, New Mexico, was supposed to be a leisurely one. A few drinks, a few women, some poker. Easy. Lay low. Stay out of trouble. More and more difficult these days, for some reason, but Clint Adams was determined to try really hard this time.

  So then why was he out here, no provisions, on the hunt, and yet on the run at the same time?

  It had all started out so well . . .

  • • •

  Settling in was easy. It was all a routine. Find a livery for Eclipse, make sure the hostler knows what he’s doing and will properly care for the Darley Arabian, and get himself settled in a decent hotel. Then leave his saddlebags and rifle in the room and go out to find something to eat.

  He found a café the first day that was doing a good business. It either had good food, or it was the only place in town. He went in, got himself a table, discovered—with a steak and vegetables—that it had decent food. The coffee was strong and good, too.

  He paid his bill and walked the town, impressed that it was larger than he had first thought. There were several hotels and salons, more restaurants and cafés. The smell of fresh-cut wood in the air spoke to the fact that new buildings were being built.

  Of the several saloons he passed, he chose the largest, which was called The Wagon Wheel. Inside he saw a huge wagon wheel hanging over the back of the bar where most saloons had paintings of naked women. All things being equal, he preferred the paintings—but this was obviously cheaper for the owner.

  He had a beer, looked over the operation, and then went back to his hotel. It wasn’t until the next day that he went back and took a seat at what looked to be an ongoing poker game.

  And he started to win.

  That should have been a good thing . . .

/>   • • •

  He checked his back trail, didn’t see any indication that the posse had gotten closer.

  He turned his attention to the trail he was following. It was still fresh, but there continued to be no sign of a rider ahead of him.

  It was difficult to track and hunt someone when you yourself were being hunted.

  He’d never been in this situation before. He shook his head. How the hell . . .

  • • •

  He played poker for a few days, found one of the saloon girls to his liking. Her name was Jenny. She was in her thirties, a strawberry blonde with large breasts and a majestic butt. In bed she was voracious, and he particularly liked how bountiful her blond pubic bush was.

  On the fourth night they were engaged in a particularly energetic romp in his room when they both rolled off the bed onto the floor. Lucky for Jenny, Clint was on the bottom.

  “Ouch!” she said.

  “Hey,” he said, “I cushioned your fall.”

  “I hit my elbow.”

  “I landed on my rump.”

  She wriggled atop him, felt his cock still rock hard inside her.

  “It doesn’t seem to have affected your performance.”

  “It would take a lot more than a fall out of bed to do that,” he said, reaching around to cup her buttocks. “Do you want to get back in bed?”

  She sat up on him, wriggled again, and thought.

  “No,” she said, “I . . . I don’t think you’ve been this deep before.”

  “It’s the floor,” he said. “No give.”

  “Mmm,” she said, rising up and then coming down on him. “Oh!”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You won’t hurt me.”

  She started bouncing up and down on him, groaning and grunting each time she came down. Her big breasts began to bounce and bob in front of him, the pink nipples swollen with passion. He tried to catch them with his mouth and succeeded about half the time.

  “Oh yes,” she said, “this is nice . . . this is very nice . . .”

  She slowed down so she could truly enjoy the way it felt to have him that deep. At one point she stopped bouncing and began to grind herself down on him.

  “Oh God,” she said, “is—is that all right for you?”

  “It’s fine for me,” he breathed. “Keep going.”

  She pressed her hands down on his chest, began to rotate her hips while still grinding.

  “Wow,” she said, “wow . . . I’ve never . . . done it like this . . . before.”

  “Never had sex on the floor before?”

  “No,” she gasped, “usually . . . in a bed.”

  “It’s always good,” he grunted, “to try something . . . new.”

  “Mmm,” she said, biting her lip and closing her eyes. He felt her tremble, her legs, her thighs, then saw her belly spasm—and suddenly she was riding him like a bucking bronco, gasping and crying out.

  And then he exploded.

  TWO

  Clint remembered that time with Jenny fondly, now that he was on horseback and being pursued. He looked up at the sun. He hadn’t had time to pack supplies, and his canteen was only half full. Playing poker was supposed to have been relaxing, and for a while it was . . .

  • • •

  The game was five-card stud, with six players. The stakes were not high, but Clint was making beer and food money since he sat down.

  The other five players had varying degrees of skill.

  Dan Brennan was a local store owner who seemed to spend an inordinate time away from his store. In his fifties, he played adequately, but with no great skill.

  Hank Wilkins was a drifter in his thirties who had arrived just a couple of days ahead of Clint. He didn’t know the other players any better than Clint did.

  Other than Clint, the only other player doing any winning was Carl Lanigan. He was a gambler who had drifted into town looking for a game. Finding this one, he had busted several regulars out of the game already, making room for both Wilkins and Clint. But when Clint sat down, the fortyish gambler started winning less.

  The two big losers were Hugo Dargo, about fifty-five, who had been living in town for many years, though no one seemed to know where he had come from. He owned a hardware store and, like Brennan, seemed to spend more time at the poker table than in his store. He never lost his good humor even while he was losing his money.

  The bad loser at the table was Johnny Creed. He was in his late twenties, arrogant without reason. He fancied himself good with cards, and good with a gun, but he was a bad loser, and a bad player. Clint had no idea how good he was with his handgun. He didn’t intend to find out.

  Clint sat at the table on the fifth day and said, “Deal me in.”

  “We almost gave away your seat,” Dargo said. “Thought you wasn’t comin’ back.”

  “Just a little late getting started today,” Clint said. Jenny had kept him in bed longer than usual. Or rather, on the floor.

  “Well, you’re just in time to deal,” Brennan said, passing the deck to him.

  Clint shuffled, allowed Lanigan to cut, and said, “Comin’ out.”

  • • •

  About midday the sheriff walked in, went to the bar for his afternoon beer. His name was Matthews, he was in his fifties, and he didn’t seem at all concerned that the Gunsmith was in his town. He usually came in and had one beer, just one, without paying—but Clint wondered if he did the same thing in every saloon in town.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” Brennan called.

  “Dan,” the lawman said, raising his beer. “How you doin’ today?”

  “Still losing to Mr. Adams here,” Brennan said.

  “So am I,” Dargo said.

  “We all are,” Lanigan, the gambler, said.

  “Well, I ain’t,” Creed said, “not with this hand. I bet five dollars.”

  “That’s a big bet for this game,” Brennan pointed out.

  “Then fold,” Creed said. “I’m tryin’ to get my money back.”

  “I don’t object,” Lanigan said. “I call the five.”

  Clint looked down at his cards, one down and two up, two to come. Creed was showing two eights. He either had a third one in the hole, or he wanted them to think so.

  “Call,” Clint said.

  Brennan did, indeed, fold, as did Dargo and Wilkins.

  Brennan, who was dealing, said, “Pot’s right. Cards comin’ out.”

  He dealt a fourth card to Lanigan, Clint, and Creed. The sheriff watched from the bar with interest, nursing his beer.

  Lanigan received a nine to go along with a five and a six of different suits.

  Clint had a ten, a jack, and now a king in front of him, all mismatched suits.

  Creed watched a jack fall on his two eights. Absolutely no help, unless his hole card was actually a jack.

  “Ha!” he said.

  “Your bet, Johnny,” Brennan said, setting the deck down on the table.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the youngest man at the table said. “How about ten dollars?”

  “Like I said when you bet five—” Brennan started, but Lanigan stopped him.

  “It’s okay, Brennan,” Lanigan said. “I’ll call his bet, and raise his ten.”

  “What?” Creed asked.

  Lanigan smiled.

  “I’ll call the bet and the raise,” Clint said.

  Creed looked unnerved, but then firmed his chin and said, “I raise twenty.”

  A couple of the players raised their eyebrows. The play went to Lanigan.

  “Well, well,” he said, “you must have a pretty good hand, young man.”

  “It’s okay,” Creed said. “Worth another twenty anyway.”

  “Yeah, well,” Lanigan said, “I’ll just call the twenty, since we all have another card coming.�
��

  “Adams?” Brennan asked. “In or out?”

  “Oh, I’m in,” Clint said, tossing the twenty into the pot.

  “Okay,” Brennan said, picking up the deck, “pot’s right.”

  He dealt each man his fifth and last card.

  Lanigan got an eight to go with his five, six, and nine.

  Clint received a nine to go with his ten, jack, and king.

  “Possible straight, possible straight,” Brennan said, then dealt Creed a second jack. “And two pair. Possible full house.”

  He placed the deck down on the table.

  “Your bet, son,” he said to Creed.

  “Don’t call me son,” the younger man said.

  “Sorry,” Brennan said. “Your bet, Mr. Creed.”

  Creed looked at the money in front of him. They were playing with chips, and he had a small stack left.

  “Fifty dollars,” he said. “That’s all I got left.”

  “I could raise,” Lanigan said.

  “I told you,” Creed said, “I have no more money.”

  “If he raises,” Brennan pointed out, “and you can’t call, he takes the pot.”

  “Or I do,” Clint reminded him.

  “That’s right,” Lanigan said.

  “You goddamn—” Creed started, but Lanigan cut him off.

  “But I won’t,” he said. “I’ll just call you, boy.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “I’ll call the bet, too,” Clint said, “much as I’d like to raise.”

  Lanigan looked at him.

  “You’d like to raise?”

  “I would.”

  “Well,” Lanigan said, “would you be interested in, say, a side pot?”

  “A side pot?”

  “Yeah,” Lanigan said, “one just between you and me.”

  “You can’t do that!” Creed said.

  “It’s up to them, son,” Brennan said. “You’re out of it.”

  “Don’t call me son.”

  “Just keep quiet,” Brennan said. “We all want to see how this plays out.”

  “Whataya say?” Lanigan asked.

  “Whose bet is it?”

  “Yours,” the gambler said. “You said you wanted to raise. So raise.”

  THREE

  “Fifty,” Clint said.