The Lawman 1

Book 1: The Lawman

by Lyle Brandt

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Jack Slade pulled up his roots a long time ago to take life one day at a time, risking his living, and his neck, at gambling tables across the west. A disappointment to his family, he’s been estranged from them for years. Then he receives word of his brother’s death—under mysterious circumstances—in Lawton, Oklahoma.
 
It’s been four years since Jack saw Jim, who planted his roots to become a successful rancher. In addition to acres of land and herds of cattle, Jim left behind a fiancée who has been fending off offers on her property—as well as cattle rustlers.
 
The mysterious circumstances behind Jim’s death are starting to become clear. And when fate pins a badge on Jack, he finds himself walking the line between justice and revenge…

Release date: March 6, 2007

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 256

Sample

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

 

ONE AGAINST THREE

Slade drew his Peacemaker as one of the three gunmen fired a hasty shot. It missed Slade by a yard or more, smashing a window to his left and plowing on to strike a tailor’s dummy standing in the dry goods store.

A second shot rang out, this one striking the roof above his head and somewhere to his right. Slade pivoted to face his would-be killers in profile, thumbed back his pistol’s hammer, taking time to aim.

His first shot struck the gunman farthest to his right, their left. It was a solid hit and staggered him, but Slade guessed it was nothing mortal, since the shooter didn’t fall at once. Instead, he fired a quick shot in return, cursing aloud to emphasize his point.

All three of them were blasting at him now, the night aswarm with bullets, breaking glass, and drilling boards on either side of Slade . . .

Titles by Lyle Brandt

THE GUN
JUSTICE GUN
VENGEANCE GUN
REBEL GUN
BOUNTY GUN

 

 

THE LAWMAN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

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.

 

THE LAWMAN

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / March 2007

 

Copyright © 2007 by Michael Newton.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-01064-8

 

BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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For Al and Lennie

1

“You gonna play them cards, or what?” the dealer asked.

Jack Slade considered it. He held a pair of jacks and garbage on the side, though any card he threw away might theoretically match one he drew as a replacement. With four opponents at the table, it was doubtful that he’d draw another jack, much less another pair. And yet—

“We’re waitin’, mister.”

Slade glanced up and pinned the dealer with his eyes. The other man was five feet eight or nine, compared to Slade’s six-one, but heavier, maybe 220 pounds, with solid muscle underneath a layer of fat that could’ve used a bath. The dealer hadn’t shaved this week, or washed his face, as far as Slade could tell. Long hair protruded from beneath his weathered hat, resembling strands of moldy hay.

“I’m thinking,” Slade replied. “You have an early date?”

“I might.” The dealer grinned. “I might at that.”

“Go on and fold then if you’re in a hurry.”

“Fold the winning hand?” The dealer snorted. “I don’t think so.”

That was trash talk, Slade decided—or it might be. There was no way to be positive until the dealer made his discards, but Slade had played the game often enough with strangers facing him to judge most circumstances pretty well.

Slade took his time, as much to irritate the dealer as to help himself decide what he should do. He sipped his beer and fought the urge to grimace, noting that the drink had lost its chill while he was otherwise engaged.

Two jacks and nothing. Even if he drew three cards as miserable as the ones he held, the pair would stand.

But would it win?

Eleven dollars in the pot so far. It wasn’t much, and he had twenty more in front of him, but that could vanish easily enough if Slade grew careless.

“Mister?”

“Three,” Slade said, and pitched his discards toward the center of the table.

It was getting on toward supper time, and Slade’s eyes smarted from the haze of smoke that filled the Southern Cross saloon. He didn’t use tobacco personally, but it hardly mattered in the present circumstances. Everybody was a smoker in the Southern Cross, like it or not.

“Three cards,” the dealer echoed, dealing them with thick, blunt fingers that were black around the nails. Slade watched him, making sure all three came off the top, although he didn’t think the unwashed man was slick enough to cheat effectively.

He could be wrong, of course. It never hurt to watch.

Slade felt the others watching him as he received his cards. Immediately on his left, a dandy with a bowler hat drew deeply on a thin cheroot, cards stacked facedown in front of him and covered with both hands. The player’s face showed nothing Slade could use, but if he drew and managed to improve his hand, there’d be a small tic at the corner of his mouth as if a grin was trying to break free.

Beyond the dandy, moving clockwise, sat an older man, his gray hair nearly gone on top, with muttonchop sideburns to compensate. He wore a vest over a long-sleeved shirt with fraying at the cuffs. His nose was long and narrow, holding up a pair of spectacles with metal rims. His upper lip was scarred, either from surgery to mend a hare-lip or from being cut when he was younger. Either way, long years after the fact, it made him slow to smile.

The dealer sat across from Slade, his broad back to the painted windows. Daylight made its way around the batwing doors, but it was late enough and they were far enough inside the room that Slade’s view of the dealer wasn’t hampered by the glare.

Between them, on Slade’s right, the final player was a cowboy with a face carved out of saddle leather, shaded by a rolled-brim Stetson. He chewed tobacco in an absent-minded way, leaning occasionally toward the cuspidor beside his chair, and didn’t seem to mind that he’d been losing slowly, steadily, throughout the past two hours. He had drawn a single card this hand, and grimaced when he failed to fill his flush or straight.

Slade lifted his three cards and fanned them out beside the jacks, keeping his face expressionless. He had worked hard for years on end to rid himself of tells, the quirks that told opponents whether he was pleased or irritated by a deal, if he was bluffing or had what it took to win a hand.

Against the odds, he’d drawn another pair. Deuces, but it improved the jacks. Slade felt a tingle of excitement at his nape, knowing he had a chance, but didn’t let it reach his eyes. Two pair would lose to seven other hands, and three more men still had to draw their cards, but everyone was waiting for his bet.

“Three dollars,” Slade announced, and dropped his coins into the pot.

The dealer blinked at him, then turned to face the bowler hat. “What’ll it be?” he asked the dandy.

“Two cards, if you please.”

“The man takes two.”

Slade watched the dandy claim his cards, slot them into the middle of his hand, and fan them just enough to read their faces. The tic told Slade his hand had not improved.

“Three bucks to you,” the dealer said

“Too rich for me,” the dandy said. “I fold.”

“One down,” the dealer said, rubbing it in, then turned to face the player on his right. “How many cards, old-timer?”

“One should do.”

“One card it is.”

The old man palmed his card and studied it. He blinked twice, which might be the smoky air or a reaction to his draw, but Slade couldn’t interpret it.

“Your bet, ” the dealer prodded.

“I’ll stay for three.”

The bet told Slade his hand hadn’t improved, but he was staying in the game. Guessing the cards he held was something else. If he’d been trying for a full house, Slade supposed the old man hadn’t drawn the card he needed. On the other hand, if he had blown a straight or flush, he should’ve folded. That told Slade that he was likely sitting on two pair, maybe three of a kind, but lacked the confidence to raise Slade’s bet.

“I’m taking two,” the dealer said, which cast a shadow on his boast about the winning hand. He dealt himself two cards, examined them, and flashed a dingy smile. Eyes meeting Slade’s, he said, “I’ll see your three and raise you one.”

Could be a bluff, Slade thought. Or maybe not.

The cowboy on Slade’s right drew three cards, cursed at them, and folded. When he shot his next brown bullet at the cuspidor, it seemed to be a commentary on the game.

“Another buck for you to stay,” the dealer said to Slade.

Eighteen dollars in front of him. Maybe two hands, if he kept losing. Slade was down almost two hundred dollars since he’d stepped off the train in Holbrook, Arizona, three days earlier, but he kept thinking that his luck was bound to change.

Please, God.

“Raise two,” he said, and slid his coins across the tabletop.

The dandy, out of it, sat smoking his cheroot and watched the old man to his left. A frown crinkled the bald man’s scar. He clenched his teeth, making his sideburns ripple. “No,” he said at last. “I’m done.”

“That’s two to me,” the dealer said. “I’ll see the bet and raise you two.”

There was a fine line between confidence and foolishness, Slade realized, but knew the dealer wouldn’t run. Not this time. “Call,” he said. “Let’s see your hand.”

“Two pair,” the dealer said, smiling. “Tens over treys.” The cards fanned out in front of him, a stray queen seeming out of place and lonely in the hand.

“Jacks over deuces,” Slade replied, facing his cards. “My pot.”

He raked the money in and left the dealer glaring at him, while the deck passed to the man’s left. The cowboy shuffled twice and let Slade cut the deck before he called the next game.

“Ante up for five-card stud.”

Five dollars in the pot to start, before the cowboy started dealing to his left. The first card went facedown, a nine of hearts to Slade. He concentrated on the other faces at the table, watching them for signs of pain or pleasure as they eyed their hole cards, gaining little from the exercise.

The cowboy started on his second round, dealing the cards faceup. Slade drew a six of spades and bet a dollar, watching as the deal moved on. The dandy on Slade’s left received the ace of spades and matched his dollar bet. The old man drew the five of hearts and put his dollar in the pot. Across from Slade, his unwashed adversary pulled the four of hearts and bet a dollar. When the cowboy dealt himself a queen of hearts, he made the bet unanimous.

“Round three,” the dealer said, and turned another card faceup for Slade. “We got a five of clubs, possible straight.”

Slade thought about his hole card and decided it was worth another dollar. “One to stay,” he said.

The dandy caught a king of clubs and smiled, putting another dollar in the pot without comment. The dealer filled in for him, saying, “Another possible straight.”

The next card, to the old man, was the jack of clubs. It didn’t fit the five of hearts already showing, but he put another dollar in the pot. No one would fold this early, Slade supposed, when they had two cards left to go.

Across from Slade, the former dealer drew a four of clubs to match the heart already showing. “First pair of the game,” the dealer said, as yet another dollar crossed the tabletop.

The cowboy dealt himself a jack of spades, against the showing queen, and put two dollars in the pot. “Raise one,” he said before continuing the deal.

Slade reckoned that he wouldn’t raise without a fair card in the hole. Something to make a pair, most likely, or a straight still two cards short. At least Slade knew it couldn’t be a straight flush, with the mismatched heart and spade. They went around the table, each matching the raise, which made it twenty dollars in the pot.

Slade’s next card was the eight of hearts. He had to fight to keep the smile off of his face, hearing the dealer say, “Still working on that straight.”

“Two dollars more,” Slade said, and put his money in the pot. He would’ve liked to raise, but filling inside straights was always tricky, and he didn’t want to spook the others into folding yet. They couldn’t know his hole card was a nine, and he was saving it for a surprise.

Depending on the last card, though, the joke might be on him.

The dandy drew an ace of hearts, showing the best pair on the table. No facial tics this time, only a smile as he doubled the dealer’s bet. “Let’s make it four dollars,” he said.

The old man caught a five of spades, his pair the smaller of the two revealed so far. Instead of folding, though, he matched the dandy’s bet and turned to face the player on his left.

Slade’s adversary scanned the table, waiting for his card. When it came up the four of spades, he beamed and clapped his grimy hands together, mimicking a pistol shot.

“Three of a kind,” the dealer said, sounding depressed.

“I’ll see that four and raise it two,” the happy man said. Six dollars went into the pot.

The cowboy dealt himself a three of clubs and folded, thereby telling Slade that nothing in the deck would let him beat three fours. His straight was broken, and his hole card couldn’t be a jack or queen.

Slade owed four dollars on the round. The dandy and the old man owed two each to call the standing bet. They paid up and the deal continued clockwise, Slade holding his breath for the final card he would receive. As hopeful as he was, he almost didn’t recognize the bright seven of hearts that made his straight.

It was the best he could’ve hoped for, but he dared not let the sudden rush of pleasure surface. While the dealer said, “Still working on that straight,” Slade eased back in his chair, forcing a frown and hoping that he hadn’t overplayed the moment. It came down to acting now, his best hand of the week, but if he tipped his hand by overacting, he could chase the others out.

Or maybe one of them would beat him yet.

“I’ll stay for six,” Slade said, trying to make it sound like stubbornness, instead of confidence.