Red River Showdown (18 page)

“Not many. Why?”

Mia ran up to the uppermost deck, which was mostly one room, perched toward the front of the riverboat. She knocked furiously on the door and then pushed it open. As she bolted into the steering room of the boat, she saw nothing but a few men in uniform. One of them stood behind the wheel and the other two were at the front window.

“Mr. Solomon said to signal the men that are down by the furnace,” she said in a rush.

For a moment, she thought that nobody in that room had a clue what she was talking about. Then, one of the men at the window asked, “And who are you?”

“I'm the one delivering the message,” she replied. “And I'll be the one to tell Mr. Solomon that you didn't carry it out right away.”

The man stared at her for a moment and then reached out to one of the several cords that ran down through the floor. He gave the cord three sharp, upward pulls and then looked at her again. “Anything else?”

“No,” Mia said as she stepped out of the room. “That'll do.”

Clint stayed hidden and watched to see if anyone would come out to chase after Mia. Even though nobody came, Clint wasn't feeling any better. As he studied the door leading into the furnace room, he began to realize why Dench had chosen that spot as a place to hole up with a few prisoners.

The door was thicker than the rest and may have been reinforced with strips of iron. If nobody wanted Clint to get inside, there was no way in hell he'd be able to force his way in. As that unsettling thought rolled around in his head, Clint heard the muffled sound of a bell clanging three times.

After the bell sounded, there were some noises from inside the furnace room, followed by the rattle of the door being unlocked. Clint hunkered down in the darkness of the closet and watched as the door swung open to let two men walk into the hall.

Clint watched those men and waited for them to draw their guns and walk straight toward him. He waited for them to shout out a threat or maybe even fire at someone he couldn't see, but none of that happened. Instead, the men walked right past Clint without so much as looking in his direction. After the men had walked a few more steps down the hall, Clint jumped from his hiding spot and drew his Colt.

“You two might want to drop your guns right about now,” Clint said. “And you should do it nice and slow.”

Both men turned around quickly because they were surprised by the sudden noises coming from behind them. They froze after catching a glimpse of Clint. Their hands stayed over their guns, but they didn't make a move for them. At least, they didn't move for them yet.

“You heard me,” Clint said as he felt every second tick by. “Drop those guns and do it now.”

The men looked at Clint, then they looked at each other. From there, they did something that Clint truly wasn't expecting. As if they'd coordinated their actions without a word passing between them, both men charged toward Clint without caring about the gun in his hand.

Since he didn't have time to wonder why they thought they could get away with such a move, Clint reacted to it instead. He turned his body to the side and took a quick step forward so he could slip between the charging attackers.

Before Clint could make another move of his own, he saw one of the men pivot and lash out with the back of his fist as his entire torso swung around. Clint did his best to dodge the blow, but still caught some of that man's fist on his chin. The impact rattled Clint's entire head and made him unsteady on his legs for a moment. That was more than enough time for the second man to turn and send a punch into Clint's ribs.

Even though he could have taken a shot at either of the men, Clint kept his finger off his trigger, in hopes of finishing the fight before anyone else inside the furnace room could shut and lock the door. As if playing out his worst fears, someone stood in that doorway and took quick stock of what was happening outside.

Clint recognized Dench's face almost immediately. In the second that they met each other's gaze, Clint couldn't decide if Dench was going to come out or dig into his hole. As soon as Dench moved back rather than forward, Clint knew the other man had chosen the latter of those two choices.

A fist slammed into Clint's side, but his blood was pumping too hard for him to feel much pain. The gunman who'd punched him in the face was now reaching for his pistol, so Clint set his sights on him first.

Clint raised the modified Colt, but didn't take a shot. Instead, he slammed the length of the barrel into the gunman's stomach, which doubled him over. As Clint straightened himself up, he lifted his knee into the gunman's chin. That blow landed with enough force to knock the gunman back hard enough to crack his head against the wall.

That left the man who'd punched Clint in the ribs. As Clint drove his elbow into that man's chest, he saw Dench retreat another step back while closing the heavy door. Clint knew damn well that he wouldn't be able to get into that room if the door was locked. He also knew that whatever hostages were in there would be dead in a matter of seconds after the lock fell into place.

Keeping his sights on that door, Clint snapped his gun arm up so the Colt caught the man on the chin. That dazed him just long enough for Clint to drop the Colt back into its holster, grab hold of the man's collar and belt, and then toss the man straight toward the closing door.

The man didn't exactly fly through the air, but he did stumble right where Clint wanted him to go and slammed headfirst into the door just as it was about to shut. The door flew open and knocked Dench back in the process, allowing Clint to step inside.

“All right now,” Clint said as he met the killer's eyes. “Looks like it's just you and me.”

The man who was lying in the doorway started to get up, but couldn't quite manage it after getting knocked in the head by the heavy slab of wood. Instead, he laid back down and decided to fulfill his role as a doorstop.

Dench's hand flicked toward his belt and was suddenly gripping his knife. The move was so fast that Clint wondered if he would have survived if Dench's weapon of choice had been a gun.

“You're a persistent cuss, ain't you?” Dench asked.

Clint circled along with him, making sure to stay in front of Dench at all times. “Yeah. I tend to get a little bent out of shape when someone tries to gut me.”

“Well, then you ain't gonna like this too much.” As that last word was still hanging in the air, Dench lunged forward and swiped at Clint's stomach.

Reacting at the first hint of movement from Dench's blade, Clint stepped and leaned back a little more to clear a path for the knife. He could feel something brush along his abdomen, but the blade didn't even get close enough to shred Clint's shirt.

Dench backed off a few steps and began circling in the opposite direction. Hunkering down low, he held his knife in front of him like a scorpion getting ready to sink its stinger into its prey. “I'll be a rich man after delivering your head on a platter,” he said.

“Only if you think you can swing that blade faster than I can fire this gun.”

“Now that ain't very sporting. What's the matter? You know I got you beat?”

Clint shook his head at the prodding words. “I'm not falling for that. You either put down that knife or I will shoot you.”

“You're gonna have to shoot an unarmed man, because I'm not about to let you put your hands on me. I can already see in your eyes that you ain't the sort to shoot an unarmed man.”

There was no way for Clint to deny that. Those two gunmen in the hallway had been able to read that much in the space of a second or two. Besides, Dench was still moving and circling like a snake, and putting him down with one shot wasn't exactly a safe bet.

It was a much safer bet that Dench would throw that knife into Clint's chest the moment Clint pulled his trigger.

“You talk awfully tough for a man who knows he's got an advantage so long as he's carrying a blade,” Clint said. “The truth is that you know damn well you're nothing without it.”

“I could take you apart with my bare hands, mate,” Dench snarled as even more of his native accent leaked out.

Putting a disgusted edge into his voice, Clint replied, “I doubt that very much, little man.”

Hearing those last two words was enough to bring Dench to the edge of his patience. “Toss your gun and say that again.”

Clint could feel he was gaining ground. He'd pushed the right button, and now Dench was so angry that he'd become predictable. Taking another gamble, Clint threw his Colt away and said, “Come and get it, runt.”

Dench's eyes flared open and a guttural snarl came from his mouth. He charged at Clint with the knife in his hand, but was too angry to put any finesse on his attack. Clint blocked it easily and pounded his fist on Dench's wrist. His knuckles drove straight into the soft spot beneath Dench's thumb and forced him to let the knife slip from his grasp.

Too angry to notice his knife was gone, Dench slammed a fist into Clint's side and then viciously snapped his head forward to catch Clint over his right eye. Although Clint could brace himself for the first punch, the head butt caught him off guard. He felt the solid impact and staggered back while fighting to keep his footing.

Judging by the unsteadiness in his own movements, Dench was also feeling some of the effects from that head butt. He staggered forward a step, shook the cobwebs from his head and then charged toward Clint with a crazed look in his eyes.

Clint jumped to one side and reached out to steady himself against the wall. Instead of the wall, however, he felt heat searing through his fingers. Clint yanked his hand back and turned to find the furnace uncomfortably close to where he was standing. He also caught sight of a young woman hogtied in the corner closest to the furnace.

The woman looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was also petrified to move a muscle since she was a hair's breadth away from allowing her head to touch the hot surface of the furnace.

Clint saw all of this in a matter of seconds. When he wheeled around to face Dench, he saw the smaller man reach for his boot and come up with a slender knife gripped in a tight fist.

Dench might have muttered something under his breath, but Clint was too close to the chugging furnace to hear it. He didn't need to hear a thing, however, to know what Dench's intentions were. Clint could still see the murderous look in his eyes, as well as the tensing of Dench's muscles under his skin.

After pulling in a quick breath, Dench lunged forward. He led with his knife like it was the tip of a spear, and the rest of his body provided the momentum behind it. The only way for Clint to defend against it was to give Dench the benefit of the doubt, assume the Englishman was faster than him and react in what should have been a split second too soon.

Clint twisted himself to one side and brought both arms down in a strong sweeping motion. His hands caught Dench on the back and shoulder, allowing Clint to deflect the incoming attack while forcing Dench into the hot metal of the furnace.

Dench's knife caught in the door used to shovel coal into the furnace and opened the square portal. His arms were skinny enough to make it into the little opening, and he sank his hands into the fire within. With Clint still pushing him, Dench slammed his forehead against the furnace and then bounced straight back as his entire body reacted to the heat and searing pain that followed.

Even after he'd pulled his arms from the furnace, Dench screamed like an animal. The knife was still in his hand. In fact, his skin might have melted around it.

Clint wasn't behind Dench any longer. He'd already picked up his Colt and had it ready to fire when Dench charged at him one more time. Clint pulled his trigger and sent a bullet through Dench's head. The Englishman kept coming, so Clint fired again. The second round caught Dench in the chest and knocked him to the floor like a kick from a mule.

Standing over him, Clint sighted along the top of his Colt as if he still expected Dench to get up. Although Dench let out a few last gasps, he wasn't moving anywhere.

Clint looked to the woman tied up in the corner and holstered his pistol so he could get her out of those ropes.

“You all right, ma'am?” Clint asked once he took the bandanna from over her mouth.

She seemed even younger now and was too scared to talk. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Clint and sobbed into his shirt.

When he heard someone push open the door, Clint drew his Colt and took aim in the blink of an eye.

Mia stood her ground and looked at Dench as well as the unconscious man at her feet. “Looks like I missed all the fun,” she said.

“There's still some fun to be had,” Clint replied. “We still need to get one of these boys to tell us where Solomon's at.”

“Not enough time for that. We need to find him before he gets wind of what happened down here.”

Clint looked past Mia and down the hall. Already, there were people poking their heads out to get a look.

As Clint escorted Mia to the main poker room, nobody would have thought they'd just gotten finished fighting for their lives in the bowels of the boat. Clint was in a fresh set of clothes, and Mia was smiling as she walked arm in arm with him.

“What's so funny?” Clint asked.

“I'm not genuinely impressed by a lot of men, Clint Adams, but you sure managed to impress the hell out of me.”

“What'd I do now?”

“How did you get on such good terms with that laundry lady?”

Clint looked at her and asked, “That's what impressed you?”