The South Fork Showdown Read online

  A Civilized Conversation . . .

  “The dam needs to be repaired,” Charles said, “in more than one place.”

  “Can it be done cheaply?”

  “I don’t know,” Charles replied. “I’m still thinking about that.”

  He looked around. They were meeting in the same low-rent saloon, but today they and the bartender were the only ones there.

  “You better find a way to fix it, then,” the man said. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “Well,” Charles said, “if Clint Adams is here, that changes things.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Because of my other profession. The one where I use my gun. That puts me right on a collision course with him.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “Yes, it does. He has one of the biggest reputations in the West with a gun. Maybe the biggest. You know what that means?”

  “This is not the Wild West, Charles,” the man said. “This is Pittsburgh. This is a civilized city.”

  “Is it? Have you read the papers lately? Three people have been killed in the past few days. How damn civilized is that?”

  “Dash—”

  “If I kill Clint Adams,” Dash Charles said, “I won’t need your money anymore.”

  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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  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

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  THE SOUTH FORK SHOWDOWN

  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 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.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14535-1

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / October 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

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Author’s Note

  ONE

  Pittsburgh lay sprawled out in front of Clint Adams as he regarded it from the saddle. He’d been to big cities like New York and Chicago, and other major cities like Denver and San Francisco. Pittsburgh had grown by leaps and bounds since the one and only other time he’d ever been there. A major city now with paved streets and multistory buildings. He knew there’d be elevators and telephones there. He didn’t mind telephones, but he didn’t like elevators. Not one bit.

  “Let’s go, big fella,” he said to Eclipse, urging him into a canter. “Time to get down to business.”

  * * *

  As he rode into the city, Clint saw the electric streetlights, the trolleys, and an occasional automobile. Pittsburgh was marching determinedly toward the twentieth century.

  He reined in Eclipse in front of the Steel House Hotel and dismounted. He grabbed his carpetbag and rifle and entered the lobby.

  The lobby had a high ceiling with a crystal chandelier, and was furnished with a half-dozen burgundy divans and just as many armchairs. The people milling about, entering and exiting the dining room, elevator, and staircases, were mostly well and expensively dressed.

  He approached the front desk, and the clerk—also well dressed—eyed him dubiously, with one eyebrow arched.

  “Yes?”

  “I need a room.”

  “Indeed,” the man said. “The rooms here are quite expensive, you know.”

  “Is that a fact?” Clint asked. “You want me to turn my pockets inside out for you?”

  “Sir?”

 
“So you can count my money?”

  “Sir,” the man said, “that won’t be necessary.” The clerk turned the register to face him. “Just sign in and we’ll see what we can do to find an appropriate room.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint signed his name while the clerk made a show of trying to find him an “appropriate” room. Clint noticed he was looking along the bottom row of keys.

  “Problem?” Clint asked, turning the register back around.

  “Uh, no,” the clerk said, “I’m just, uh . . .” He glanced at the register, then stopped and took a good long look.

  “Adams?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Um, the Clint Adams?”

  “I don’t know of another one,” Clint said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Uh, no, sir, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said. “No problem at all.”

  The clerk suddenly reached up and took a key from the top row. “Here we go.”

  “Thank you,” Clint said, accepting the key.

  “Would you like help with your bag, sir?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’ve got it, thanks.”

  “Just let me know if there’s anything at all the house can do to make your stay more pleasant, Mr. Adams.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Clint picked up his bag and rifle and walked to the stairs.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  He stopped, turned, and looked at the clerk.

  “We have an elevator.” The man pointed.

  “What floor am I on?” Clint asked.

  “The third.”

  “I can walk,” Clint said, and started up the stairs.

  * * *

  After Clint Adams disappeared up the staircase, the clerk waved to one of the bellboys.

  “Yes, Steve?”

  “Jimmy,” Steve Edison said to the bellboy, who was actually three years older than him, “find Mr. Frick.”

  “Sir?”

  “Henry Frick,” Steve said. “You know who he is?”

  “Well, yeah, but . . . I ain’t never talked to him.”

  “Well, find him and give him a message,” Steve said.

  “What’s the message?”

  Steve wrote it on a slip of paper and passed it to Jimmy.

  “Just give him that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do it now.”

  “I’m on duty—”

  “No, Jimmy,” Steve said. “I’ll cover for you.”

  “Well, okay,” Jimmy said dubiously.

  “You won’t lose any tips,” Steve promised as Jimmy left.

  TWO

  In his room, Clint set the rifle down in a corner, dumped the bag on the big bed. The clerk had given him a large room. He had no way of knowing if it was one of the largest, though.

  The hotel had indoor plumbing, which he’d seen a few times before. Water running into a basin from outside, a “water closet” with a pull chain flush toilet. The toilet had first appeared in England during the 1870s but, at the start of the 1880s, had begun appearing in the United States.

  He washed up and made use of the toilet, then went back down to the lobby. The clerk straightened his back as he saw Clint approaching the desk.

  “What’s your name?” Clint asked.

  “Steve, sir.”

  “Steve, how is the steak in your dining room?”

  “The best in town.”

  “Are you supposed to say that, or is it actually the best in town?”

  “Well . . . it’s pretty good for a hotel dining room,” Steve said. “But there are restaurants in town with better.”

  “Thanks for the honesty,” Clint said. “I’ll try it and let you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Steve said. “By the way, sir, you can sign your check in the dining room and then the meal will be charged to your room. You can pay for everything when you check out.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Sir,” the clerk said. “It’s for your convenience.”

  “Well, thanks,” Clint said, “but I’ll probably just pay for my meals as I eat them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Steve said, “as you wish.”

  Clint waved a hand and walked over to the entrance of the dining room. As he peered in, he saw that the place was very busy, but he spotted several empty tables.

  When a man in a tuxedo approached him, Clint said, “I’d like that table,” pointing to one against the wall.

  “Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The white-haired man bowed at the waist and said, “Follow me, sir.”

  Clint followed him to the table he’d requested. The man allowed Clint to sit, then tried to put his napkin in his lap.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said, grabbing the napkin, “I’ve got it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, with no offense taken. “I’ll send your waiter right over.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the waiter came, Clint ordered a steak dinner and a pitcher of beer.

  “Would you like to sign the check to your room, sir?” the man asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I’ll pay.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  The waiter left, returned first with the pitcher of beer and a mug, and then with the dinner platter. Clint cut into the steak and found the first bite acceptable, possibly because he was particularly hungry.

  He commenced eating with gusto.

  * * *

  Henry Frick’s business was steel.

  Ever since the building of the Eads Bridge in Saint Louis—the first bridge ever built from steel—steel had become one of the most valuable commodities in the country. Frick had partnered with Dale Carnegie, and the two rich men were becoming increasingly richer.

  The bellboy found Frick in his office, but wasn’t allowed to see him. He was stopped at the desk of the man’s secretary.

  “I’m supposed to deliver this personally,” he told her.

  “Giving it to me is delivering it personally,” she assured him.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  She extended her hand and said, “I do.”

  He stared at her for a few moments, then gave in and handed it over.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He remained standing there, obviously expecting a tip.

  “I presume the man who sent the message will take care of you,” she said.

  “Uh, well, yeah.”

  “Then off you go.”

  He frowned, then turned and left.

  The woman stood up, went to her boss’s door, and knocked.

  “Come!”

  She opened the door and entered.

  * * *

  Henry Clay Frick was in his mid-thirties. While he sat at the helm of his own company, H. C. Frick & Company, he was also the chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company.

  He sat back in his chair and watched his attractive secretary as she walked toward his desk.

  “A bellboy just left this for you,” she said, handing him the note.

  He did not immediately read it.

  “Bellboy from where?”

  “The Steel House.”

  “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He watched her hips sway as she walked to the door and left. Then and only then did he unfold the note, secure in the knowledge that his secretary had not read it.

  THREE

  Clint took a walk after he finished his palatable, if rather unremarkable, meal. Later he’d ask the clerk for the names of those restaurants he’d mentioned.

  When he returned from his walk, he was surprised to see an expensive hansom cab with brass lamps parked in front of the hotel. He didn’t think anyone would come look
ing for him so soon.

  He entered the lobby as nonchalantly as he could, heard someone call out his name. He turned to see a man walking toward him, wearing a black suit.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir,” the man said. “I have a cab waiting for you outside.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Mr. Frick has invited you to supper.”

  “But I had a late lunch.”

  “Pardon my saying so, sir,” the man said, “but you wouldn’t want to miss this meal.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then maybe I should change my clothes?”

  “No, sir,” the man said, “you’ll be fine the way you are.”

  Clint followed the man out to the cab, entered as the driver held the door open for him.

  * * *

  Clint felt the cab draw to a stop, felt the carriage shift as the driver stepped down. Then the door opened and the man appeared.

  “This way, sir.”

  Clint stepped out and found that they’d stopped in front of a restaurant called the Four Leaf Clover Steak House.

  “Are the steaks good here?” he asked.

  The driver turned to look at him and said, “They’re excellent.”

  “Good.”

  “This way, sir.”

  As he followed the driver, they marched right past a doorman and a maître d’. They walked past diners seated at white tablecloth-covered tables, with expensive china and silverware. The diners were nattily attired—the men in well-tailored suits, the women in brightly colored dresses and gowns.

  The driver led him to a table where a bearded man in his mid-thirties sat. There was a bottle of champagne on the table, in a bucket of ice, but it hadn’t yet been opened. The man was holding a glass with some amber liquid in it.

  As they approached, the man had the good manners to stand.

  “Mr. Adams, please meet Mr. Henry Clay Frick.”

  “Mr. Adams!” Frick said, extending his hand. “Delighted, sir, absolutely delighted.”

  “Mr. Frick.”

  “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation to dine with me.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I’ve been told the steaks here are excellent.”

  “They are, they are!” Frick said, his eyes positively glittering. “Please, have a seat.”