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  Clint Adams goes after a long dead enemy—who might still be alive...

  Commandant Henry Wirz put Clint through hell as a prisoner of war, and when the Union won, Wirz paid for his crimes with a public hanging. Or did he? Word is, the low-down scum is living in Frisco as a U.S. Senator. Now a fellow Andersonville inmate intends to get the job done right this time.

  There’s no way Senator Winston is actually Wirz. But because Clint didn’t actually see him hang, he needs to discover the truth—a truth that will have the Gunsmith risking his life for an innocent man, or seeing justice done once and for all.

  CLINT ADAMS, THE GUNSMITH 15: ANDERSONVILLE VENGEANCE

  By J. R. Roberts

  First published in 2010 by Jove Books

  Copyright © 2010, 2018 by Robert J. Randisi

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Clint Adams goes after a long dead enemy—who might still be alive...

  Commandant Henry Wirz put Clint through hell as a prisoner of war, and when the Union won, Wirz paid for his crimes with a public hanging. Or did he? Word is, the low-down scum is living in Frisco as a U.S. Senator. Now a fellow Andersonville inmate intends to get the job done right this time.

  There’s no way Senator Winston is actually Wirz. But because Clint didn’t actually see him hang, he needs to discover the truth—a truth that will have the Gunsmith risking his life for an innocent man, or seeing justice done once and for all.

  OVER FIVE MILLION GUNSMITH BOOKS IN PRINT!

  Chapter One

  Clint Adams rarely went back to Atlanta. There were no good memories there. Not one. The only thing that was there was pain.

  As he stepped off the train, the pain came back—not as sharply, but as a dull thing eating at his insides. But he knew that if he allowed it to, it would become sharp, start digging at his insides until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He was determined not to let that happen.

  The summons that had brought him to Atlanta had come from the only man who could have brought him back there—James West.

  He walked down the platform to the stock car just as they were leading Eclipse down the ramp.

  “I’ll take him,” he said, accepting the reins. “Thanks.”

  He walked Eclipse off the platform and headed into Atlanta. The town had grown by leaps and bounds since being reconstructed after Sherman’s fiery march. It was a full-fledged city now, but a city he didn’t know and he didn’t intend to know.

  He’d agreed to have a meeting at a hotel near the train station. He walked Eclipse to a livery stable, where he left him in the hands of a black man who worked there. The man’s skin was smooth and ashy, his hair gray. He could have been sixty or seventy, but he was still tall and powerfully built, with hands that had been nipped at and damaged from years of dealing with horses.

  “I’ll take good care of him, mister,” the man said.

  “I know you will. Thanks.”

  With his saddlebags and rifle, Clint walked to the agreed-upon meeting place, the Peach Blossom Hotel. He entered the lobby, which was filled with wicker furniture and vases of peach blossoms.

  “Can we help you, suh?” the clerk asked with a syrupy Southern accent. He was a bright-faced man in his early thirties.

  “Room,” Clint said. “My name is Adams.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Adams,” the man said, his face brightening even more. “We’ve been expectin’ you. Would you sign the register, please?”

  Clint did so, then accepted his key from the clerk.

  “Any messages for me?” Clint asked.

  “Uh, no, sir,” the clerk said. “No messages.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Do you need any help—”

  “This is all I have,” Clint said, indicating his rifle and saddlebags. “I’m fine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint nodded to the clerk and went up to his room on the second floor.

  In his room he found the same wicker furniture, and a comfortable-looking bed. He knew there were hotels in Atlanta with indoor plumbing and electricity, but this wasn’t one of them. A pitcher and basin sat on the dresser, and a gas lamp hung on the wall next to the door.

  He dropped his saddlebags on the bed, propped the rifle in a corner. Then he walked to the window and looked out. He could see the train station from there. He wished he was getting back on the train.

  His meeting wasn’t with James West. His friend was on a mission, which was usually the case. Instead, he would be meeting with someone from his past, Colonel Frederick Tate. When he had last seen Tate, the soldier had been a lieutenant, and his commanding officer.

  Clint gave very little thought to the role he played in the war, and he did that by design. He had trained himself not to think back to that time. It was only at West’s behest that he was allowing himself to be drawn back there.

  He didn’t know when the meeting with the colonel was supposed to take place. Certainly within the next few days, but West’s telegram had not been any more precise than that. Clint had to register at the hotel and wait to be contacted.

  Suddenly, he was hungry. Walking through the lobby, he had noticed there was a small restaurant right off it. That was good. He wouldn’t have to go very far to get something to eat.

  He went to his saddlebags, opened them, and took out his Colt New Line. His intention was to take off his gun belt and just carry the smaller gun, but in the end he stuffed it back into the bag, turned, and left the room still wearing his Colt. Clint had an edible steak and some weak coffee in the hotel dining room. On his way back through the lobby the clerk waved to him.

  “I do have a message for you, Mr. Adams,” the man said. “Came in while you were eating.”

  Clint accepted the envelope and asked, “Who brought it in?”

  “It was a soldier, sir,” the man said. “A private.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  Clint took the message to his room, but he didn’t read it until he was behind closed doors.

  The message was from Colonel Frederick Tate, asking Clint to meet him at an address that evening at 10 p.m. Although the clerk said the message was brought by a soldier, Clint had to wonder if it was legitimate. Why wouldn’t the colonel simply come to the hotel to see him?

  He decided he’d keep the appointment, but he was going to be real careful while doing it.

  Chapter Two

  The address he’d been given was not far away, in a neighborhood of shops, stores, and restaurants. However, since it was late at night, most of those places were closed. All of their doorways were dark, perfect places for a gunman to lie in wait.

  The address in question looked like a general store, with a small cafe on one side and a ladies’ hat shop on the other. All were dark.

  Clint stood across the street from the place, using one of those darkened doorways himself to observe the area for a while. He was looking for telltale signs that someone was hiding—the scuff of a shoe, the momentary flare of a cigarette
being lit, or smoked. When he was reasonably satisfied that no one was waiting for him, he broke from his doorway and crossed to the store. He paused a moment to look over his shoulder at the rooftops across the street, then stepped up to the door and knocked. After a moment he heard footsteps, then someone pushed the curtain in the window aside and peered out. The lock was disengaged, and the door opened.

  “Mr. Adams?” a man asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Come in, sir,” the man said.

  He wore a blue uniform, and was a private. No doubt the man who had delivered the message. As Clint entered, the soldier stuck his head out, looked around, then pulled back in and closed the door, locking it.

  “This way, sir.”

  “Whoa, Private,” Clint said. “How about you identify yourself?”

  “Sorry, sir,” the man said. He was not young, in his thirties, slight but sturdy. “I’m Private Collins, sir, assigned to Colonel Tate’s staff.”

  “I see. Is Tate here?”

  “Yes, sir,” the private said. “He’s in the back, waiting for you.”

  “All right, then, Private,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Collins said. “This way.”

  He started back and Clint followed. Collins led Clint through the store to a back door, which normally led to a storeroom. As they went through the door, Clint saw that it was, indeed, a storeroom, but there was more than merchandise stored there.

  They had to go down a flight of stairs to reach the floor of the storage area, and then someone turned up the gas on a lamp and lit the room.

  In the center of the room, in full uniform, was Colonel Frederick Tate. He had filled out since Clint had seen him last, fuller in the shoulders and chest than he had been twenty years before. He had also acquired a full beard, which was peppered with gray.

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Colonel,” Clint said. “Good to see you.”

  Clint walked to Tate and extended his hand. The two men shook warmly.

  “It’s been a long time,” Tate said.

  “Yes, sir, it has.”

  “Camp Sumter seems a long time ago,” Tate said, “and yet it’s so vivid in my mind.”

  “It would be in mine, too, sir, if I allowed it to be.”

  “I understand,” Tate said. “I wish I could block it out, but I can’t.”

  Clint nodded.

  “Private, a chair for Mr. Adams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Collins came forward and put a wooden chair down for Clint. There was already one for the colonel, and they both sat.

  “That’s all, Private,” Tate said. “Keep an eye on the front.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Tate was obviously waiting for Private Collins to leave before he spoke again, so Clint remained silent and waited.

  “Anybody covering the back?” Clint asked.

  “Two of my men. Were you worried this might be some kind of trap?”

  “I was.”

  “But you came anyway.”

  “Well, Jim West’s name and yours were connected to the telegram I got,” Clint said. “How could I not come?”

  “I appreciate that, Clint,” Tate said. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “Well, considering your involvement, and the fact that we’re in Atlanta,” Clint said, “I figured it has to do with Camp Sumter.”

  “I hate to say it,” Colonel Frederick Tate said, “but it does have everything to do with Andersonville.”

  Chapter Three

  Camp Sumter—Andersonville, Georgia, Summer 1864

  There were two ways into Camp Sumter—called Andersonville by most—the south entrance and the north entrance. Clint Adams was among the new prisoners being walked in through the north gate.

  What greeted the new prisoners was appalling. Men—formally fighting men—who had now been reduced to walking skeletons, covered with dirt and insects.

  “Can this be Hell?” the man next to Clint asked.

  “Looks like it,” he said.

  In the center of the camp was a swamp, which was obviously used as the camp latrine. Human excrement overflowed from it, and the smell was so intense it was almost like a solid well. Clint’s eyes and those of the men around him immediately began to tear.

  “My God!” one of them said, covering his mouth and nose.

  “Easy, solider,” Clint said.

  The twelve men being marched in with Clint were soldiers. He was a civilian, working for E. J. Allen’s Secret Service.

  “How do they expect us to live through this?” another man asked. “It’s summer, for Chrissake. We’re all gonna get the plague.”

  “That’s probably just what they want,” Clint said. Confederate soldiers marched them to their barracks, which were little more than chicken coops.

  “Inside,” one of the soldiers said.

  “Where’s the superior officer of the Union prisoners?” Clint demanded. “I want to see him.”

  The gray coat grinned at him and said, “Then do what I tol’ you, blue-belly. Get inside.”

  Clint waited for the soldiers to file inside and then followed.

  “Any superior officers among you?” someone asked.

  “No, sir,” Clint said. “All enlisted men, and me.”

  “You? What are you if not an enlisted man or a superior officer?”

  “Civilian, sir.”

  A young man approached him, stared at him intently. The remnants of his blue coat identified him as a lieutenant. “Spy?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Civilian,” Clint said again.

  “I understand,” the man said. “I’m Lieutenant Tate. I’m ranking here.”

  “No one higher?”

  “We had a captain, but he died yesterday. I thought there might be someone with you.”

  “No,” Clint said. “You’re still ranking.”

  Clint looked around, tried to see in the semidarkness of the coop. There were men lying on men, and the men who had come in with him were trying to avoid them. Some of them might have been dead, it was hard to tell.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the lieutenant said. “Sometimes we don’t know who’s dead and who’s alive until they have us file out in the morning.”

  “This is inhuman,” Clint said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Is there water?”

  “There’s a creek that runs through the camp,” Tate said. “It’s used to bathe in, and for drinking water.”

  “It must be polluted by now,” Clint said.

  “I’m sure it is,” Tate said, “but it’s all the water we’ve got.”

  “How long have you been here?” Clint asked.

  “Not as long as most of these poor wretches,” Tate said. Clint could see the man was thin, but not yet emaciated. “I’m still fairly healthy,” Tate said. “So are the men who came in with me. Those who were here before us aren’t as lucky. That is, except for the Raiders.”

  “Raiders?”

  “The Andersonville Raiders, we call them,” Tate said. “They kill and steal from other prisoners.”

  “Prisoners killing prisoners?” Clint asked. “With what as weapons?”

  “Clubs, bare hands, anything they can get their hands on,” Tate said. “We pretty much have to stick together to avoid them. If they catch you alone, or even in twos, they’ll attack.”

  “Jesus,” Clint said. “That’s what we’ve been reduced to?”

  “Some of us.”

  Clint and Tate moved to the entrance of the coop. “Anyone escaped?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Anyone try?”

  “Oh, yes. No one’s ever gotten past the ‘dead line.’”

  “The dead line?”

  “See the light fence? That’s the ‘dead line.’ It’s about three feet inside the stockade. Anyone trying to cross those three feet is shot. No one’s ever made it to the wall.”

  “An
d if they did?”

  “It’s made of heavy, sixteen-foot logs. A healthy man like you would have trouble scaling it. Once you’ve been here awhile, there’s no chance.”

  Clint looked out at other coops, like the one he was in. The smell of the marsh in the center was still there, though not as strong.

  “Are the Raiders all bunked together?” he asked.

  “No,” Tate said. “There are some in each barracks.”

  “Why don’t you form a group to stop them?”

  “Well,” Tate said, “up to yesterday I wasn’t in charge.”

  “Now you are,” Clint said.

  “What’s your name?” Tate asked.

  “Clint Adams.”

  Tate looked more closely at him.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said, “but I didn’t know you were so young.”

  “I don’t think age makes much difference in here, Lieutenant,” Clint said. “Do you?”

  “No, Mr. Adams,” Tate said, “I don’t.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “why don’t we see what we can do about those Raiders?”

  Chapter Four

  Colonel Tate stood up, reached behind a box, and came out with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured the two glasses and handed one to Clint, then sat back down. “To the dead of Andersonville,” he said.

  Clint lifted his glass, and they both drank.

  “Henry Wirz,” Tate said.

  “Commandant of Camp Sumter,” Clint said. “He was hanged in 1865.”

  “Was he?”

  Clint stared.

  “Wasn’t he?” Clint asked. “He was tried by General Wallace, prosecuted by Norton Chipman, and many of us testified against him, including you and me.”

  “Did you see him hang?” Tate asked.

  “No, I wasn’t present at the execution.”

  “Neither was I.”

  “Sir, are you telling me he wasn’t executed?”

  “That’s not exactly what I’m saying, Clint,” Tate replied.

  “Then what are you saying, sir?”

  “Have another drink.”