Riverboat Blaze

Table of Contents

 

 

Clint and Angela were flattened against a wall on the second deck as people ran by. The majority of the passengers did not seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation. They were still running to and fro rather than abandoning ship. People were being knocked off their feet and trampled.

Clint helped an older woman to her feet before she got trampled and said to her, “You have to jump overboard.”

She stared at him as if he was crazy, shook loose, and started running.

“You can’t help everyone, Clint,” Angela said. “We have to save ourselves.”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get off this thing.”

They had to push through a wave of people in order to get to the rail.

“Can you swim?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

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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.

 

RIVERBOAT BLAZE

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / January 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-44602-7

 

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The
Dolly Madison
was the biggest, most well-built riverboat Clint Adams had ever been on. That’s why it was such a shock when it started sinking.

But that came later . . .

“It’s called the
Dolly Madison
,” Dean Dillon said. “It’s the biggest stern wheeler ever made, over seven hundred feet long.”

“I thought the
Great Eastern
was the biggest,” Clint said.

“It was,” Dillon said, “or rather, it is, until we take our maiden voyage. Our paddle wheel is sixty feet in diameter. The
Great Eastern
is only fifty-seven. We weigh thirty-three thousand tons!”

“When is the big day?”

“A week,” Dillon said.

“From where?”

“New Orleans,” Dillon said. “And I want you to be on it.”

“Oh, uh, Dean—”

“On the house!” Dillon hurriedly added. “You’re my friend, Clint, I want you to share this with me.”

Clint thought it was more likely Dean was trying to get some big names lined up for his boat’s maiden voyage. Not that he could blame him. If Dean had the largest paddle wheeler on the Mississippi, it was going to be a major accomplishment.

“You got anything better to do?” Dillon asked.

Clint studied his friend’s face. Dillon had come all the way to Labyrinth, Texas, to invite Clint in person. Maybe the friend in him did want to share the experience with Clint, but the businessman wanted the Gunsmith on that boat.

“Whataya say, Clint?” Dillon asked.

“When are you leaving?” Clint asked.

“Tomorrow morning.” Dillon had only arrived that morning. “I’m heading right back.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Before you leave, I’ll let you know if I can make it.”

“Okay,” Dillon said. “I’ll accept that.”

He finished his beer and put the empty mug down on the table.

“See you in the morning,” he said. “Stage leaves at nine.”

He turned and left Rick’s Place, the batwings swinging in his wake.

Rick Hartman came over and sat in the chair Dillon had just vacated.

“So, what did he want?” he asked Clint. “He came running in here like his ass was on fire.”

“I’m invited to be on the maiden voyage of the
Dolly Madison
, the largest paddle wheeler ever to hit the Mississippi.”

“He owns it?”

“Apparently.”

“Then it’ll probably sink.”

“Well,” Clint said, frowning, “did you know that a paddle wheeler can weigh as much as thirty-three thousand tons? How the hell does something that big manage to stay afloat?”

“You got me,” Rick said. “I’ve never liked boats, myself. Trains, yeah, but boats?”

“I do like them,” Clint said. “At least, I did until I learned how much they weigh.”

“So, are you gonna go?” Hartman asked, sitting back in his chair.

“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I like New Orleans, I like the Mississippi, I
liked
riverboats—maybe I still do, despite their weight.”

“When is this historical voyage supposed to take place?”

“In a week.”

“And do you have any other plans?”

“No.”

“Then why wouldn’t you go?”

“Well,” Clint said, “it is Dean Dillon.”

“There you go!” Hartman said, with a smile. “It’s a scam. It’s got to be.”

Dean Dillon had been—in no particular order—a gambler, a con man, a thief, a liar, and a businessman. Whichever one he put his mind to at any given moment, he was a damned good one.

The question was—which one was he being now?

The deck pitched and Angela DuBois, standing next to him, almost fell, and would have if he hadn’t caught her.

“Jesus,” she said, eyes wide with fright, “we’re really going down?”

“Looks like it,” Clint said.

People were running back and forth on the deck. Crew members were trying to shout instructions to the passengers, but they were panicked and weren’t having any of it. And then, suddenly, there was fire.

“W-what do we do?” she asked.

Clint took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“Can you swim?”

When Clint arrived in New Orleans, he breathed in its scent. New Orleans was a special place, unlike any other city in the United States. The architecture was French, the population was cross-cultural and multilingual. He loved the people and the food.

He stopped at the Jean Lafitte Hotel, put Eclipse up at the hotel’s livery, and got himself a room.

“Ah, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said, “we’ve been expectin’ you, suh.”