The Deadly Chest 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

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  CROSS DRAW

  Hard Bargain

  “Make it easy, Adams,” Duffy said. “Give us the thousand.”

  “Let them have it, Clint!” Loretta said.

  “Sorry, I can’t do that,” Clint said. “They won’t be satisfied with it. They think they’ll kill me, take the thousand, and then take you back to get them more. Or maybe they’ll kill you after they kill me.”

  “Shut up,” Duffy said. He stepped a few feet away from Franks, who stayed where he was. “Give us the money, missy, or we’ll kill Adams.”

  “Just relax, Loretta.”

  “I’ll give you the money!” Loretta shouted.

  “I won’t,” Clint said.

  “You’re makin’ this hard,” Duffy said.

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “On you.”

  “H-he ain’t backin’ off, Duffy,” Franks said. “We got him two to one and he ain’t backin’ off.”

  “Shut up!” Duffy said.

  Franks licked his lips and acquired a twitch in his left eye.

  “Is a thousand dollars worth dying for?” Clint asked. The question was for either one of them.

  “Damn you,” Duffy said, and drew.

  Clumsily, Franks also went for his gun.

  Loretta’s sharp intake of breath was audible, followed by two quick shots.

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

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

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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 . . .

  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) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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 DEADLY CHEST

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / May 2011

  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 : 978-1-101-51402-3

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  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  When the box fell off the back of the stage, no one noticed.

  It was a Concord stage, the type that Mark Twain called “a cradle on wheels.” Concords were so well built they never broke down, they just wore out.

  But this one was overcrowded. The dedicated luggage rack on top was packed full and strapped down, so some of the luggage had to also be packed on the rear of the wagon.

  The Concords rode so well that when they hit the large bump in the road that jolted the black box loose, no one felt it.

  The box was solid. When it struck the ground it bounced and rolled, but the lock and the hinges held and when it came to a stop alongside the rode, in a gulley, it was in one piece.

  Out in the middle of nowhere . . .

  The stage pulled into Westbrook, Arizona, at midday. It stopped in front of the Heritage Hotel, where a worker employed by the California & Arizona Stage Line opened the door. A couple of men piled out, but they went first to make room for the two ladies, who came next. After that, three more men disembarked, and then the worker and the drivers started unloading the luggage. The driver got on top, unstrapped the bags, boxes and trunks and began either handing them or dropping them down.

  “Easy with that sample case,” the drummer yelled.

  He winced as the worker caught the case before it struck the ground, and handed it over.

  “Don’t drop my jewelry case,” one of the women shouted. The driver handed it down to the other man, who gently turned it over to the woman.

  “Thank yo
u,” she said, handing him a quarter.

  They went to work on the other bags, some of which did slip and strike the ground. Eventually, there was just one woman waiting. She had a bag at her feet, which held her belongings, but she was also waiting for her black chest.

  “That’s it,” the driver shouted.

  “Okay,” the other man said.

  “But . . . wait,” the woman called.

  Both men froze and looked at her. She was very pretty in her dress, black gloves, and hat. She frowned at both of them.

  “Where’s my chest?” she asked.

  They both looked at her chest, but she didn’t notice. “There was a black box loaded onto the stage in California,” she said. “Where is it now?”

  “There’s no black box up here, ma’am,” the driver said. “What did it look like?”

  “It was a big, black chest,” she said. “I watched you load it on and strap it down on the back.”

  The driver moved to the back of the stage and peered over.

  “What is it, Eddie?” the other man asked.

  “I got a broken strap up here, Willie,” Eddie Curry said. “I think the box fell off.”

  “Fell off?” she asked. “But . . . where?”

  The driver looked back down at her.

  “There’s no tellin’ where it happened, ma’am.”

  “Well, we have to go back and look.”

  “I can’t go back, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got to keep goin’.”

  “Then how do I find my chest?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the station manager here in town,” Willie said.

  “Well . . . can you take me to him?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, picking up her bag. “Just follow me.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Eddie called down. “Go with Willie and I’m sure the manager can help ya.”

  “I hope so!” she said.

  Willie took the woman to the office of the California & Arizona Stage Line office.

  “Mr. Blake?”

  The man seated at the desk, surrounded by paperwork, looked up at Willie. He was in his fifties, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a harried look on his face.

  “What is it, Willie?” he asked. “I’m busy.”

  “I brought a customer in,” Willie said, stepping aside so that Andy Blake could see the woman behind him. “She just came in on the stage.”

  “ So?”

  “Some of my luggage is missing,” she said.

  “Damn it!” Blake swore. More paperwork, he thought. “What was it?”

  “A trunk,” she said. “A large black trunk. Apparently a strap broke and it fell off the back of your stage.”

  “Well, ma’am—”

  “Miss,” she said, “Loretta Burns.”

  “Yeah, well, Miss Burns, have a seat and we’ll just fill out a form—”

  “A form?” she asked. She approached his desk and slammed her handbag down on it. “Is that all you’re going to do? Fill out a form?”

  “What else do you want me to do, Ma—Miss Burns?” he asked.

  “I want you to send someone out to retrieve my chest,” she said.

  “And who would you suggest I send out there?” he asked, spreading his arms.

  “What about this man?” She pointed at Willie.

  “He works here in town,” Blake said.

  “Then another man.”

  “I don’t have any other men. Besides, where would you suggest they look?”

  “Well . . . in the road.”

  “You mean on the road between here and California? Do you know how long that would take?”

  “What about between here and the last rest stop?” she asked.

  “Was the chest there at the last rest stop?”

  She glared at him. “How am I to know that?” she asked. “Isn’t that the responsibility of your men?”

  “It’s the responsibility of this company to get you where you’re goin’ safely.”

  “And not my luggage?”

  “Ma’am,” Blake said, “we’re sorry about your . . . trunk, but there’s nothin’ we can do but have the next stage be on the lookout for it along the way.”

  “And will the next stage be along?”

  “End of the week.”

  “I can’t wait that long!”

  “Well then, I only have two suggestions for you.”

  “What are they?”

  “Get on a horse and go lookin’ yerself,” Blake said, “or hire somebody to do it for you.” He picked up a pencil. “Now, do you want to fill out a form?”

  TWO

  Clint stared into the mirror while the barber cut his hair. He was covered by a cloth, but underneath he had easy access to his gun. A couple of times, too many young guns had tried to take him while he was in a barber’s chair.

  “How’s it look?” the barber asked nervously.

  “Fine,” Clint said. “You’re doing fine. Just relax.”

  “Sorry,” the barber said. “I ain’t never cut a famous man’s hair before.”

  “It’s just hair,” Clint said.

  The barber was thinking, It’s just hair I can sweep up, layer, and sell as the Gunsmith’s hair.

  “D-do you want a shave?” the man asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

  Clint thought the barber’s hand was shaking too much to trust him with a razor.

  In a few more minutes, the barber was done. He removed the cloth from Clint and shook it out carefully so that all the hair floated to the floor. He’d sweep it up as soon as Clint left.

  Clint stood up, and the barber eagerly used a brush to clean off his shoulders. More hair for the floor.

  Clint looked in the mirror nodded, turned and paid the barber, then accepted his hat from the man.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” the barber said. “Bay rum?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “And thanks for comin’ into my place.”

  Clint nodded, headed for the door, then stopped.

  “Get a good price,” he said to the barber.

  “ Sir?”

  “For my hair,” Clint said. “You’re going to sweep it up and sell it, right?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Just wait until I leave town,” Clint said, “and make sure you get a good price.”

  “Um, yessir.”

  Clint grinned and left the barber shop.

  Outside on the boardwalk he stopped when he saw a crowd gathered in front of his hotel. Seemed to have something to do with the stagecoach that had stopped there.

  As he was watching, a man walked up next to him and also stopped to look.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

  Clint looked at him. It was the deputy named Jed Simons. He’d met him several days ago, when he first arrived in town. The sheriff was out of town that day, so Deputy Simons was in charge.

  “Damned if I know,” Clint said. “Looks like the stage was packed, though.”

  “Not my worry,” the deputy said. “Let Blake worry about it.”

  “Blake?”

  “He manages the stage line here in town,” Simons said. “If there’s a complaint, he’ll have to handle it.”

  “How about you?” Clint asked. “Handling everything okay?”

  Clint looked at the young deputy, who had been left in charge for the first time.

  “Everythin’s okay, so far, Mr. Adams,” Simons said. “And you?”

  “Just got a haircut and nobody tried to take a shot at me,” Clint said. “That’s a good day, so far.”

  “Yessir. Well, I got to get movin’. See you later.”

  “In the saloon,” Clint said. “I’ll buy you a drink when you finish with your rounds.”

  “Yessir!”

  As the deputy walked away, Clint wondered if the young man was even twenty, yet. Sure took a lot of nerve for the sheriff to go off and le
ave him in charge.

  He turned and headed for his hotel.

  THREE

  By the time Clint got to the hotel, the stage had moved, and so had the crowd. He walked inside and approached the front desk.

  “What was all the excitement?” he asked the young clerk.

  “One of the passengers arrived without some of her luggage,” the man said. “Apparently it fell off the back of the stage.”

  “Where’d the stage come from?”

  “East.”

  “Will the stage company send someone out to find it?” Clint asked.

  “I doubt it,” the clerk said. “They don’t have anyone to send, and they don’t know where it fell off.”

  “That’s too bad. Is she a guest here?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You better make her feel welcome, then,” Clint advised.

  “That’s what my boss told me, sir.”

  “Then I guess he knows his business,” Clint said.

  He left the desk and went up to his room. He wanted to change his shirt, because he was itching after his haircut.

  Loretta Burns was in her room, pacing back and forth with her arms folded. She needed to freshen up and change her clothes, but all she could think about was the black chest. There had to be some way to find it and get it back.

  She needed to hire somebody to do it!

  But first she had to have a bath.

  She rushed out of the room, almost running into a man in the hallway.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, backing up.

  “No, no,” he said, “my fault.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I really don’t need your Western good manners at the moment.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m sorr—”

  But she was gone, running down the hall.

  Clint watched the pretty woman run off down the hall to the stairway. From her attitude, and the way she was dressed, he assumed this was the woman whose luggage was lost. For that reason alone, he gave her a pass on her bad manners.