by Kurt Barker
“Just my luck,” he muttered, reaching for his jeans.
“Hey! What's the big idea?” Candy cried as he made for the door, still stamping into his boots.
“Don't move from that spot,” Blackshot shouted as he slammed the door behind him.
Outside the bank, the horses stamped and snorted in anticipation as the doors of the bank were flung open and the two gunmen ran out, one of them stopping to toss a parting word of warning to the banker huddled within.
The other man, the tall wiry one, swung into his saddle. “C'mon, don't worry about that worm,” he called, his thin lips twisting into a sneer. “He's scared shitless, like everybody in this hick town.”
As his partner mounted up, he touched the spurs to his horse's flanks, and they turned onto the main street at a gallop. That was where they first saw the tall, broad-shouldered man in the flat-crowned black hat. He stood in the center of the street, legs slightly apart, his big hands resting casually on the butts of a pair of black Colts. He raised his head slightly as they pulled up in front of him and met their gaze with cold gray eyes.
“Take it back,” Blackshot said quietly. The dust cloud that the horses had raised fell slowly in wisps about his long legs.
“Mind your own damn business!” the wiry man snapped. “You ain't the law around here.”
“That is true,” Blackshot replied with a humorless grin. “So if you don't put that money back where you found it I won't be bothering with arresting you.”
“He's some kinda gunfighter,” the burly man said, shooting a quick glance at his partner.
“He was some kinda gunfighter,” the wiry man retorted, and his hand flashed to the gun at his side.
He was as fast on the draw as most folks in the West had ever seen, and he had put more than a few men in the ground that had tried to outdraw him, but Blackshot's first bullet was slamming into his chest before he could even bring the revolver level. A second bullet ripped through the bandana around his neck, almost taking his head off and sending him toppling backwards off his mount with blood spraying from his jugular. The horse leaped into a sprint and had passed Blackshot before the outlaw's limp body had hit the dirt.
The second man had hit leather the moment he had seen his partner's hand move, but he was too slow. His gun fired harmlessly into the air as two bullets tore through his guts, spattering the flanks of his horse with blood. He slid sideways out of the saddle and fell to the street, sending the dust into a cloud around him as his horse fled.
“Pretty slick shootin', stranger!”
Blackshot turned to see a heavy set graybeard in a blue suit slowly make his way toward him from the swinging doors of the saloon. A silver sheriff's badge glittered on the man's breast pocket.
“Thanks,” Blackshot replied. “Looks like I did your work for you.”
“And I'm much obliged to you,” the sheriff said. “That's not the sort of trouble I get myself into when I can see it coming.”
“Funny attitude for a sheriff.”
“That it may be. With the way you handle a Colt I don't reckon you shy away from trouble much. It's a good thing you're on the side of the law, a mighty good thing; and as I say, I'm obliged to you.” The sheriff paused a moment and looked down at the dark pools of blood stretching toward each other between the two bodies lying motionless in the settling dust. Finally he said, “So don't misunderstand me when I tell you that you better get the hell out of town if you know what's good for you.”
Chapter 2
Blackshot's eyes narrowed. “Come out with it,” he snarled.
“You ever heard of Rattler Ragan?” the sheriff inquired.
“I maybe heard the name once or twice.”
The sheriff nodded his head toward the body of the tall wiry man. “That would be the former Mr. Ragan,” he said. “Mean as a rabid dog, fast as lightning with a six gun, and as ruthless and dangerous as they come. He kept quite a few sheriffs awake at night, and put just as many to sleep permanent like. The other fella's his cousin, Jack. Not as dangerous as Rattler, but plenty close enough.”
“Not too much danger to either of them now,” Blackshot replied. “What about it?”
“If you're asking that, then I don't suppose you ever heard the name Diamond Dan Ragan?”
“I don't suppose I have. Some relation, I take it?”
“Yes sir, some relation. Diamond Dan is Rattler's pa, and as bad as Rattler was, he was like a choir boy next to Diamond Dan. Hell, the devil himself probably ain't much meaner than Diamond Dan. He and his gang were the terror of every border town from Texas to California back in his day, and now that he's older he ain't gotten any nicer, just smarter. Nowadays he's a regular land baron; or robber baron's more like it. He's got land, money, and a gang that no lawman dares to take on, and once he hears that you put his son in the ground he's gonna use every resource he has to put you in the ground, too.”
“Gotta admire a man who loves his family,” Blackshot retorted.
“This ain't a jokin' matter, son,” the sheriff protested. “There are graves all over this territory with men in 'em that took on Diamond Dan Ragan. You better run, boy, and run fast. Get outta town; hell, get outta the country!”
“I appreciate the advice, sheriff,” Blackshot said, “but I'm not much of a runner.”
“Suit yourself,” the sheriff replied with a shrug. He turned and headed for the doors of the saloon. “Nice knowing you, son!” he called over his shoulder.
When Blackshot returned to Candy's room she was lying on her side on the bed with a worried look on her face. She shook her head as he came through the door.
“My my, you do attract trouble, Tom,” she said. “Some day you ought to learn not to meddle in other folks' business.”
“Are you joining the sheriff in the advice business?” Blackshot replied. “I like your other business endeavors better.”
He unbuckled his belt and tossed his guns on the chair, pulling open his jeans with the other hand.
Candy sat up straight. “Aren't you gonna get outta town?”
“When I'm ready.”
“You're a fool to risk your neck for some pussy,” she said with a smirk.
“You gonna give me the rest of my money back?”
Candy lay back on the bed and spread her legs. “It's your neck,” she laughed.
The laugh turned to a moan as Blackshot filled her with his girth, stretching her to her limit. She grabbed two handfuls of the bed sheet as his strong hands gripped her hips, and wrapped her stockinged legs around his muscular waist. She knew what was coming.
As his thrusts came deep and hard into her hot wet core, her luscious creamy breasts bouncing and wiggling with each impact, Candy looked up into Blackshot's fiery eyes. “It's too bad he's bound for boot hill,” she thought to herself. “I'm going to miss this.”
The sun had fallen below the rim of the false fronts on the buildings lining the main street when Blackshot made his way down the rickety back stairs and across the dusty lot to the stables. The lantern that hung above the door was burning weakly and he used its meager light to find the stall where his roan was waiting for him.
Blackshot hadn't put much thought to what he would do next now that the job was finished. He hadn't planned much further than Candy, he mused with a smile. Harrison City wasn't far; maybe he'd ride up there and see what jobs were on offer for a hired gun.
He wasn't too worried about Diamond Dan Ragan. He had heard stories about men like that plenty of times, and usually they were just tall tales. Besides, he'd be long gone from this town before the news ever reached the old bastard.
As he lifted his saddle onto the roan's back, Blackshot caught a shadow dart across the wall from the corner of his eye. Instinct made him jump aside, and the next instant a slug smashed into the wall where he had stood, as the report of a pistol echoed through the stable.
“I guess bad news travels fast,” Blackshot muttered.
Chapter 3
Blacksho
t dove behind a post and rolled behind the wall of the next stall as bullets sent showers of splinters screaming all around him. There were three of them as best as he could tell from picking out their muffled voices through the neighing and stamping of the excited horses, and they had him penned in pretty good. Scanning what he could see of the dusky stables, his eye settled on an alcove by the far wall. A workbench and a saddle rack had been erected within and at the back was a ladder leading up to the hay loft.
Shadows flitted across the wall and the intermittent scuffing of boots on the sawdust floor left no doubt that the men were closing in. Blackshot palmed one of the black Colts, and with his other hand reached for a wooden bucket that lay beside him on the floor, moving it as silently as possible. With a quick snap of the wrist, he heaved it against the post of a stall opposite him. The loud clatter was followed by a shout and a cacophony of gunfire that withered the empty stall. Blackshot leaned out and snapped off three quick shots in the direction of shout, then launched himself toward the alcove, staying low to the ground. Behind him the post where he had been a moment before was crushed in a hail of bullets. As the reports died away he could hear muttered swearing from the far end of the stable, telling him that his shots had done more than just provide cover for him.
As Blackshot reached the alcove he heard heavy footfalls just to his right, and turned to see a big, hard faced man with a black mustache and a short-barreled shotgun bearing down on him, not three feet away. The big man had been trying to cut off an avenue of escape for Blackshot, and had not expected to find himself suddenly face to face with his quarry, and he hesitated an instant before swinging his gun toward the powerful form in front of him. That instant was all Blackshot needed; his hard darted out to the sawed-off barrel and jerked it past him, pulling the killer toward him as the shotgun exploded into action. Blackshot felt the heat of the barrel in his hand as a shower of splinters hit his back. The man's bulk heaved against him, their faces almost touching, as Blackshot pressed his Colt into the man's stomach and emptied every chamber. A fountain of blood and guts spewed out of the big renegade's back as he stumbled backwards and toppled face down into an empty stall, sending up a cloud of sawdust and straw.
Blackshot heard confused shouts behind him as he made for the ladder. It looked old and well worn, and as he gripped it and put a boot on the first rung, an idea sparked in his brain. The corner of the alcove behind the workbench was draped in dark shadows, and Blackshot slipped quietly into its concealment, still keeping the ladder within easy reach. He waited, trying to keep his breathing quiet, until he heard the soft padding of footsteps across the floor nearby. He then reached out a hand to the ladder and pulled it lightly, letting it scrape on the wooden hatch of the hayloft. For good measure he pressed his boot down on the first rung, which creaked heavily under the weight.
Suddenly a voice rang out nearby, “He's goin' up to the hayloft! Cut him off!”
A short, bearded desperado in a buckskin jacket appeared in the entrance of the alcove, aiming a pair of silver revolvers at the empty ladder. The confusion that showed on his face was never satisfied, for an instant later Blackshot's bullet hit him between the eyes, spattering brains and blood across the wall in a wide smear.
Blackshot eased the crumpled body out of the way with his boot and leaned out to scan the room for the last killer. He didn't have to wait long, for from the shadows of a nearby stall a pistol flashed into the light and bloomed with fire, sending Blackshot leaping for cover behind a post. Blackshot fired a shot over his shoulder in the man's direction to make him think twice, then sprang to a post by the back wall of the building and flattened himself against the wall.
As he stood poised and silent, he heard a faint sound behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a hint of movement through the cracks in the boards of the wall. Blackshot dove toward the stall and hit the ground rolling, just as the roar of a shotgun tore a fist-sized hole through the wall where he had been standing. So there were four of them! He twisted onto his stomach and squeezed off a volley of shots into the freshly made hole. From outside he heard a grunt of pain and the sound of something fall heavily to the ground.
Footsteps were approaching fast from the stall where the other man had been. Blackshot could tell by how light the Colts felt in his hands that they were empty. He had to think fast. He jumped to his feet and in a moment he was in the alcove and halfway up the rickety ladder. A bullet snapped the rung of the ladder just below his foot and another splintered the wall behind him, but Blackshot was too fast. He heaved himself up into the loft and rolled quickly against the wall as slugs smashed through the floorboards beside him. He quickly scanned the loft for options, and saw that a pitchfork was resting against the wall just a few feet from him amid the scattered hay. At the far end of the loft a rope hung from a pulley on the ceiling. A risky play, but better than nothing.
Blackshot got to his feet without a sound and took hold of the pitchfork. With his other hand he drew one of his pistols from the holster and tossed it in the opposite direction from the hanging rope. It clattered noisily to the floor of the loft, and an instant later bullets streamed through the floor around it, sending up a cloud of hay and splintered wood.
The man below stood with his back to a thick wooden post, quickly thumbing bullets into the empty chambers of his revolver. A thin trickle of blood ran down his arm from where one of Blackshot's bullets had clipped him earlier. The echoing of the gunshots through the stable had masked the creak of the pulley as the rope had run swiftly through it, so when he caught the sudden glint of light on metal from the corner of his eye, his head jerked up in shock. His mouth opened to let out a shout but it died in his throat as the tines of the pitchfork punched through his gut. Blackshot's powerful arms strained against the shaft of the pitchfork until he felt the tines bite into the wood of the post. The man doubled over with a gasp and tried weakly to raise his gun arm, but Blackshot wrenched the heavy revolver from his fingers. He aimed the freshly loaded pistol at the outlaw's head and unloaded it again.
As the echoes of the gunfire died out Blackshot's ears picked up the clatter of hooves from behind the stable where the fourth man had been. He sprinted to the door of the stable just in time to see the silhouette of a running horse with a bulky rider hunched on its back disappearing around the corner. Blackshot spat on the ground. So he had wounded the last man, but not badly enough. Not enough to stop him from telling Diamond Dan that the hunt was still on.
A small crowd had formed about the stable, not daring to come too close, but peering out from the doorways of the nearby buildings and from behind the curtains of upstairs windows. Blackshot paid them no mind as he reloaded his revolver and returned into the stable to retrieve his other gun and his horse. The roan was pacing nervously at the back of its stall, skittish but unharmed. Blackshot took the reins and led it out into the cool night air.
By now the onlookers had determined that the festivities had concluded for the night, and some had left while others felt safe enough to move closer for a better look at the scene. Through the remnants of the crowd, Blackshot caught sight of the sheriff's hat bobbing toward him. The sheriff approached on unsteady legs, and the odor of alcohol that wafted from him told Blackshot where he had been during the shootout.
“The problem with young men,” the sheriff stated in a slurred voice, “is that they do not heed the wisdom of their elders.”
Blackshot thought of a few choice words that he could level at the old drunk, but he bit his tongue and swung into the saddle without a word.
“I believe I told you what would happen if you stayed in town,” the sheriff continued.
“Well, I'm leaving soon,” Blackshot replied.
“That would be wise.”
“As soon as I learn where I can find Diamond Dan Ragan,” Blackshot said. “I'm going to pay him a visit and thank him personally for setting up that greeting party for me.”
The sheriff sighed. “Are you just tired of li
ving, boy?”
“I'm tired of being shot at. It's not something I take kindly to, and I like for folks to learn that.”
“Well, you look like the sort of man that knows how to follow a trail,” the sheriff said. He pointed with the toe of his boot at that dark spots of blood that dotted the ground along the alleyway where the wounded man had ridden. “I suggest you follow this one if you're determined to meet Dan Ragan, for it is certain that the man who left it is headed nowhere else but straight to Diamond Dan.”
“You have been of infinite assistance to me, and for that I am eternally in your debt,” Blackshot intoned, touching his hat respectfully. With that he spurred the roan into a gallop and was gone into the night.
The sheriff was not a man to be phased by sarcasm, especially in his current condition, so he ignored Blackshot's parting words and tottered off down the alleyway to seek a little hair of the dog.
Chapter 4
The morning sun hoisted itself into the purple sky above the rim of the eastern horizon, and Blackshot squinted into it, stifling a yawn. He stamped into his boots and walked stiff-legged through the brush that surrounded his camp, and surveyed the dusty landscape. He had followed the trail left by the wounded man for a few miles before the growing darkness had convinced him to adjourn until the morning.
He had been careful to make his camp far from the trail, choosing a thicket running along a parched arroyo, and even then he had spent the night without a fire. The odds of running into more of Diamond Dan's toughs that night were slim, but no slimmer than that they would have been waiting for him in the stables, and he wasn't going to make the job easy for them by camping in the open.
