by JR Roberts
When Abraham Lincoln's body is stolen from his Tomb and held for ransom by men who can't admit that the South lost the Civil War, who else would the Government ask to pay the ransom and recover the body but The Gunsmith? Facing a small army led by a former Confederate Colonel and his sexy wife, Clint Adams turns to the only person he can to watch his back, his friend, private detective Talbot Roper. Together they fight to recover Lincoln's body and prove that the South is truly dead.
THE GUNSMITH 400: THE LINCOLN RANSOM
By J. R. Roberts
First published by Piccadilly Publishing 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Robert J. Randisi
First Smashwords Edition: April 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
Denver, Co
When Clint entered the Denver House Hotel it was almost like coming home, he had been there so many times before.
The desk clerk looked up and recognized him as he approached the desk.
“Mr. Adams,” the young man said, “how nice to have you back with us.”
“Happy to be back,” Clint said. He didn’t remember the man’s name, at the moment. “Can I have a nice room?”
“Best room in the house, sir,” the clerk said. “Those are our instructions whenever you come to town.”
“That’s nice to know.”
Clint signed the register, accepted his key and carried his saddlebags up the staircase to the second floor. The last time he was there, there was some talk of modernizing the hotel by installing an elevator, but it looked as if nothing like that had started yet.
When he got to his room, a two room suite with its own water closet, he tossed the saddlebags on the bed and walked to the window. It was still light out, there was still traffic on the street below. Normally, Clint loved coming to Denver. He gambled, he ate at good restaurants, spent time with beautiful women, and had dinner with his friend, Talbot Roper. This trip it looked like he was only going to have time to see Roper.
But he was hungry, and wanted a drink. He went into the WC and washed off the remnants of the train trip from Washington to Springfield to Denver, then put on some clean clothes and went out.
The Denver House had its own excellent dining room that specialized in steaks and catered not only to guests, but to locals—a lot of businessmen, politicians, and citizens with enough money to pay the exorbitant prices.
He entered and was shown to a table that was against a wall and away from the doors and windows. He ordered a sixteen ounce steak with everything, and a mug of beer. He was finished with the beer by the time the steak came, and asked for another.
While he ate he watched the people around him, tables of mostly twos and threes. They came, ate and went while he enjoyed his meal slowly, and nobody seemed to be paying any special attention to him. Which suited him just fine.
Denver was a detour. People in Washington knew he was going to Springfield, but they didn’t know where he was going after that. Actually, he didn’t know he was going to go to Denver, either. Not until he decided he needed help on this. And that the help he got should not be connected to the United States Government. It should be someone he could trust without question.
That was Talbot Roper, possibly the best private detective in the country. He had a dinner appointment with Roper that evening, when he’d probably have another steak just like this one.
He signed the check so that the total would be added to his hotel bill when he checked out, then left the hotel to go for a walk. A few blocks West he found a small saloon he’d been to once or twice before and went inside. It was about half full of locals, who only glanced at him when he entered. He went to the bar and ordered a beer.
He thought about Eclipse. He had brought the Darley Arabian with him, taken him off the train and installed him at a livery stable near the train station. He didn’t know if he’d be leaving Denver by train or on horseback. That would depend on what—if anything—he learned while he was there.
He nursed his beer and checked the time. Still several hours before he had to meet Roper in the lobby of the Denver House. Roper, as qualified as he was, had actually been Clint’s second choice for someone to ask help from. First he had tried to locate Bat Masterson, sending telegram to several places he thought the man might be, but he hadn’t been able to locate him. Then there was his friend Rick Hartman, from Labyrinth, Texas. Hartman had contacts all over the country, but he rarely, if ever, left Labyrinth. That left Talbot Roper. It had only taken one telegram to set up as meeting with his friend.
He hadn’t told Roper anything about why he was coming, only that he was, and that he needed his help. That was enough for Roper to drop what he was doing and agree to meet with Clint.
He finished his beer, left the saloon and headed back to the Denver House.
As he entered the hotel the desk clerk waved him over.
“I have a message for you, Mr. Adams,” he said, handing him a slip of paper.
“Who left it?”
“A young boy.”
“Thanks.”
Clint looked around the lobby, saw nothing suspicious, took the note up to his room with him before reading it.
It was from Roper. It said: “Something’s come up. Let’s meet at nine a.m. for breakfast.” It was signed “Roper.”
Clint read some Mark Twain the rest of the evening, and went to bed.
Chapter Two
Clint was in the lobby the next morning when Talbot Roper came walking in at eight-fifty-five a.m.. He saw Clint and walked toward him with his hand out. The two men shook hands warmly.
“Good to see you, Clint,” Roper said.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Sorry about last night,” the detective said. “Just had to tie up some old business. Shall we have breakfast?”
“By all means. I skipped dinner last night, fell asleep early. Train rides, you know?”
“I know,” Roper said. “They’re taking more and more out of me, too. Rather ride a horse, anytime.”
They walked to the dining room, which was only about half-full at that time of the morning. Clint had them taken to the same table he’d had the evening before. They both ordered steak-and-eggs and coffee.
“Well,” Roper said, “I’m all yours, Clint. My slate is clean.”
“I have a story to tell you,” Clint said, “started almost a week ago.”
“By all means,” Roper said, “tell me a story, Clint …”
Labyrinth, Texas
Clint was in Labyrinth, Texas when he got the telegram to come to Washington D.C. .
“Jim West?” Rick Hartman asked.
“No,” Clint said, “but close. Jeremy Pike.”
“The Government?”
Clint nodded, folding the telegram. It was morning and they were sitting in Rick’s Place, a saloon and gambling hall that was not open yet.
“Yes.”
“And when the government calls you always go running, don’t you?”
Clint shrugged. “I’m a patriot.”
“Yeah, I’m a patriot, too,” Rick said,
“but that just means I vote. What do they want you to do this time?”
“I won’t know that until I get there,” Clint said, as Rick’s bartender brought their breakfasts out.
Rick shook his head. “You know, I’m glad I don’t leave town anymore.”
“I think it’s a condition with you now,” Clint said. “I don’t think you could leave if you wanted to.”
Rick smiled and cut off a hunk of ham steak.
“Then it’s lucky I don’t want to.”
Each trip back to Labyrinth Clint would meet a new group of girls working for Rick in his saloon. Saloon girls did not stick around for very long, looking for any reason to move on to the next town, the next job. But Rick had a system. He usually hired one older woman—early thirties, maybe—and then the rest all under thirty, and the older woman became like a den mother to the others.
And Rick had extremely good taste in women. The girls were always beautiful, And he usually picked out a young one for himself.
The last few years, though, Clint had found himself spending time with the “den mother.”
Elizabeth Downing was thirty-three, and while that may have seemed old for a saloon girl, there was nothing over-the-hill about Liz. She was a busty blonde who breasts were still high and firm, still slim-waisted, appearing even more so because of her hour glass hips.
He had been in Labyrinth for several weeks when the telegram came—a longer stay than usual. But he had spent a lot of time on the trail recently, and a good long rest in Labyrinth had been just what he needed—and so had Liz.
They were in bed together the night he received the telegram, and he told her he’d be leaving the next morning.
“That’s kind of abrupt, isn’t it?” she asked. She propped herself up on one elbow, her long blonde hair flowing down over her shoulders. One large breast was flattened beneath her, but he could see the large, pink nipple of the other one very clearly.
“It can’t be helped,” he said. “My country calls.”
“Your country, huh?” she said. “Not another woman?”
“Definitely not another woman,” he said, reaching out to cup her breast and thumb her nipple. She closed her eyes and bit her lush lower lip.
“You bastard,” she said, “you know I may not be here when you get back.”
“I have no idea when I’ll be back,” he said, “or if.”
“Oh, Mr. Adams,” she said, lifting his hand to her mouth, running the tip of his thumb over her bottom lip, “you’re a bad risk for any woman, aren’t you? She’d never know if you were alive or dead.”
He pushed his thumb between her lips into her mouth, and she sucked on it.
“I’m afraid that’s always going to be the case, Liz.”
She sucked his thumb until it was thoroughly wet, and then he slid it from her mouth and circled her nipple with it again.
“Oh, God …” she said.
She pushed him down onto his back, kissed his mouth hungrily, then kissed his chest, and his belly, running her tongue around his navel, and then lower still. When she was nestled comfortably between his legs, her elbows resting on his thighs, she licked the head of his penis, and then drew it into her mouth. She sucked it a while, just the spongy head, getting it very wet, holding his think penis with one hand. Then, little by little, she took more of it into her mouth, until suddenly she swooped down on him, causing him to catch his breath.
She began to suck him in long, slow strokes of her lips and tongue, holding onto the base of his penis with one hand, using the other hand to cup and caress his swollen testicles.
She slowed his cock to slide out of her mouth and looked up at him with her beautiful blue eyes.
“You’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?”
“Terribly.”
She stroked his cock with her hand and said, “How much?”
“Awfully,” he said, “thoroughly … amazingly … what else do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” she said, “you’ve said enough. Here’s our reward.”
She took him into her hot, hungry mouth again and sucked him until he lifted his hips off the bed, bellowed, and exploded into her mouth…
Chapter Three
Washington, D.C.
Clint took the train to Washington D.C., taking Eclipse with him in the stock car every step of the way. Since there was no telling what they wanted with him this time, he didn’t know whether or not he’d need the horse.
In Washington he walked the Darley Arabian off the train and put him in a livery stable nearby, one that he had used before on other trips.
“I may need him at a moment’s notice,” he told the hostler.
“He’ll be ready,” the man said. “God, I’ve never seen a horse like this. Is he fast?”
“Fast,” Clint said, “and he can run all day.”
The man stroked Eclipse’s neck, which Clint found encouraging. The horse didn’t let a lot of people touch him. He must have sensed this man knew what he was doing.
Clint also left his saddle in the livery, but took his rifle and saddlebags with him. He went back to the train station, where he found a carriage waiting for him.
“Mr. Adams?” the driver asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been sent to pick you up, sir.”
“Fine.” He tossed his saddlebags into the carriage. “Are we going to a hotel?”
“No, sir,” the man said. “They’re very anxious to see you. I’m to take you to meet with them.”
“With who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said. “That sounds pretty standard for the government.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said, climbing aboard. “Let’s go.”
When the carriage pulled up in front of a concrete stairway that led up to a large building, Jeremy Pike was waiting there.
“Clint,” Pike said, as Clint stepped down. “Good to see you.” They shook hands.
“What’s going on, Jeremy?”
“I was just asked to meet you and take you up.”
“Up there?” Clint asked, pointing to the building.
“Yes.”
“What is this place?”
“A botanical garden.”
“A wha—you’re going to show me flowers?”
“Clint,” Pike said, “somebody wants to talk to you. This is serious.”
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”
The building was, indeed, a botanical garden. Pike took Clint down along rows and rows of flowers until they reached the far end of the building. Standing in front of a window were two men, one of them in uniform. They were staring out the window where the view was of the Patomac River.
When they reached the two men they turned to face them.
“Clint Adams, this is Mr. Henry Goulding of the State Department, and General George Wilson.”
“Mr. Adams,” Goulding said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
“Mr. Adams,” the General said, also shaking hands.
“Sir,” Clint said.
“Pike,” Goulding said, “I’d like you to stay.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Clint asked, “are we all here?”
“We are,” Goulding said.
“I don’t suppose there’s someplace we can sit?” Clint said. “Those were a lot of stairs.”
“Afraid not,” the General said. “This meeting is top secret.”
“All right, then,” Clint said, folding his arms.
“You plan on wearing that gun everywhere you go in D.C.?” the General asked.
“You betcha,” Clint said. “I don’t wear a gun, I’m dead.”
“We can provide protection—”
“Never mind that,” Clint said. “I provide my own protection. Can we get to the top secret part?”
The General looked at Goulding, who step
ped forward to take the lead.
“Let’s walk, Mr. Adams.”
Clint looked at the General, who gestured that he should go ahead. Goulding started to walk and Clint fell into step next to him. They walked along the rows of flowers.
“Why do I get the feeling you somehow outrank a General?” Clint asked.
“Just on this thing, Mr. Adams.”
“And this thing is … what?”
“Something where we need someone we can trust,” Goulding said.
“You have thousands of soldiers, and I don’t know how many secret service agents.”
“We need someone who is not in the military, and not in the government. You were recommended by several people.’
“Jim West?”
“Among them, yes,” Goulding said, “also Mr. Pike.”
“All right, then,” Clint said. “What exactly are we talking about?”
By now they had left the General and Pike behind, out of earshot. Clint didn’t know if that had been the point of walking.
“It’s a ransom situation.”
“Ah … a big ransom?”
“Very big.”
“So somebody important has been kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve already heard from the kidnappers?” Clint asked.
“We have, yes.”
“Where do they want the payoff made?”
“Colorado.”
“What? Why Colorado?”
“We don’t know. It’s a long way from where the kidnapping took place. We don’t understand it.”
“But somebody here in D.C. has been contacting you with their demands.”
“Yes.”
“Seems to me you need to find whoever that is here, in D.C.,” Clint said. “Why send anybody to Colorado?”
“We have somebody working on it at this end,” Goulding said.
“Pike?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so while he works on it here you want me to take the ransom to Colorado.”
