The Salt City Scrape Read online

  A Gunman Worth His Salt

  “You make this hard, Haven,” Ellis said, “and it’ll come to gunplay. And you’re outgunned, four to one.”

  “Four to two,” Clint said, joining Haven on the boardwalk. “Still outgunned, but not as bad.”

  Ellis stared at Clint, wondering what fool was taking a hand in this, and then realized who it must be.

  “Boys, we got us a couple of fools,” he said. He figured the other three didn’t know they were facing the Gunsmith. Maybe they’d get lucky against him.

  He turned and looked at them.

  “I think you boys can handle this,” Ellis said.

  “I think we can,” one of them said.

  “You boys better wait—” Clint said.

  Ellis stepped away and the three men went for their guns before Clint could say anything else, leaving him no choice.

  Clint and Haven both drew their guns and fired.

  When the shooting started, Ellis slipped away and ran across the street. As he watched the action from there, he saw the Gunsmith draw, and none of the three men ever had a chance. They were dead before they knew it, even before Haven—who had also drawn his gun—could fire.

  Ellis turned and ran down the street.

  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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  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 . . .

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  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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  THE SALT CITY SCRAPE

  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 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: 978-0-515-15446-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63512-4

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / May 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

  ONE

  Clint Adams rode into Hutchinson, Kansas, which had recently acquired the nickname “Salt City.” The discovery of salt, plus the fact that the Chicago, Kansas and Nebraska Railway had built a main line through town, from Herington to Pratt—which would eventually extend to Tucumcari, New Mexico, and El Paso, Texas—had caused great growth in the town since he’d last been there, half a dozen years before.

  He was back to check on his friend Ben Blanchard, who, in drilling for oil the previous year, had struck salt.

  Hutchinson’s main street was a flurry of activity. The street was filled with ruts and potholes, most of which were filled with water from recent rains. He avoided them so as not to risk Eclipse breaking a leg.

  He rode to the livery at the end of the street and dismounted. It had doubled in size since the last time he was there, and as he walked Eclipse inside, he saw three men working. Two were tending to horses, while the other was working over a hot forge.

  “I need to put up my horse,” he called out.

  The three looked at him. They all had the same blank look on their faces, which led him to believe they were related—probably brothers.

  “Hello?” Clint said. “My horse?” He was having doubts about leaving Eclipse in the hands of these three.

  The one at the forge said, “Danny, take care of his horse, damn it!”

  “Sure thing, Zed.”

  The one called Danny came forward and reached for the reins, but Clint hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” Zed said. “He has a way with horses. They like him.”

  “Come on, big fella,” Danny said, reaching out his hand. Eclipse nuzzled it, surprising Clint. He handed Danny the reins, then removed his rifle and saddlebags before the man walked the big Darley away.

  “See what I mean?” Zed said. “I’ll bet he bites, right?”

  “Usually.”

  “He’ll get along with Zed. That’s quite an animal. My brother will see to him real good.”

  “I hope so.”

  “How long you stayin’?”

  “Don’t know,” Clint said. “Few days maybe.”

  “Okay,” Zed said. “We’ll settle up before you leave.”

  “Okay with me,” Clint said.

  “Two hotels right up the street are okay,” Zed said. “In case you was wonderin’.”

  Clint looked at the third brother, who hadn’t said a word.

  “Does he talk?”

  “Nope,” Zed said, “not since he was a baby.”

  “Oh . . . well, okay, yeah, take good care of him. I’ll check back in.”

  “Whenever you like, Mr. Adams.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I may be dumb, Mr. Adams,” Zed said, “but I ain’t stupid.”

  Clint didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded, turned, and left.

  • • •

  He checked into the Salt Lick Hotel, which looked fairly new. His room was large, with a good bed and a new dresser. He was used to furniture in most hotels that was falling apart. This was a treat.

  He looked out the window at the busy street below. He decided to get a meal, maybe a beer, before he went looking for Ben Blanchard’s office.

  He went back downstairs, onto the street, walked for a few minutes until he came to a small café. He looked down the street, didn’t see a likelier place, so he went inside and allowed a waiter to show him to a table away from the window.

  Over a steak he thought about the telegram he’d received from Ben. He knew that Blanchard had come to Hutchinson for several reasons. Real estate was one, and drilling for oil was the other. Neither of those things panned out for him, but in drilling for the oil, he’d struck salt. He was now the owner of a large s
alt mine, and he’d asked Clint to come and take a look at his operation. Clint wasn’t a miner—even though he did have a gold mine for a while in Shasta County, California—but he knew Blanchard must have been asking him to come to Hutchinson for another reason.

  Not in the habit of refusing to help his friends—especially when they asked—he was nevertheless not in a hurry to find out exactly what the trouble was. He knew that, once again, he was about to find himself embroiled in somebody else’s problems.

  Or maybe Ben Blanchard just wanted to show off his operation to his good friend.

  Yeah, right.

  TWO

  Ben Blanchard stared hard at his foreman as the man delivered the bad news.

  “We’ll have to dig that shaft again, boss,” Dennis Mahoney said.

  “Any chance it caved in by itself?” Blanchard asked.

  “I don’t see how,” Mahoney said. “We had that shored up pretty good. Naw, had to be sabotage.”

  “What about our night watchman?”

  “I hadda fire him,” Mahoney said. “I could smell the whiskey on him.”

  “Goddamnit, Dennis!” Blanchard said. “I count on you to hire good men.”

  “And I do, boss,” Mahoney said, “when I can find ’em.”

  At forty-two, Mahoney was ten years younger than his boss, but both were big, beefy men who enforced their rules as often as not with their fists.

  “All right,” Blanchard said. “I can’t blame you if there are no good men around. And we know we can’t count on the law.”

  “What about that friend of yours you sent for?” Mahoney asked.

  Blanchard stared at the foreman, who was from the East. Did he really not know who Clint Adams was?

  “He’s not just a friend,” Blanchard said. “Clint Adams is the Gunsmith. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “I guess I’ll have to pay more attention to these minor Western legends now that I’m living out here,” Dennis Mahoney admitted.

  “There’s nothing minor about Adams,” Blanchard said. “He’s as big a legend as Wild Bill Hickok. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

  “Well, of course. But is he coming? This Adams, I mean?”

  “He’s supposed to be,” Blanchard said. “But who knows when he’ll get here. Hopefully, while we’ve still got a mining operation.”

  “Look,” Mahoney said, “we know who’s behind this. Why don’t we go and bust some heads? That’s what we’d do back in Philadelphia. Isn’t this the lawless West?”

  “Lawless for some,” Blanchard said. “Yeah, we know Avery Kendall is behind it, but he’s got the law in his pocket. If we bust his head—or the heads of any of his men—we’ll end up in jail.”

  “Then what do we do?” Mahoney asked. “Just wait for your friend to get here?”

  “And try to stay open until he does,” Blanchard said. “Find us another night watchman, Dennis. Or stay on watch yourself. In fact, I’ll split the watch with you.”

  “Let me see if I can find somebody before we do that,” Mahoney said. “No point in you killing yourself working day and night—or me either.”

  “Okay,” Blanchard said. “Meanwhile, get our number one crew on that shaft. I want it back open by tomorrow.”

  “That’s a tall order—but we’ll try,” Mahoney said hurriedly, before his boss could yell at him.

  After Mahoney had left the office, Blanchard opened the top drawer of his desk and stared at the gun there. He was no hand with a gun, never had been. He was a businessman who had stumbled into this whole salt mine business. But he wasn’t about to let Avery Kendall give him the bum’s rush without a fight.

  He closed the drawer. A gun wasn’t the answer. At least, not a gun in his hand.

  He grabbed his hat and left the office.

  • • •

  When the door to his office slammed open, Sheriff John Cade looked up from his desk. His two deputies turned and stared as Ben Blanchard came charging in. A big man with wide shoulders, Blanchard filled the room, and the two young deputies shrank back momentarily.

  “Goddamnit, Sheriff!” Blanchard yelled.

  “Hold on there, Mr. Blanchard,” Cade said. “Don’t come into my office bellowin’ at me.” He looked at his deputies. “You fellas get out and go to work.”

  “Yessir,” one of them said, and they both left.

  “What’s on your mind now, Mr. Blanchard?” Cade asked. He was in his mid-thirties, a tall, rangy man who had been wearing the star for about a year, since he beat the incumbent in the election the year before. Rufus Brennan had been sheriff of Hutchinson for twelve years before he lost the election, which he and half the population knew had been fixed by Avery Kendall.

  “What do you think is on my mind?” Blanchard asked. “Same as always. Sabotage!”

  “Now, Mr. Blanchard,” the sheriff said, “you’ve got to stop throwing that word around. Next thing you know, you’ll be tellin’ me it was Mr. Kendall who did it.”

  “Him or somebody he hired,” Blanchard said. “Look, Sheriff, I’m coming to you because you’re the law . . . even though I know you’re in Kendall’s pocket.”

  “Now, Mr. Blanchard,” Cade said, “if I was a different sort of man, that kind of talk might get me riled up.”

  “You mean if you were an honest man?”

  Cade smiled and sat back in his chair.

  “Suppose you tell me what happened.”

  “My number one shaft caved in again.”

  “That happens in mining, don’t it?” Cade asked.

  “Only this didn’t happen by accident.”

  “Now, Mr. Blanchard—”

  “All you’ve got to do is come and take a look,” Blanchard said. “I can show it to you.”

  “I tell you what,” Cade said. “I get the time, I’ll come out and take a look at your caved-in shaft.”

  “If you get the time, huh?”

  “Well,” Cade said, “I’m really busy.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Mr. Blanchard—”

  “Forget it,” Blanchard said. “Forget I said anything. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Mr. Blanchard,” Cade said, “I got to ask you not to break the law.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Blanchard said on his way to the door. “Consider me asked.”

  THREE

  Clint finished his steak and peach pie, washed it down with coffee, and stepped out onto the boardwalk. At that moment he saw a man across the street, moving fast, almost knocking people over as he went. He had stormed out the door, Clint noticed, to the sheriff’s office.

  It was Ben Blanchard.

  Blanchard was a big man, and even people he didn’t physically bump into were pushed aside just by his wake. Clint opened his mouth to shout, but he was too late. Blanchard was out of range.

  Clint crossed the street and headed for the office. He could find Blanchard later, probably at his mining office.

  As he entered, the man seated at the desk looked up, his mouth open to say something. When he saw Clint, he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Sorry,” the lawman said. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “Oh, you mean that big man who charged out of here?”

  “Yeah,” the man said, “I thought he was coming back. I’m Sheriff Cade. What can I do for you?”

  “I just rode into town,” Clint said. “Hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”

  “You mean that fella? No, he’s just a complainer. One of those people who’s always blamin’ somebody else for his problems. You know the type.”

  “I do,” Clint said. “I’ve met them before. Anyway, my name’s Clint Adams.”

  “Adams!” the sheriff said. He came half out of his chair, then sat back down. “You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well . . . what brings you to Hutchinson?” Sheriff Cade asked.

  “I’m just here to see a friend,” Clint said. “I thought I’d drop in and let you know I’m in your town. It’s usually better than having the local law find out on their own.”

  “Well, I appreciate you dropping in and letting me know you’re here,” Cade said. “I hope you’re not here looking for any kind of . . . trouble?”

  “Believe me, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I’m never looking for trouble. It just seems to find me.”