Darby had no response. Isabella started walking to the stable. She viciously wiped new tears from her eyes. Minutes later, astride her horse, a beautiful chestnut paint, she said to Darby, “Show me the place.”
“Wait a minute,” Malachi said. “I’m coming, too.”
***
The three riders crested a small rise and gazed down into a small, flat plain. Mesquite trees bordered the far sides and a rocky outcropping framed the north end. Below, the open farm land was almost completely tilled. At the far side, a mule stood, attached to a hoe. On the ground behind the tiller was a body.
“No, no, no,” Isabella cried. She dug her heels into her horse’s sides. The steed leapt forward and galloped toward the fallen man. Darby and Malachi held back and allowed her extra time to grieve.
Isabella’s eye took in the panorama through eyes glazed with tears. She and Stephen had met thirteen years ago. He was new to town, moved here with his parents as an thirteen-year-old. It was an awkward time for him. Schooling back in his home state of Louisiana hadn’t been regular. He preferred to work the land anyway. But his parents insisted he get caught up on school and that placed him with Isabella and her existing classmates. They had made fun of the tall, gangly boy who talked funny. Isabella thought it charming, different than the slang she heard every day of her life. She and Stephen had become friends, then more than friends, then husband and wife. Her classmates stopped making fun of him after he matured and his body took on hard, lean muscles as a result of working the land. The women of the town grew to envy Isabella. The men in town envied Stephen, for Isabella herself had grown into a beauty as well. Two pretty people had found each other in the awkward stage of life and had stuck together.
Now, they were torn asunder.
Openly crying, Isabella jumped off her horse and ran to Stephen’s body. The bullet that had pierced his heart left a ragged hole in his work shirt. It was wet with his blood and sweat. She sagged to her knees and cradled his upper body in her arms. She caressed his face and wiped his hair to the side, the way he always styled it for Sunday services. His face had lost the rigor and had sagged into a natural state. He looked like he was sleeping.
Isabella wailed.
After a time—she didn’t know how long; time seemed to stop for her—a shadow fell across her and her dead husband. She looked up, blinking in the sunlight. Her father stood nearby. Darby as well. Both men held their hats in their hands. Tears filled her father’s eyes.
“Daddy,” Isabella said, her voice taking on a distant tone, “go get Stephen’s rifle.”
CALVIN CARTER
In the Old West, there were rugged men who wore badges, ruthless outlaws who sought to plunder and loot, and honest men who just wanted to live simple lives in peace.
Calvin Carter was none of those.
A former actor who decided to become a railroad detective after tracking down his father’s killer, Calvin enjoys his exciting life, the mysteries that are assigned to him, and the beautiful women along the way. Together with his partner, Thomas Jackson, Detective Calvin Carter is out to make a name for himself in the annals of the Old West.
THE TRADITIONAL WEST
The classic American Western returns in this collection of brand-new stories by some of the top Western writers in the world today. Robert J. Randisi, Dusty Richards, James Reasoner, Larry D. Sweazy, L.J. Washburn, Jackson Lowry, Larry Jay Martin, Kerry Newcomb, and many other members of Western Fictioneers, the only writers’ organization devoted solely to traditional Western fiction, take readers from the dusty plains of Texas to the sweeping vistas of Montana and beyond, in the biggest original Western anthology ever published!
Excerpt from “The Poker Payout”
Sitting at a poker table, Calvin Carter smiled. It took him awhile, studying the movements of the dealer and the other men around the table, but he finally figured out how they all were cheating. The deck was marked. That much was clear. He, however, didn’t have time to figure out what the markings were. Percy Johns was too busy winning another pile of chips.
“What are you smiling at, Carter?” the man across the table asked.
Carter fingered his tie and made his smile bigger. “I just can’t get over how lucky Johns here is.”
“It ain’t luck,” Johns growled, throwing a menacing look Carter’s way. Johns’s suit was rumpled and his tie askew, owing to his constant fiddling with it on his winning streak. “It’s all skill.”
“Oh, it’s skill alright.” Carter cocked eyebrows. “But I’m not sure it’s yours.”
The man across the table paused in the act of raising his highball glass to his lips. The light of the oil lamps overhead glistened on his shiny cufflinks. Slowly, he lowered the glass, the whiskey still swilling in the glass. “What are you implying, Mr. Carter?”
Carter held up his hands, palms out. “Absolutely nothing, Mr. Tobias. I was merely noting that every man here at this table has a certain degree of skill at this game. Sometimes, a man’s skill at poker can win him more hands than the cards indicate. Other times, a man can falter, no matter how good he is.” He patted his chest. “My skill just seems to be lacking here tonight and Mr. Johns is the benefactor.”
A small crowd had gathered around the table as Johns racked up his winnings. A game of chance had sprouted among the onlookers, seeing as there wasn’t going to be a vacancy at the table for the time being. With each successive hand, money and coin exchanged hands, to the choruses of cheers and grunts. A few of the working ladies hung on the arms of some of the men. Despite their earnest entreaties, none of the men would leave.
Jeffery Tobias drained his glass and held it up over his shoulder. One of the dark-suited men directly behind him took the glass and waded the crowd to the bar. With a last, long look at Carter, he said, “Well, Mr. Johns, I don’t care what Mr. Carter thinks about his own lack of skill, you’re playing a mighty fine round of poker. If I count your chips correctly, your winnings are rapidly advancing on a little bonus.”
“Bonus?” Johns said, lacing his voice with extra curiosity.
As a trained actor, Carter felt the massive urge to give Johns acting lessons. Nonetheless, Carter smiled to himself. Things he had suspected were coming to pass.
Tobias sucked in his cheeks as he took a lungful of smoke from his cigar. He let the smoke waft upward as he spoke. “Yes, Mr. Johns. A bonus. Any man who earns four hundred dollars at the table is entitled to a room with one of my ladies.” He paused and smirked. “Free of charge.”
Johns actually blushed and Carter fought the urge to roll his eyes.
“Let’s get on with the next hand,” Peter McKay said. He sat to Carter’s left. He was a bearded man and had sweated through his clothes, clogging the smoky air with his stink. Absently, McKay wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It made a wet sound.
Carter sniggered, “You must like losing more than I do, McKay.”
“Shut up,” McKay said. To the dealer, he said, “Deal.”
Anderson, the dealer, looked at Tobias who nodded. The cards began flying across the table. Carter kept his cards face down, pulling up the corners to determine what he had. As usual, it was junk. He examined his small pile of chips in front of him. He might be able to stretch his presence at the table for a round or two more but, after that, he would have to leave.
Time to force the issue. But first, he was going to have some fun.
LIVIN’ ON JACKS AND QUEENS
The brainchild of Amazon Kindle bestselling western writers Mike Stotter and Ben Bridges, Piccadilly Publishing is dedicated to issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Legendary western writer and noted anthologist Robert J. Randisi offers up a winning hand with fourteen never-before-published tales of the Old West, each revolving around the central theme of gambling.
Excerpt from “The Mark of an Imposter: An Evelyn Page/Calvin Carter Adventure”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Evelyn Paige sa
id.
“Relax,” Calvin Carter said, “it’ll all turn out fine.”
“Like the time-with-the-saloon-madame fine, the I’m-sorry-Evelyn-but-I-need-a-loan fine, or the I-just-stole-your-case fine?”
“Neither,” Carter said. “This is entirely different.”
“I swear, Carter, if I didn’t need your help with this case, I would never have agreed to this little facade of yours.”
“Listen, what we do is dangerous. What’s so wrong with doing it with a bit of flair?”
“Flair?” Evelyn said. “That’s what you call this?” She shook her head. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Quiet,” Carter said. “Time to talk French.”
***
The Alexandria Palace Casino in Austin, Texas, was one of the most famous gambling establishments in the west. Located just down the street from the capital, the Alexandria was a high-end casino in the vein of the Barbary Coast outside San Francisco or the fancier casinos in New Orleans. Built by Bernard Jameson and named after his wife, the Alexandria was a destination for gamblers, politicians, mercenaries, thieves, and cowboys, sometimes all in the same person. A gambler, it could be said, wasn’t truly a professional gambler until he won or lost money in the Alexandria.
The interior was wide, spacious, and gaudy. The namesake woman fancied herself a worldly woman so she insisted her husband decorate in any style that tickled her fancy. Naturally, that led to a hodge podge look and feel, but everything inside was of the highest price.
Perhaps the most famous event at the Alexandria was the all-region poker tournament held each year on the first weekend of May before the heat drove all but the most hardy citizens to the safety and coolness of Barton Springs. If you weren’t a true professional gambler if you hadn’t won at the Alexandria, you certainly weren’t worth your weight in salt if you hadn’t at least participated in the tournament.
The evening’s crowds were loud and boisterous. The men had dressed for the evening in their finest tuxedos despite the ebbing of the day’s heat. The ladies were adorned with the best dresses and jewelry that the city of Austin could afford, and more than a little that it could not. Imported jewelry lined the necks of many a woman, the ones accompanied by men and those looking for men.
It was into this atmosphere that a small gasp by the assembled throng was heard when Pierre Trudeau St. Bontaventure appeared at the top of the balcony overlooking the people on the ground floor. According to the papers, the French aristocrat was making his way across America, recreating and renewing the journey Alexis de Tocqueville made in the United States in the 1830s. He was hoping to find the heart of America after the War Between the States and wanted to find out how much the country had changed since the end of the conflict. Bontaventure had met with the President, the members of Congress, and many of the millionaires in New York and Boston. Now, in the spring, he was railroading across the South on his way to California for the summer.
A fan of games of chance, Bontaventure had picked up the basics of poker along the way and had made his intention known that he would like to join in the tournament. The Alexandria’s owner, Jameson, was more than delighted to have such a high-class entrant in his newly formed contest and jumped at the chance.
Half of the Texans in attendance were there not really to participate in the tournament but just to see Bontaventure. The rich and famous were rare in this part of the country, but the Frenchman made up for it just by his presence.
He stood at the railing, gazing at the people like a king to his subjects. He smiled down, loving the attention. The audience smiled up, loving being loved by him.
On his arm was his translator and confidant, Emmanuelle Gabrielle Leblanc. Resplendent in a white gown, her raven hair was pulled back to reveal her ears and the dangling gold earrings that sparkled in the lights. She had her hand through Bontaventure’s cocked arm, but she stood slightly behind him.
In heavily accented English, Bontaventure said, “I want to thank each and every one of you for your most gracious welcome. I have learned much from your country. I have eaten well, I have met many fascinating people, and I have learned how to lose money in poker.”
The audience chuckled appropriately. Bontaventure smiled even more broadly than before.
“I look forward to the contest, and I hope not to lose too much of my money.” More polite laughter filtered throughout the casino.
Bontaventure leaned over to Emmanuelle and whispered in perfect English, “How was that?”
Without breaking her smile, Emmanuelle said, “Carter, next time, I get the lead and you get the supporting role. I can’t stand being your little woman.”
“Evelyn,” Carter muttered back, “you wound me. Take the dagger from my heart.”
“That’s not where I’d put the dagger,” Evelyn said, raising her eyebrows.
ANTHOLOGIES
TALES FROM THE OTHERVERSE
Other times, other places, other stories than the ones we know...These are the Tales From the Otherverse, where anything is possible and things never work out quite the way you’d expect. Some of today’s top talents in popular fiction turn their hands to tales of alternate history. Featuring new stories by bestselling, award-winning authors Bill Crider, Lou Antonelli, Scott A. Cupp, Robert E. Vardeman, James Reasoner, and more. Explore the Otherverse and see what might have been!
Excerpt from “The Great Steamer Riot of 1936”
The trumpeter played a total of five minutes without taking a breath before the people in the dance hall realized he was a steamer.
He was a tall, blonde, well-built man who looked like he had Kansas blood coursing through his veins. The nearest plant to Kansas was the steamer factory in Chicago, along the rail lines. He appeared a wholesome, good old American boy from the plains. That’s probably how he got as far as he did.
No one knew how Leo Blake learned to play the trumpet. His was probably programmed him that way. He played it brilliantly. Louis Armstrong may have been the reigning king of the horn, but Leo Blake could’ve taken Uncle Louie for a ride. That’s easy enough to realize considering Blake could literally blow for a full hour before for he’d have to blow off steam.
That was the real trick to being a steamer in the middle of a world full of humans: appearing human while simultaneously not being one of them. Later, when the federal officials swarmed into the local dance hall in North Texas interviewed all the patrons, they all said how normal Blake appeared. Even the dance hall owner, George Frank, believed Blake to be human.
“He wore glasses. The same kind that Sigmund Freud wore. I couldn’t tell if the light was reflecting off the lenses or behind his pupils.”
The dance hall sat at the edge of the town square in Denton, Texas, a small university town forty-five miles north of Dallas. It was homecoming and George Frank, alumnus of North Texas Teachers’ College, had arranged to bring Rip Howard’s Fiery Fifteen big band to town for the big homecoming dance. Howard traveled the southern circuit of dance halls and was a big hit down in Houston and New Orleans.
The hall itself was modest: a two-story building, wood-paneled walls, and a small stage at the north end. The refreshment table sat in the rear of the hall, next to the kitchen. Chairs lined the walls and groups of youngsters, in twos and threes, huddled together. The sheriff was there, mostly as a father, since his daughter was a senior that year, the prettiest girl in the school. He didn’t want any of the boys to manhandle her the way the crowd eventually manhandled the steamers.
WEIRD MENACE: Volume 1
The Weird Menace pulps flourished for less than a decade, from the mid-1930s to the early ‘40s, but while they were popular, they delivered adventure, excitement, and spine-tingling thrills in quantities rarely seen before or since. Mad scientists, deranged henchmen, damsels in distress, and stalwart heroes raced through their pages in breathless, over-the-top, never-ending action. A good Weird Menace yarn really is just one damned thing after another.
Rough Edges Press
asked some of today’s best authors of popular fiction to write Weird Menace stories, and they delivered. Settle back and let us spin a few yarns for you.
But keep an eye out behind you. You never know when something might be sneaking up on you.
Excerpt from “The Curse of the Monster Makers!”
Dexter Tremane slammed the stolen car into third gear and rounded a hairpin turn on the old country road. The rear caught gravel and fishtailed, threatening to send the machine into the nearby ditch. That wasn’t what Dexter needed. What he needed was to get as far away as possible from the pursuing patrol cars.
He risked a glance back. Off in the distance, through thick woods and country brush, red and blue lights pierced the darkness. They were many. He was one. He had the advantage of speed and knowing where he was going. They had the overwhelming numbers. And, he reminded himself, he was woefully outgunned.
He pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal. There was no more he could do. He willed the car to go faster. It didn’t comply.
The road was dirt. All the cops had to do was follow the dust that billowed up from the car’s wheels. The lightning that streaked the sky threatened rain. Dexter turned his willpower to the heavens.
They laughed at him.
In a flash of lightning, he saw something up ahead. Was it the turnoff to the rendezvous? It was a small, thinner dirt road, nearly hidden by the sagebrush and mesquite trees.
He slowed and risked a quick illumination of his headlights. He threw the car into a sharp turn and something inside the engine gave way. The clanging sound deafened his ears and all but called out to the cops.
Ulterior Objectives: A Lillian Saxton Thriller Page 33
