Red River Showdown (12 page)

Elsa smiled and slipped her arm around Clint's. Although the move was similar to the way Gretchen had attached herself to him, Elsa moved in a completely different way than her sister. Where Gretchen had practically drifted next to Clint, Elsa led him in the exact direction she wanted him to go.

“Bigger stakes, huh?” Elsa said. “I like the way you think.”

“You're not staying? It looks like there's a bunch of fellows who'll be very disappointed about that.”

She waved and turned her back on the table as if it no longer existed. “They can find me if they want, but I'd rather play for higher stakes, too. I was actually just trying to get you to stay so you wouldn't be the one to rob me blind tonight.”

“I'm not that good of a player,” Clint said.

Laughing as she pushed open the door leading toward the back of the boat, Elsa said, “I'd consider letting you do plenty of things to me, Clint Adams. Treating me like an idiot isn't one of them.”

“All right, then,” Clint said. “Then maybe we could go over some of the things you would let me do.”

When Elsa looked at him, she recognized the flirtatious look in his eye and shot back a look of her own that was enough to send a warm shiver under Clint's skin. “Later,” she said without one bit of doubt in her voice. “For now, I'm just supposed to take you to this game and be quick about it. The others are saving you a seat, but I'm not sure how much longer Jones will hold out.”

“Probably until his luck turns.”

“Good point. By the way, do you know a man named Vessele?”

“Vessele?” Clint repeated as he let the name drift through his mind. Before long, he nodded. “Jean Claude Vessele. I saw him on the dock when I was waiting to board.”

“He was asking about you. Seems like he wants in on our game.”

“He's welcome to sit in at the poker table.” Pulling Elsa a little closer, Clint added, “The other games I have in mind will just be between you and me.”

“I'll be sure to let Gretchen know about that,” Elsa replied. She kept her expression rock solid for the entire rest of the walk to the back poker room. Once there, she let Clint see enough of a grin to let him know that he was off the hook. “They're waiting for you over there.”

Elsa didn't really need to say anything or even point out which table she meant. The room was so much smaller than the first one that Clint could see practically everything in it with one glance.

Compared to the main poker room, this one was a glorified closet. To be fair, however, it looked closer to something one might expect on a riverboat. There were no rugs on the floor. There were only a few decorations hanging here and there, with plenty of round portholes lining the walls.

The room was lit by a few lanterns hanging from the roof, which all swayed to the motions of the river as the
Misty Morning
churned through the water. Those lanterns hung low enough for Clint to watch his step and occasionally duck as he made his way to the table in the back. That part of the room felt even more cramped than the rest, since the wall and roof were slanted to make space for the paddle wheel. That large machinery on the other side of the wall also managed to fill the room with a loud, constant rumble.

“Howdy!” Barry shouted as soon as he saw Clint headed toward the table.

Apart from Barry, only Jones was sitting there waiting for them.

Clint grinned and sat down at one of the several empty chairs. “Where's Mia?” he asked.

“She should be back in a while,” Jones replied.

Barry chuckled and took a sip of his whiskey. “Went to powder her nose. You hear that Jean Claude Vessele was askin' for ya?”

“I sure did. Where is he?”

Barry glanced around and then shrugged. “Beats me. Nobody's seen him since he came around askin' about you. He's probably found himself another tree to prune.”

Even though Clint didn't like the sound of that, he also didn't like the thought of poking around the boat so soon after getting away from those armed men guarding room number five. His mind was made up as several other gamblers came and went from the room in the short time it took for Clint to get settled.

“To hell with 'em,” Barry grunted. “Four's enough for a game. Or are you tired, Adams?”

“Shut up and deal.”

“Now that's what I like to hear!”

Jean Claude's silk suit was drenched with sweat.

His banded collar shirt was stained with blood.

His arms were tied behind his back, and his head lolled forward as if it was only loosely connected to his neck.

“You think I forgot about you?” Dench asked as he circled Jean Claude's chair like a vulture.

Jean Claude lifted his head and took a moment to get his eyes to focus. When he was able to look at Dench directly, he replied, “I wouldn't think you'd forget about me. Not after that beating I gave you in Denison.”

Nodding slowly, Dench started to turn his back on Jean Claude. Then he quickly spun back around and sent his fist directly into Jean Claude's face. His knuckles impacted with a wet crack that snapped Jean Claude's head back and sent some blood through the air.

“How'd you like that?” Dench rasped in a guttural English accent.

“Since that seemed like the best you could do,” Jean Claude replied, “I like it just fine.”

Dench kept his eyes level with Jean Claude's as he reached to his belt and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife kept there. When he took the knife from its scabbard, he did it as if he was savoring every last moment. By the time the entire blade was out, Dench was wide-eyed and smiling anxiously. “I can do a whole lot better,” he said. “You just wait and see.”

The room where Jean Claude was being held was long and narrow. The walls were made of thick wood nailed together so tightly that the boards creaked every time the riverboat listed more than an inch in any direction. The air was stagnant and smelled like dried blood, which seemed chilling when the hooks dangling from the roof clanged together.

“I'd consider changing my tune if I were you,” Solomon said as he stepped forward so Jean Claude could see him better. “Dench here could slice you open and let you bleed for days. Seeing as how fresh meat is usually kept here, I doubt anyone will notice.”

“Someone will find me,” Jean Claude said.

“I doubt that very much. The
Misty Morning
won't be on the river that long. Besides, gamblers don't generally eat at all during events like this. I doubt they'll be demanding steaks or pork chops.”

“That's not what I meant. I'm expected at games. Plenty of folks know I'm here.”

Coming to a stop behind Jean Claude's chair, Solomon grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and jerked his head back. “I know you're here. That's all you should care about right now.”

“What do you want from me?” Jean Claude asked.

Solomon walked back around so Jean Claude could see him. “Your bankroll, for starters.”

“Take it. I can always win more.”

“If you mean you can get more from your rich grandparents, I doubt that very much. You see, a good portion of that money will be handed over to ensure your safe return.”

“My grandparents haven't spoken to me in—”

Jean Claude was cut off by a quick slash from Dench's blade. The razor-sharp edge glanced across his chest, but that was enough to slice through his shirt and open a shallow wound. Blood trickled out, which caused Dench's eyes to widen.

“You think you're so bloody smart?” Dench grunted. “You cheated me in Denison. Well, now I'm about to get my money back.”

“You can have double if you cut me loose and turn that blade on the dandy standing over there.”

Dench glanced over to Solomon as if he was checking to see if there were any other well-dressed men standing in the meat compartment. When he looked back, Dench was laughing to himself. “After the grief you caused me, there's not a price you can pay for me to set you free. Besides, I'll be making back more than double what you took.”

“You'll set me free soon enough once my ransom is paid,” Jean Claude said. “Otherwise, you'll have more bounty hunters than you knew existed coming after you.”

Dench's blade came down in a swift arc that flickered like a passing thought. After embedding the blade into the arm of the chair, Dench reached out with his other hand to catch the finger that fell from Jean Claude's hand.

“Maybe not all of you will get set free,” Dench said as he waved the finger at the man who'd grown it.

Clint woke up in his cabin without remembering exactly how he'd gotten there. He'd had his share of beer during the night, but he hadn't passed out drunk. Instead, it was the night itself that had done him in. To be more precise, it was the night that dragged until morning without a wink of sleep in between.

Even though sunlight blazed through the little porthole to illuminate his cramped cabin, Clint had to think what time of day it was. He couldn't even narrow it down to morning or afternoon. Instead, he had to dig for his watch and check it for himself.

“Jesus,” he muttered when he saw that it was actually after noon and not merely close to it.

Going through the motions of pulling on his clothes after swinging his feet over the side of his cot, Clint quickly realized that he was still wearing his suit from the night before. He pulled that off, folded it neatly and put on his jeans and a plain shirt. That wasn't enough to make him feel like a human being just yet, so Clint struck out in search of some coffee.

He found it in the saloon on the upper deck, which was the same place that had allowed him to make an escape from room number five. Clint walked into the saloon, only to find a good number of familiar faces in there already. Most of those faces appeared to be as out of sorts as he was.

“Mornin',” the bartender said in a chipper tone that must have taxed more than a few nerves. “You look like you need some coffee.”

“Popular request, huh?” Clint asked.

“At least amongst you sporting fellas.” The bartender turned around and picked up a steaming kettle. After filling a cup with dark brew, he set it in front of Clint's spot at the bar and asked, “How'd you make out last night?”

“Not too bad.”

“Well, there's games going all day and night, so jump back in as soon as you feel inclined.”

“Is Arvin around?”

The bartender paused for a moment, but only because he seemed to be somewhat taken aback by the question. After a few blinks, he replied, “Sure. He's always wandering around this boat somewhere.”

“Any idea where I might find him?”

“He'll be in the dining room during the meals and around the poker room later at night. If it's too late, he'll be asleep, but other than that, he could be anywhere. Why do you ask?”

“Just checking. What else have you got besides the coffee?”

“They should still be serving something in the dining room. We don't have much here besides a few eggs and maybe some toast.”

“That'd be perfect,” Clint said. “You think you could scrape some of that up for me?”

“Sure. I'll see what I can do.”

Clint sipped his coffee and turned around so he could lean against the bar while looking out the windows. It was a bright day, and he could see a little bit of the river as well as a sample of the shore. As he waited, Clint saw a large house drift into view. By the time it drifted away again, the bartender had reappeared from the small stairs that Clint had used the night before. He had a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and a few slices of toast.

“Here you go,” the bartender said.

Clint rubbed his hands together and grinned. Just smelling the breakfast was enough to remind him of how hungry he was. “Perfect. How much?”

“Forget about it.”

“What?”

The bartender waved at Clint and refilled his coffee. “You missed out on most of what they were serving, and this is just some of the leftovers. I couldn't charge you for that.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” Digging into his pocket, Clint took out enough money to cover what that food should have cost. “For the coffee,” he said. “Keep the change.”

The bartender nodded, tucked the money away and continued with what he'd been doing before Clint had arrived.

Clint ate his eggs and savored the quiet of the saloon. Since most of the gamblers had stayed up just as late, or later, than he had, they were still just as tired. The ones who'd drank more were nursing either headaches or a whiskey in one of the saloon's darker corners. Either way, none of them were feeling as boisterous as they had been the previous night.

Although Clint was certain the poker rooms were still just as lively as ever, he figured on giving himself some peace and quiet for at least as much time as it took for him to eat his breakfast and let the food settle. Unless trouble came to find him, he guessed his little plan shouldn't be too hard to carry out.

Right on cue, Mia ran past the saloon like she'd been tossed past the windows. She came right back and glared through one window to fix her eyes upon Clint. As soon as she found the door, she rushed straight to him.

“There you are, Clint,” she said breathlessly. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“Well,” Clint said regretfully, “here I am.”

“Did you know Jean Claude Vessele was looking for you?”

“Yeah, but he never showed up. Come to think of it,” Clint added, “you disappeared last night, too.”