Read Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Online
Authors: Scott Dennis Parker
Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (9 page)
Triple Action Western is an imprint of Quadrant
Fiction Studio focusing on short stories and novellas of the Old West.
Emory Duvall practices his simple carpentry
trade, knows everyone in town, and stays out of trouble. But when a young
gunslinger pulls iron on him and makes an unusual request, trouble lands in
Duvall’s lap. Now, the carpenter must figure out how to avoid getting shot…and
how many coffins he will have to make.
John Hardwick loves his wife like a Shakespeare
sonnet: full, complete, and without equal. Unfortunately, John now finds
himself in the crucible of infidelity. He knows the other man’s name: Alton
Raines, a professional gambler. John is a good man, not prone to violence, but
the images in his mind’s eye—of his wife in Raines’s bed—puts murder in his
heart and a gun in his hand.
It’s not every day that the passengers of a
stagecoach in the Old West see a naked man hiding behind a rock. But the motley
group of people on a stage bound for Uvalde, Texas, stop and question Finnegan
McCall, naked as the day of his birth. He says he is the new manager at the
bank in town and a thief stole all his clothes.
But if Finnegan McCall is telling the truth, then
who is the stranger at the bank claiming he is the new bank manager? And why is
this stranger asking the assistant manager to open the safe?
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” by Scott Dennis Parker
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.
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.
"Blast!" he cried. His fists were
like iron grips on the steering wheel. He fought for control. The car skittered
sideways then gained some more forward momentum. It didn't last. The car plunged
into the shallow gorge next to the road. The headlights shattered as did Dexter's
forehead on the steering wheel.
He must have blacked out for a few moments
because the next thing he knew, he woke up coughing from all the dust. He
fumbled in his jacket for the box of matches. He struck one and the small flame
revealed his predicament. The car had crashed headlong into the gorge and now
spanned the small trough. Behind him, the cops had turned their sirens back on.
They were getting closer.
Dexter opened the glove compartment and rummaged
around to see if there was anything he could use. The owner must have been a
Spartan because the only thing inside was a map, a small Bible, and a blunt
pencil and notepad. He would have killed for a flashlight.
He pulled the key out of the ignition, got out
and opened the trunk. The starlight, while bright, didn't illuminate the
interior of the trunk so he lit another match. A gust of wind blew it out
almost immediately but not before he saw the tire iron. He closed his strong
fingers around the cool metal and hefted it. If push came to shove, he wasn't
going down without a fight.
Thing was, he wasn't going down.
The brainchild of Amazon Kindle bestselling
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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 said.
“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.
The classic American Western returns in this
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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
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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.