A Civilized Conversation . . .
“The dam needs to be repaired,” Charles said, “in more than one place.”
“Can it be done cheaply?”
“I don’t know,” Charles replied. “I’m still thinking about that.”
He looked around. They were meeting in the same low-rent saloon, but today they and the bartender were the only ones there.
“You better find a way to fix it, then,” the man said. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“Well,” Charles said, “if Clint Adams is here, that changes things.”
“Why? How?”
“Because of my other profession. The one where I use my gun. That puts me right on a collision course with him.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Yes, it does. He has one of the biggest reputations in the West with a gun. Maybe the biggest. You know what that means?”
“This is not the Wild West, Charles,” the man said. “This is Pittsburgh. This is a civilized city.”
“Is it? Have you read the papers lately? Three people have been killed in the past few days. How damn civilized is that?”
“Dash—”
“If I kill Clint Adams,” Dash Charles said, “I won’t need your money anymore.”
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THE SOUTH FORK SHOWDOWN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Randisi.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / October 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
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Author’s Note
ONE
Pittsburgh lay sprawled out in front of Clint Adams as he regarded it from the saddle. He’d been to big cities like New York and Chicago, and other major cities like Denver and San Francisco. Pittsburgh had grown by leaps and bounds since the one and only other time he’d ever been there. A major city now with paved streets and multistory buildings. He knew there’d be elevators and telephones there. He didn’t mind telephones, but he didn’t like elevators. Not one bit.
“Let’s go, big fella,” he said to Eclipse, urging him into a canter. “Time to get down to business.”
* * *
As he rode into the city, Clint saw the electric streetlights, the trolleys, and an occasional automobile. Pittsburgh was marching determinedly toward the twentieth century.
He reined in Eclipse in front of the Steel House Hotel and dismounted. He grabbed his carpetbag and rifle and entered the lobby.
The lobby had a high ceiling with a crystal chandelier, and was furnished with a half-dozen burgundy divans and just as many armchairs. The people milling about, entering and exiting the dining room, elevator, and staircases, were mostly well and expensively dressed.
He approached the front desk, and the clerk—also well dressed—eyed him dubiously, with one eyebrow arched.
“Yes?”
“I need a room.”
“Indeed,” the man said. “The rooms here are quite expensive, you know.”
“Is that a fact?” Clint asked. “You want me to turn my pockets inside out for you?”
“Sir?”
“So you can count my money?”
“Sir,” the man said, “that won’t be necessary.” The clerk turned the register to face him. “Just sign in and we’ll see what we can do to find an appropriate room.”
“Thank you.”
Clint signed his name while the clerk made a show of trying to find him an “appropriate” room. Clint noticed he was looking along the bottom row of keys.
“Problem?” Clint asked, turning the register back around.
“Uh, no,” the clerk said, “I’m just, uh . . .” He glanced at the register, then stopped and took a good long look.
“Adams?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“Um, the Clint Adams?”
“I don’t know of another one,” Clint said. “Is that a problem?”
“Uh, no, sir, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said. “No problem at all.”
The clerk suddenly reached up and took a key from the top row. “Here we go.”
“Thank you,” Clint said, accepting the key.
“Would you like help with your bag, sir?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’ve got it, thanks.”
“Just let me know if there’s anything at all the house can do to make your stay more pleasant, Mr. Adams.”
“I’ll do that.”
Clint picked up his bag and rifle and walked to the stairs.
“Mr. Adams?”
He stopped, turned, and looked at the clerk.
“We have an elevator.” The man pointed.
“What floor am I on?” Clint asked.
“The third.”
“I can walk,” Clint said, and started up the stairs.
* * *
After Clint Adams disappeared up the staircase, the clerk waved to one of the bellboys.
“Yes, Steve?”
“Jimmy,” Steve Edison said to the bellboy, who was actually three years older than him, “find Mr. Frick.”
“Sir?”
“Henry Frick,” Steve said. “You know who he is?”
“Well, yeah, but . . . I ain’t never talked to him.”
“Well, find him and give him a message,” Steve said.
“What’s the message?”
Steve wrote it on a slip of paper and passed it to Jimmy.
“Just give him that.”
“Okay.”
“Do it now.”
“I’m on duty—”
“No, Jimmy,” Steve said. “I’ll cover for you.”
“Well, okay,” Jimmy said dubiously.
“You won’t lose any tips,” Steve promised as Jimmy left.
TWO
In his room, Clint set the rifle down in a corner, dumped the bag on the big bed. The clerk had given him a large room. He had no way of knowing if it was one of the largest, though.
The hotel had indoor plumbing, which he’d seen a few times before. Water running into a basin from outside, a “water closet” with a pull chain flush toilet. The toilet had first appeared in England during the 1870s but, at the start of the 1880s, had begun appearing in the United States.
He washed up and made use of the toilet, then went back down to the lobby. The clerk straightened his back as he saw Clint approaching the desk.
“What’s your name?” Clint asked.
“Steve, sir.”
“Steve, how is the steak in your dining room?”
“The best in town.”
“Are you supposed to say that, or is it actually the best in town?”
“Well . . . it’s pretty good for a hotel dining room,” Steve said. “But there are restaurants in town with better.”
“Thanks for the honesty,” Clint said. “I’ll try it and let you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve said. “By the way, sir, you can sign your check in the dining room and then the meal will be charged to your room. You can pay for everything when you check out.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sir,” the clerk said. “It’s for your convenience.”
“Well, thanks,” Clint said, “but I’ll probably just pay for my meals as I eat them.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve said, “as you wish.”
Clint waved a hand and walked over to the entrance of the dining room. As he peered in, he saw that the place was very busy, but he spotted several empty tables.
When a man in a tuxedo approached him, Clint said, “I’d like that table,” pointing to one against the wall.
“Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”
“Yes, I am.”
The white-haired man bowed at the waist and said, “Follow me, sir.”
Clint followed him to the table he’d requested. The man allowed Clint to sit, then tried to put his napkin in his lap.
“That’s okay,” Clint said, grabbing the napkin, “I’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, with no offense taken. “I’ll send your waiter right over.”
“Thank you.”
When the waiter came, Clint ordered a steak dinner and a pitcher of beer.
“Would you like to sign the check to your room, sir?” the man asked.
“No,” Clint said, “I’ll pay.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The waiter left, returned first with the pitcher of beer and a mug, and then with the dinner platter. Clint cut into the steak and found the first bite acceptable, possibly because he was particularly hungry.
He commenced eating with gusto.
* * *
Henry Frick’s business was steel.
Ever since the building of the Eads Bridge in Saint Louis—the first bridge ever built from steel—steel had become one of the most valuable commodities in the country. Frick had partnered with Dale Carnegie, and the two rich men were becoming increasingly richer.
The bellboy found Frick in his office, but wasn’t allowed to see him. He was stopped at the desk of the man’s secretary.
“I’m supposed to deliver this personally,” he told her.
“Giving it to me is delivering it personally,” she assured him.
“I don’t know . . .”
She extended her hand and said, “I do.”
He stared at her for a few moments, then gave in and handed it over.
“Thank you,” she said.
He remained standing there, obviously expecting a tip.
“I presume the man who sent the message will take care of you,” she said.
“Uh, well, yeah.”
“Then off you go.”
He frowned, then turned and left.
The woman stood up, went to her boss’s door, and knocked.
“Come!”
She opened the door and entered.
* * *
Henry Clay Frick was in his mid-thirties. While he sat at the helm of his own company, H. C. Frick & Company, he was also the chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company.
He sat back in his chair and watched his attractive secretary as she walked toward his desk.
“A bellboy just left this for you,” she said, handing him the note.
He did not immediately read it.
“Bellboy from where?”
“The Steel House.”
“All right,” he said. “Thank you.”
He watched her hips sway as she walked to the door and left. Then and only then did he unfold the note, secure in the knowledge that his secretary had not read it.
THREE
Clint took a walk after he finished his palatable, if rather unremarkable, meal. Later he’d ask the clerk for the names of those restaurants he’d mentioned.
When he returned from his walk, he was surprised to see an expensive hansom cab with brass lamps parked in front of the hotel. He didn’t think anyone would come look
ing for him so soon.
He entered the lobby as nonchalantly as he could, heard someone call out his name. He turned to see a man walking toward him, wearing a black suit.
“Yes?”
“Sir,” the man said. “I have a cab waiting for you outside.”
“And why would that be?”
“Mr. Frick has invited you to supper.”
“But I had a late lunch.”
“Pardon my saying so, sir,” the man said, “but you wouldn’t want to miss this meal.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then maybe I should change my clothes?”
“No, sir,” the man said, “you’ll be fine the way you are.”
Clint followed the man out to the cab, entered as the driver held the door open for him.
* * *
Clint felt the cab draw to a stop, felt the carriage shift as the driver stepped down. Then the door opened and the man appeared.
“This way, sir.”
Clint stepped out and found that they’d stopped in front of a restaurant called the Four Leaf Clover Steak House.
“Are the steaks good here?” he asked.
The driver turned to look at him and said, “They’re excellent.”
“Good.”
“This way, sir.”
As he followed the driver, they marched right past a doorman and a maître d’. They walked past diners seated at white tablecloth-covered tables, with expensive china and silverware. The diners were nattily attired—the men in well-tailored suits, the women in brightly colored dresses and gowns.
The driver led him to a table where a bearded man in his mid-thirties sat. There was a bottle of champagne on the table, in a bucket of ice, but it hadn’t yet been opened. The man was holding a glass with some amber liquid in it.
As they approached, the man had the good manners to stand.
“Mr. Adams, please meet Mr. Henry Clay Frick.”
“Mr. Adams!” Frick said, extending his hand. “Delighted, sir, absolutely delighted.”
“Mr. Frick.”
“Thank you so much for accepting my invitation to dine with me.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’ve been told the steaks here are excellent.”
“They are, they are!” Frick said, his eyes positively glittering. “Please, have a seat.”
The South Fork Showdown Page 1
