Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  A little jerky from his saddlebags sufficed for Blackshot's breakfast, and then he was in the saddle again on the trail of the wounded man. The sun was still climbing in the sky and already waves of heat were reflecting off the arid ground. Blackshot guided his horse at a steady pace, keeping an eye out for signs of movement ahead as he followed the trail.

  He traveled on across the countryside without incident until the sun had reached its apex and began its slow descent. The trail was easy to follow for an experienced tracker like Blackshot, and he made good time.

  As he rounded a bend by a fallen tree, a sudden sound made him pull the roan to a halt. It was a woman's voice. Blackshot looked around warily, sliding a Colt into his palm. He heard it again; a woman crying out in distress. It came from up ahead, beyond a patch of scrubby dry trees at the edge of a gully. Blackshot shook the reins and set the horse moving toward the sound at a slow pace, still carrying the Colt in one hand.

  He passed the trees and saw the woman. And what a woman she was! She lay naked on the dusty floor of the gully, her long black hair streaked across her face, her full round breasts heaving atop her slender torso, her firm bronze legs twisted in an awkward position. A torn white blouse and a long black skirt were strewn beside her, and just beyond her Blackshot saw the motionless bulk of a dead horse.

  Blackshot swung down from his saddle and made his way cautiously toward the woman. No sound came to his ears save the plaintive sobbing from the woman, and nothing moved in his sight. He knelt down beside her and gently touched her arm. She recoiled at his touch and stared wildly at him with big brown eyes, her plump lips trembling.

  “Take it easy,” Blackshot said softly. “I won't hurt you. Are you okay?”

  “Bandits-- they catch me--” Her voice had a strong Mexican accent. “No one to help me.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Long gone-- they ride away long ago.”

  Blackshot tried to help her to her feet but she grimaced in pain and clutched her ankle. “I can't walk,” she gasped.

  Blackshot looped an arm beneath her legs and the other about her shoulders and lifted her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, her bulging breasts lolling against his hard chest. It was then that he heard a sharp cackle of laughter from behind him. A tall rawboned half-breed Apache with black braids and a scarred face stood on the rim of the gully, leveling a rifle at Blackshot.

  “Quite a show, girly! Ya'll ought t'been on stage!” he called with a laugh. “Ain't Consuela done a good job, boys?”

  Two other men emerged from the brush on either side of the tall man, one a burly, thick-bearded Mexican, the other a thin weasel-faced man with a dented bowler hat and flecks of gray in his grizzled beard. They both carried pistols aimed straight at Blackshot, and scrambled down to the floor of the gully to surround him.

  Blackshot looked down at the woman. Her face was emotionless and she kept her eyes away from his as she pushed out of his arms and hurriedly ran to gather up her clothes. The big Apache regarded her movements with a lopsided grin.

  “A fella could get ideas just watchin' the way she moves that ass,” he chuckled.

  “Ideas that Mr. Ragan wouldn't like too much,” said another voice from the brush. A man emerged into the gully; he was stocky and bareheaded, and his unshaven face was pale. Dried blood stained his shirtfront, and one sleeve had been cut away and wrapped tightly like a bandage around his upper arm. A long strip of cloth had been tied over the opposite shoulder to make a sling for his wounded arm. “Keep your mind on the job,” he snapped at the tall man.

  “Nice to meet you again,” Blackshot said coolly. “I didn't get a chance to introduce myself properly last night, but I aim to correct that soon.”

  “Keep joking, tough guy,” the wounded man rasped. “That smart mouth of yours will get shut soon enough.”

  A heavy revolver barrel thumped into the back of Blackshot's head, and the world disappeared into darkness.

  Chapter 5

  When Blackshot came to, the sun was setting behind the far hills. His head ached, and when he tried to move his hands he found them to be lashed tight to a tree behind his back. The tree stood at the edge of a rocky clearing, and behind where Blackshot sat he could hear the faint burbling of a stream, and felt a cool damp breeze off the water on the back of his neck.

  A small campfire was crackling at the center of the clearing, and the big half-breed lay reclined beside it on a blanket, picking his teeth with a Bowie knife, the firelight gleaming on his copper muscles. The weasel-faced man sat across from him, gulping down beans from a tin plate with a noisy slurping. Behind them the woman Consuela sat on a log, staring straight ahead with an expressionless face. She was barefoot, clad in the white blouse and long black skirt, and her lush black mane was pulled into a tight ponytail. She did not look at the outlaws or at Blackshot.

  Blackshot kicked himself mentally. Women always had been his weakness; especially women with bodies like the one straining against the thin translucent fabric of that blouse. When would he learn? Probably never.

  The little man shot a glance at Blackshot and saw that he was awake. He grunted at the Apache and jerked his head in Blackshot's direction. The big man looked over with a smug grin on his thin lips.

  “Welcome to our humble abode, Mister Gunfighter,” he said in a mocking voice. “I'd offer you a bite t'eat, but seeing as what's in store for you, it'd be a waste of good food.”

  The grizzled little man let out an amused grunt, sending beans spilling down his chin. Blackshot said nothing.

  “Mr. Ragan has a right fun time planned for you,” the big man continued. “Now me, I ain't sheddin' no tears for Rattler, but the old man was pretty fond of that dirty devil for some reason, and he means to make you suffer for snuffin' him out.”

  Suddenly a shout rang out from beyond the brush at the edge of the clearing, “Consuela! Water!”

  Consuela jumped to her feet and retrieved a tin pail from the stuff behind the little man and made her way past Blackshot toward the water, her skirt brushing against him as she passed.

  The weasel-faced man grinned at his partner. “Duffy don't sound too happy. Chavo ain't exactly gentle when it comes to tendin' wounds.”

  “Yeah, he ain't lovin' life right now.” The big renegade cast a jeering look at Blackshot. “I reckon Duffy is feelin' a little sore that Mr. Ragan wants you brought in alive. He'd like to settle your account himself.”

  “He tried that,” Blackshot growled, “and you see what happened. If that drygulcher wants to give me another crack at putting him in the ground, I'll be happy to accommodate him.”

  “Consuela! Hurry up, you lazy bitch!!” boomed the pained voice of Duffy.

  This brought a hearty laugh from the two men by the campfire. Blackshot heard the soft padding of Consuela's feet as she picked her way up the slick rocky bank of the stream. She passed silently into the clearing, and once again Blackshot felt the soft brush of her skirt against his arm. This time, though, he felt something else as well; something small and hard hit his wrist and landed in the dirt beside him. Blackshot glanced quickly down at his side while the eyes of the men were on Consuela, and saw a small razor gleaming in the fire light! Straining against the ropes, he reached out and swiftly scooped it up before its glint could catch the eye of one of the outlaws by the fire. Moving the small blade into position, he began sawing steadily on the ropes that held him, being careful to show as little movement as possible.

  A burst of swearing exploded from beyond the brush, and the half-breed got to his feet with a chuckle. Consuela emerged from the underbrush without a sound and returned to her seat on the log, keeping her eyes away from the men.

  “Well, I better fetch them horses. I don't figure to stay here and listen to him holler all night,” the Apache said. He drew a finger through Consuela's ponytail as he passed out of the clearing. “Girly gonna have to ride with one of us, seein' as what happened to her horse.”

  Black
shot recalled the dead horse in the gully and his gray eyes narrowed. Killing a good horse like that was the sort of thing that could ordinarily get Blackshot pretty riled up, but considering that they had the same fate planned for him, he just concentrated all the harder on his work.

  The weasel-faced man tossed his empty plate onto the rocky ground by the fire with a clatter. He stood up, wiping his hands on his shirtfront, and walked slowly around the fire toward the log where Consuela sat. He sat down beside her and threw an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. Consuela didn't look at him.

  “Y'know, you and I could get to be good friends now,” the man said in a low rasp. “Things are gonna be changing, I betcha.”

  He slid his hand inside the front of Consuela's blouse and wrapped his fingers around the bare flesh of her breast. He kneaded the the soft mound roughly under the thin fabric, and brought his lips close to her cheek. “The old man ain't keep you away from the boys no more. You're gonna need a good friend like me if you wanna stay all pretty like you are.”

  Consuela said nothing and continued staring straight ahead. The man's lips twisted into a malicious grin and he jerked the blouse open and pulled the big round melon out into the open. The caramel flesh glistened like bronze in the firelight as it jiggled in the man's hand. “So, why don't you start actin' a little more friendly to me, girly? You want me to keep you away from the boys, don't ya?”

  He teased the dark brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed the breast in his hand, letting the flesh bulge out between his fingers. He didn't even have time to let go before Blackshot was on him.

  One strong hand clamped over the little outlaw's mouth and the other drove the razor into his bean-stained throat. Blood spurted from his jugular and spattered across Consuela's blouse, dotting her bare skin. Blackshot pressed the blade in with all his might, not relenting until he felt it hit bone. Finally he pulled his hand away from the man's mouth and the limp body slid off the log and tumbled face down onto the dirt. A rush of blood pooled around the man's throat and ran down into the fire in a thick stream, making the flame flicker and pop.

  Consuela pulled her wet blouse across her breast but did not look up at Blackshot or at the crumpled form at her feet. Blackshot's hand closed around her ponytail, and her jerked her head back so that her eyes where looking into his. He pressed the bloody razor to her throat.

  “Explain,” he snarled.

  Her dark eyes flared defiantly at him. “I helped you!” she hissed.

  “You also set me up to get ambushed in the first place.”

  “They made me do it. I had no choice. You don't know what they'd do to me if I refused.”

  “Is that so?” He tightened his grip on her hair and pulled her closer to him. “Sounds to me like Diamond Dan keeps you off limits to these bums, like you've got a special deal with him!”

  “You don't understand! It's true, the Patron gives the men strict orders not to touch me,” she said, her Latin accent growing thicker with emotion, “but he also gives them very clear orders of exactly what they are to do to me if I disobey or try to run away!”

  “What's your story, princess?” Blackshot snapped back. “What's the old son of a whore treat you so special for?”

  Consuela's face set in an angry glare. “I was Rattler Ragan's wife,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  “Believe me, no one is happier than I that you ended that devil's life,” she continued. “That's why I risk my life to help you.”

  “We'll discuss this later,” Blackshot said. He pulled Consuela off of the log by her hair and dragged her to her feet. He led her stumbling to the tree where he had been bound and pushed her down against it.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Just covering my angles 'til I know the lay of the land, princess,” Blackshot replied. He found a segment of the rope that was still a good length, and used it to bind Consuela's hands to the tree trunk. He tended toward believing what she had said, but he wasn't planning to get fooled again. Besides, if Ragan's men got the best of him, it would be safer for Consuela if they thought he had escaped without her help, and tying her up would help convince them that was the case.

  Blackshot went to the stuff the men had laid out by the fire, and made a quick search for his Colts. They were nowhere to be found; probably they had left them with his horse when they made camp. He crossed again to where the body of the little man lay; a pistol was holstered at his hip, and Blackshot rolled him over on his side to retrieve it.

  “C'mon, let's pack this shit up and get back in the saddle!” The voice of the tall half-breed broke the silence in the clearing, and Blackshot looked up to see the big man stride through the brush. The grin on the Apache's face disappeared as he saw the scene; the blood on the dead man's throat, Blackshot bending over him to reach for his gun, the woman tied to the tree. The firelight flared in his widening eyes as his hand shot to the gun at his hip.

  Blackshot lunged over the body of the fallen man with the agility of a panther, and drove his shoulder into the big outlaw's midsection with a heavy tackle. They tumbled together through the dry brush and hit the ground, with Blackshot on top of the other man. The Apache had pulled his revolver clear of the holster, but Blackshot held his wrist in an iron grip. The man's other arm snaked out around Blackshot's neck, but he pulled free while twisting to avoid the outlaw's knee which came thumping into his side. Blackshot brought a hard fist slamming down into the big man's jaw, sending a spray of blood spitting from his mouth. He felt the other man's free hand grasp at his throat, and he pushed it away with a jab of his forearm.

  The sound of footsteps crashing through the brush told Blackshot that the struggle had not gone unnoticed by the others. Through the darkness loomed the running figure of the burly Mexican, Chavo. Blackshot caught a glimpse of the grim, bearded face and the flash of moonlight on a steel rifle barrel as he raised it from his side.

  Blackshot jerked the Apache's gun hand toward him and closed his other hand over the trigger finger. The pistol spat fire with a roar, and Chavo's body jerked to the side. He staggered forward, then dropped to his knees. He tried to raise the rifle again, but a second bullet hit him right above the eye, sending his hat flying off with part of his head still in it. The Mexican pitched forward, dead before he hit the dirt.

  The half-breed's free arm darted upward again, and Blackshot felt his powerful fingers lock around his throat. He tried to twist free, but the powerful grip only intensified. A jerk of the big man's body send Blackshot rolling off of him, and they struggled side by side in the dirt. Blackshot could feel his breath failing as the vice-like grip on his throat tightened. With a lunge he thrust his arm around to the other man's back and drew out the Bowie knife from his waistband. With all the strength he could muster he drove the long blade hilt-deep between the man's ribs. The renegade let out a hollow gasp, and the pressure eased on Blackshot's throat. Blackshot twisted the handle of the knife and didn't pull back until the arm of the other man fell limp at his side and the gun fell from his other hand.

  In the darkness outside the clearing, Duffy struggled to his feet from where he lay on a blanket which had been spread for him on the smoother ground down by the trail. He scooped up his revolver with his good hand and stumbled toward the flashes of gunfire. Blackshot had gotten free somehow, he mused bitterly, probably with the help of that sneaky whore Consuela, and was trying to make a run for it. Chavo had run ahead and Duffy assumed that he had put Blackshot down, if the others hadn't already, but hopefully they hadn't finished him off for good yet. If Blackshot was still alive Duffy wanted to put a bullet in the wily bastard to even the accounts between them.

  When he reached the clearing, he almost fell over the crumpled body of Chavo. His feet splashed in the pool of blood forming between the bodies of the Mexican and the half breed, who lay motionless with his eyes staring blankly from his scarred face. Blackshot was nowhere to be seen.

  Duffy advanced slowly i
nto the clearing, training his gun on every shadow that danced in the firelight. “Come out, you dirty son of a bitch!” he shouted in a wavering voice.

  “Your wish is my command, you damn bushwhacker,” came Blackshot's rumbling baritone from behind him. Duffy whirled around just in time to see the long blade of the Bowie arc toward him. Blackshot drove the steel shaft into the outlaw's gut with a powerful thrust. The tip of the blade came out his back and poked through the fabric of his shirt. The pistol slipped from Duffy's fingers and hit the rocky ground with a metallic clang. With a strong jerk of his arm, Blackshot drew the blade out again, sending blood spitting from the blade. Duffy slid to the ground like a rag doll and lay still, a dark red stain spreading steadily across his shirtfront.

  Blackshot strode over his body and returned to the campfire. Consuela sat where he had left her, a sullen pout on her full red lips, her ample cleavage spilling from the front of her bloodstained blouse. She strained her arms against the ropes and glared at Blackshot.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she demanded.

  Blackshot merely grinned and crossed over to the tree and split the rope with a swing of the Bowie knife. Consuela pulled the ropes away from her arms and rubbed her wrists, eyeing Blackshot cautiously. Blackshot rummaged amongst the outlaws' gear and found a mostly clean undershirt in a bedroll. He tossed it at Consuela's feet.

  “Here. Get that bloody one off you,” he said.

  Consuela picked it up as she got to her feet, and laid it on a rock beside her. “Turn around so I can change,” she said.

  Blackshot didn't move. “You've gotten a lot more coy since this afternoon, princess,” he said.

  Her face reddened and her eyes flared with indignation. “A gentleman would give a lady some privacy to change.”

  “The next time I meet a gentleman I will be sure to pass on that information to him.”