The South Fork Showdown Read online

  The big one.

  As it moved through the brush, it sounded very big. Clint had seen some wild pigs before, but never a boar.

  * * *

  “What’s that?” Green said.

  “That’s the boar,” Upton said. “Coming from over there. Come on.”

  “We’re not after boar,” Foster said. “We’re after Adams.”

  “If the boar hears Adams moving around, it’ll move toward him. We find the boar, we’ll find Adams.”

  “I get first shot at him,” Foster grumbled.

  “The first one who sees him gets the first shot,” Upton said.

  Foster grumbled some more.

  * * *

  The boar sounded like he was getting closer, so Clint started to move again. It soon became apparent to him that the members of the club were not the only ones hunting him.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Clint finally decided there was no way he could get to the other end of the hundred-acre preserve. His only choice, then, was to circle back. And all the way, he was aware of the snorting, snuffling boar behind him.

  * * *

  “He’s circling back,” Foster said.

  “Are you sure, Cole?” Upton asked.

  “The trail is as clear as day, Fred,” Foster said.

  “Cole, your old eyes—”

  “May not be able to read newspaper print so well anymore, you young pup,” Foster said, “but I can still read signs better than you ever could!”

  Upton shrugged and said, “Okay. What about the wild boar?”

  “Right behind him,” Foster said. “And closing in.”

  “Well,” Upton said, “I hope we get Adams before the boar gets him.”

  * * *

  The other three hunters were finding no sign of Clint Adams.

  “Evan,” Bledsoe said, “we should turn back. Old Man Foster’s probably got the scent by now.”

  “He’s right,” Chelton said. “It’s no use.”

  “Damn it!” Lawrence said. “Yeah, yeah, okay, let’s turn back.”

  * * *

  Clint could see the roof of the house in the distance. If he could make it—but suddenly he heard the boar behind him. The animal broke from the brush and came at him. It was huge, bigger than any pig he’d ever seen. And with those tusks, it would have given a mountain lion a tussle.

  He knew if he fired, he’d be giving his position away, but in that split second he also knew he had no choice. He only hoped the pistol was a big enough caliber to do the job. He had no idea how thick the animal’s hide was.

  He drew the gun—odd in his hand, even if it was the same caliber as his own—and fired twice. Both shots stuck the boar in the head, one right between the eyes. It stumbled, tried to maintain its feet just out of instinct, and then went down in a heap.

  Hurriedly, Clint reloaded.

  * * *

  “Where did those shots come from?” Upton asked.

  “Back near the house,” Foster said.

  “If he makes it to the house . . .” Upton said.

  “We’re not that far behind him,” Foster said. “All I need is one clear shot.”

  * * *

  Clint reached the remnants of those chicken bones again. There were just enough there to tell him where he was. He figured he’d been running around that preserve for a few hours now. All he had to do was walk up the path to the house.

  * * *

  Foster sighted down the twin barrel of his rifle and said, “I’ve got him.”

  “Well,” Upton said, “take the shot.”

  Foster cocked both hammers.

  “I don’t think so,” a voice said from behind them. “Drop the guns, boys.”

  Foster froze with his finger just off the trigger.

  * * *

  Clint heard them coming and took cover behind a tree. In moments he saw Evan Lawrence, with Bledsoe and Chelton, coming along the path.

  He stepped out and said, “Hold it right there.”

  The three men froze when they saw him.

  “Hey,” Bledsoe said. “Who gave him a gun? That’s not right.”

  “I found it,” Clint said.

  “Maybe it doesn’t work,” Chelton said hopefully.

  “You want to find out?” Clint asked.

  The three men held their rifles loosely. Clint wondered if they were going to try.

  “No,” Lawrence said, “no. We don’t.”

  “Drop the guns.”

  Lawrence dropped his, and Chelton and Bledsoe followed. Suddenly, Upton, Foster, and Green came up the path, with a fourth man walking behind them, holding a gun.

  “Found these three wandering around out there,” Jeremy Pike said.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Clint asked.

  “Tell you later.”

  “My new rifle is still out there,” Foster complained. “It’ll get ruined.”

  “You’re not going to need it where you’re going,” Pike said to the old man.

  FORTY-FIVE

  “Henry Frick,” Pike said.

  “How did he find you?” Clint asked.

  “He went to your hotel, found out you sent me a message here with the doorman.”

  “I thought I could trust the doorman,” Clint said.

  “I think Frick gave him more money than you did.”

  “Lucky for me,” Clint said.

  “What are you complaining about?” Jeremy Pike asked. “You bagged a wild boar. In North America yet. Nobody else can say that.”

  It was two days later. Clint was back in his hotel room, had met with Pike at Solomon’s again before leaving Pittsburgh. He’d told Pike everything that had happened at the club, except for his dalliance with Pandora—oh, and the money he’d won playing poker, which he had since put in the bank.

  “How are you doing with Pandora?” Clint asked. “Is she going to get her restaurant?”

  “She is. She’s giving us some real dirt on that bunch,” Pike said.

  “Political stuff, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Pike said. “And financial. They had some plans for their own private little coup. Just like they had their own little club within a club.”

  “So the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club is safe?”

  “The other members didn’t know a thing about it,” Pike said. “So they’re free to go on running their club with all their rich members.”

  “And Frick?”

  “He walked,” Pike said, “but I hear Dale Carnegie’s out for his hide.”

  “Too bad,” Clint said. “I never got a chance to thank him—or Charles.”

  “The engineer?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I owe him, too. I hope he does his job all right with that dam.”

  “I’m not so sure he will,” Pike said.

  “Why?”

  “Evan Lawrence was paying him,” Pike said. “And Lawrence is going to jail.”

  “So he’ll make a deal with someone else,” Clint said. “It’s still the club’s responsibility.”

  “More rich men maybe,” Pike said, “wanting it done on the cheap?”

  “I hope not,” Clint said. “If that dam ever went, a lot of people would be in trouble.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On May 31, 1889, the South Fork Dam failed, causing the Johnstown Flood. Approximately 20 million gallons of water killed 2,209 people, and caused $17 million in damage.

  Watch for

  THE THREE MERCENARIES

  395th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove

  Coming in November!

 

 

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