Sure Shot . . .
Clint checked the bodies to make sure they were dead. Then he checked the man he had hit—Kemper—and was surprised to find two bullets in his chest. He wondered about that until he realized from the position the body was in, given where Bridget had been lying on the floor when she was shooting, it had to be she who had shot and killed him.
He wasn’t sure whether he was going to tell her that or not.
The bartender came over to him and said, “These fellers were sayin’ you probably killed the Lane brothers. Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
“Well then, friend,” the barman said, “you just did Council Bluffs a service.”
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TRAIL TO SHASTA
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.
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.
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-62204-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / April 2013
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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Contents
Sure Shot . . .
More 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
FORTY-FIVE
ONE
MAD MULE VALLEY
SHASTA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
In 1853, a local Shasta County newspaper reported there wasn’t a river, creek, gulch, or ravine in Shasta County that didn’t contain gold. Since that time, gold was being taken out of Mad Mule Valley in seemingly unending proportions . . .
* * *
Ed O’Neil finished writing the letter, reread the two pages, and nodded. Satisfied that the letter said what he wanted it to say, he folded it and put it in an envelope. He sealed it, and then addressed it. At that moment the door opened and Danny Lyons came in, stamping his feet to get some of the mud off them.
“You wanted to see me, boss?”
“That’s right,” O’Neil said. “I got a job for you, Danny.”
“Whatever you want, boss,” Danny said. “You know that.”
“I want you to deliver this personally.”
Lyons walked up to his boss’s desk and took the letter from him. He read the name on the envelope and his eyes widened. Then he read the address.
“Personal, boss.”
“That’s right.”
“B-But . . . you could mail it.”
“It would take too long.”
“Naw, they’re real good these days—”
“I don’t trust them,” O’Neil said. “I trust you, Danny.”
“What about a telegram?”
“Not enough room.”
“But . . . I’d have to ride for days . . .”
“I’ve arranged for you to ride in shifts,” O’Neil said. “Horses will be waiting for you at certain stations along the way.”
“You mean . . . like the Pony Express?”
“Just like the Pony Express.”
“Boss . . . some of those guys died.”
“You won’t die.”
Lyons, who was twenty-eight, said, “Boss, them riders, they was kids. I ain’t no kid.”
“You’re young enough,” O’Neil said. “And I’m payin’ you this.”
He handed Lyons another envelope. This time the younger man looked inside. His eyes widened again, and his eyebrows shot up.
“All of this?”
“Ye
ah.”
“You’re givin’ this to me now?”
“I am.”
“But . . . what if I just leave and keep goin’, and never deliver the letter?”
“You won’t,” O’Neil said. “I trust you, son.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Lyons answered.
“Just say you’ll do it.”
“This’ll take days.”
“I know it will,” Ed O’Neil said. “After you’re done, you can take the train back—that is, if you want to come back.”
Lyons put the two envelopes together in his hands.
“I’ll come back, boss,” he said. “You need me.”
“You’re right, son,” O’Neil said. “I do.” He stopped, and put his hand out. Lyons stepped forward and shook the older man’s hand.
“I’ll get it done, boss,” Danny Lyons said. “I promise.”
“I know you will, Danny,” Ed O’Neil said. “I know you will.”
LABYRINTH, TEXAS
* * *
“You know what your problem is?” Rick Hartman asked Clint Adams.
“What’s my problem?”
“You’ve done everything,” Rick said. “You’ve been all over the country, you’ve been out of the country, you’ve owned saloons and gambling halls, gold mines, hell, you’ve even run for political office. Jesus, what’s left?”
“That’s my problem, then,” Clint said.
“What?”
“I need to decide what to do next,” Clint said. “What haven’t I done yet?”
“Well,” Rick said, giving it some thought, “you haven’t been to China or Japan.”
“I don’t want to go to China or Japan,” Clint said.
“Why not?”
“Too far,” Clint said. “It would take too long.”
“I guess you’re right.”
They were sitting at a table in Rick’s Place, the saloon/gambling palace owned by Rick in Labyrinth, Texas. Clint had been in Labyrinth a week, and was itching to move on. But to go where, and do what? Those were the questions.
He and Rick were discussing it over a few mugs of beer. Around them, Rick’s Place was doing its usual brisk business. The tables were busy, and the girls were, too, carrying drinks to gamblers, spectators, and men who were there just to drink.
“How do you do it?” Clint asked Rick.
“How do I do what?”
“You never leave here,” Clint said. “You never leave Labyrinth.”
“I have, too.”
“What, twice in the last ten years?”
“That means I’ve left.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “then how do you leave only once every five years? I’d go crazy.”
“That’s because you don’t own anything.”
“I do, too,” Clint said. “I’ve got pieces of saloons, and mines, as you pointed out—”
“Around the country, yeah,” Rick said, “but no place you call home. Not really.”
“Home,” Clint said, staring at his half-empty mug.
“This place is my home,” Rick said. “I love it. I don’t want to leave.”
“I guess I can’t blame you for that,” Clint said. He lifted his mug and finished the contents. “It’s just a little late in life for me to try putting down roots.”
“And I can understand that,” Rick said. “But you know, there is something you haven’t done yet.”
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t gotten married.”
Clint stared at his friend, then said, “I think I need a shot of whiskey after that.”
Rick raised his hand to attract the attention of one of the girls.
TWO
FIVE DAYS LATER
Clint rolled over in bed and looked at the girl lying next to him. The sun coming in through the hotel window turned her skin to gold. She was lying naked on her belly, her small breasts crushed beneath her. She was blond, so there was a fine downy growth of blond hairs on her that picked up the sun, hence the glow.
She was a slender girl with a fine bottom, long legs, and smooth, pale skin. He reached out to touch her buttocks, enjoying the feel as he rubbed his hand over them.
She moaned, moved her bottom a bit, then rolled to her left to peer up at him. He saw one teacup-sized, pink-nippled breast.
“Are you tryin’ to wake me up?” she asked.
“I am.”
“But you wore me out last night.”
“And I’m looking forward to wearing you out this morning, too, Hannah.”
She rolled onto her back and giggled.
“I’m kinda lookin’ forward to that, too.”
He moved over her, kissed her, reached down to touch her between the legs, rubbing her gently with his fingertips until she was nice and wet and squirming. He pressed the head of his fully erect cock to her wet slit and pushed it in. She gasped, her long legs coming up and wrapping around him.
“Come on, Gunsmith,” Hannah said into his ear in a husky whisper, “ride me.”
He proceeded to do just that . . .
* * *
The rider came into town at a gallop, the gray beneath him shiny with sweat. He slowed to locate the livery, then dismounted in front.
“Jesus, mister,” the liveryman said, coming out with a broken bridle in his hands, “you tryin’ ta kill yerself or the horse?”
Gasping, the rider said, “The Gunsmith. I’m lookin’ for Clint Adams. Is he in town?”
“He sure is,” the man said. “His horse is still right here.”
“I gotta find ’im,” the man said. “Where is he?”
The liveryman knew he could get into trouble giving out the name of Clint Adams’s hotel, so he said, “Yer best bet is to go over to Rick’s Place. He’s usually there.”
“Th-Thanks.”
The rider turned to leave, but at that moment one of his legs gave out. He stumbled, almost fell, then righted himself.
“You okay, son?” the liveryman asked.
“I been ridin’ kinda hard . . . for days . . . tryin’ ta get here,” the rider said.
“You mean . . . like the Pony Express?”
“Yeah,” Danny Lyons said, “exactly like the Pony Express.”
* * *
When Lyons got to Rick’s Place, he found the front door locked. That’s when he realized how early it was. But he’d risked his neck riding in the dark, so a locked door wasn’t about to stop him.
He started pounding his fist on it.
Inside, Rick Hartman was just sitting down to his breakfast when the pounding started on the door.
“See who that is,” he told the bartender, “and tell them to go away and come back when we’re open.”
“Sure, boss,” the bartender said.
Rick started on his eggs while the bartender handled the door.
“I don’t care if yer closed,” a voice shouted, “I gotta deliver this letter to the Gunsmith.”
Rick looked up as a young man pushed past the bartender and entered the saloon. He looked as if he was ready to pack it in after a long ride.
“What the hell—” Rick said.
“Sorry, boss,” the bartender said. “I’ll get ’im out of here.”
“Where’s the Gunsmith?” the man demanded.
“What makes you think the Gunsmith is here?” Rick asked.
“The man at the livery stable told me,” the man said. “Look, I been ridin’ a long time . . .” At that moment his eyes rolled up and he started to fall. The bartender caught him, and Rick sprang from his chair to help.
“Sit him over here,” Rick said, and they took the man to his table. “Get me another cup.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, boss.”
The man came to almost immediately and asked, “What happened?”
“You fainted. When’s the last time you ate?”
“I ain’t . . . ate in a long while.”
“Well, here,” Rick said. He reached for his plate of bacon and eggs and slid it across the table to the man. He handed him a fork. “Start eatin’.”
“I gotta find Clint Adams—”
“You’ll find him,” Rick said. “Eat, and have some coffee.”
The man put a piece of bacon into his mouth, then grabbed the fork and started stuffing his mouth with eggs. The barman came with another cup, and Rick filled it with coffee. The weary man grabbed it and drank it down, unmindful of how hot it was.
“Take it easy,” Rick said as the man started to cough.
The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then looked at Rick.
“Mister, it’s real important I deliver this letter to Clint Adams. Is he here?”
“He’s not,” Rick said, “but he will be by the time you finish eating. I guarantee it.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, and he went back to his eating.
THREE
Clint was down between Hannah Davis’s smooth thighs, licking and sucking up as much of her nectar as he could, when there was a knock on the door.
“Go away!” he shouted.
“Oh, God,” Hannah said, squirming beneath him, “don’t stop.”
The knocking didn’t stop either.
“Damn it!” Clint shouted.
“Rick sent me, Mr. Adams,” a voice said. “He says it’s important.”
Clint looked up at Hannah, whose beautiful eyes were closed as she bit her bottom lip.
“Don’t go away,” he told her.
“What?” she asked, opening her eyes. “What are you doin’?”
“Answering the door. Somebody’s banging on it,” he said, pulling on his pants. “It will only take a minute.”
“It better!” she said, eyes flashing. “You’re not done here.”
He opened the door, didn’t know the man standing there, but did recognize him as someone Rick used to run errands.
“What is it?”
The young man looked past him at the naked girl on the bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry—”
Trail to Shasta (9781101622049) Page 1
