Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  A fire was burning in Blackshot's belly as Georgia's hot lips and tongue did their work, and before long it was raging beyond control. He clenched a fistful of her hair and held her to him as his hips bucked and his release filled her mouth. Cum spilled in white streaks down her chin as she drew his cock from her mouth, stroking it with her hand to coax the last drops onto her waiting tongue.

  Georgia giggled and winked at Blackshot. “You liked that, did you?” she asked.

  “You could tell?”

  “That always used to be a specialty of mine,” she said, getting to her feet. “I was afraid I might have lost my touch.”

  “I wouldn't lie awake at night worrying about it,” Blackshot replied.

  Georgia turned from him and walked to the bed; Blackshot's eyes lingered on the movement of her ample ass and traveled the length of her long, firm legs to the demure white boots which she still wore. She bent over, resting her elbows on the mattress, and spread her legs wide, giving Blackshot a good view.

  “Well?” she said, arching an eyebrow at him, a single golden ringlet falling across her forehead.

  “Well what?”

  “This is not my first go around, Mr. Blackshot. I can tell when a man is down for the count, and when he is simply gathering his strength for the next round.”

  Blackshot chuckled and came to her. “You have hidden depths, Miss Motherwell.”

  “Feel free to plum them at your will,” Georgia replied, smiling sweetly.

  Blackshot let his hand run slowly across the generous curve of her ass, and then brought it around to her tight stomach and up over the broad swell of her breast. Georgia let out a low moan as his powerful fingers tightened around the fleshy bulge and kneaded it steadily. Then she gasped suddenly and he felt her body tense as his other hand caressed the wet lips of her pussy.

  “I have my own specialties,” Blackshot whispered close to her ear, and pressed his fingers into the warmth of her body.

  Georgia's breath came in panting gasps as his fingers worked inside her, teasing her, bringing her toward ecstasy and then drawing back. When finally she felt his hard cock press against her quivering thigh, she let out a whimpering cry and dug her heels into the back of his legs, urging him into her.

  Blackshot gripped Georgia's buxom hips and and parted the lips of her entrance with his rod. Then he plunged into her, grinding his hips into her ass with all his strength. Georgia's eyes widened and a moan caught in her throat as his immense girth drove deep into her belly.

  With a steady rhythm Blackshot began pounding his cock into her pussy, eliciting an anguished cry from her with each vigorous thrust. Her fingers clutched the sheet with whitened knuckles as his powerful hands ground her hips into his again and again.

  Beads of sweat were forming across Georgia's back and her voluptuous ass glistened as it shook with each impact. Blackshot felt Georgia's thighs tighten around him as an orgasm rocked her body. He was vaguely aware that the barroom below had gone silent, but he was too far along to care what could be heard through the thin floorboards. He felt like a locomotive engine was churning inside him, and when Georgia's body writhed against him as she climaxed again, he knew he had reached his limit as well. He pulled his cock out of her and turned her onto her back just as jets of hot cum came rushing forth and covered her tits and stomach in long white streaks.

  “Oh, Mr. Blackshot!” Georgia groaned, stretching her lithe body as her wet breasts heaved on her chest, “I take back what I said about you being a gentleman!”

  Blackshot lay beside her and pressed his lips to her jaw. “Good. I'd hate to think I'd given you the wrong impression.”

  His lips moved along her collarbone to her shoulder and across her back. As he brushed the lush blonde curls from her back of her neck he saw a sight that stopped him short; the unmistakable scar from a bullet wound between her shoulder blades. Georgia cringed as he ran his finger lightly across it.

  “So that's why you didn't try to get the ring back for the last year,” Blackshot said.

  “He took it right off my finger,” Georgia said, her voice cold and flat, “The bastard wanted it for a souvenir. He didn't even have the decency to finish me off. He just let me lay there to bleed to death; only I didn't quite die.... not quite.”

  “When I catch up to him, I won't make the same mistake,” Blackshot growled. There were still a lot of things about the story that he wasn't sure of, but he was dead sure now that he was going to put an end to Mad Devil Jack.

  “I just don't want him to have it,” Georgia said firmly. “The idea of that man with my ring on his finger- I just can't stand it. I can't stand thinking about it anymore.”

  Blackshot ran the back of his hand gently across her flushed cheek. “It won't be that way for much longer. I'll make sure of that.”

  Georgia sat up suddenly. “Oh, stupid me! We were having fun and now I've gone and made everything all sad with my silly talk!” she huffed. “Well, I'm going to fix that right now.”

  Before Blackshot could say anything, Georgia was feeding his cock into her mouth and sucking enthusiastically. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He had a feeling this was going to be a complicated job.

  Chapter 3

  Blackshot sighed inwardly as he watched from the corner of his eye the two men lounging by the door of a storefront across from the cantina; they were smoking and talking and trying to pretend that they weren't watching him as he cinched the saddle tight to the back of his red mustang. One was tall and lean and wore his hat pulled down low over his brow; the other was a dark, stocky man with a thick beard that extended past his collarbones. They both wore revolvers slung low against their sides. This was definitely going to be a complicated job.

  Georgia emerged from the swinging doors of the cantina followed by the bartender, a thin man with a drooping mustache, who was trying vainly to make an impression on the sexy blonde belle.

  “I do thank you for your generous offer,” she was saying to him, smiling sweetly, “but I cannot stay and take advantage of your hospitality. I don't drink hard liquor this early in the day, and as you no doubt overheard I have already been fucked.”

  The red-faced bartender returned inside while Georgia continued to where Blackshot stood.

  “Did you tell anyone back home that you were coming out here to hunt down Mad Devil Jack?” he asked.

  “A few people, I suppose. Why?”

  “No reason,” Blackshot replied. “Well, we'd best get going.”

  “May I ride with you, Mr. Blackshot?” Georgia inquired. “I'm afraid I don't have a horse.”

  “How did you get here then?”

  “Oh, coaches and wagons and anything I could find that was heading in your direction.” She said with a coy smile, “To tell the truth, I never did learn how to ride. I perhaps unwisely focused my education in other fields of learning.”

  Blackshot had originally intended to ride alone to hunt down Mad Devil Jack and leave Georgia in town, but the presence of the two men had made him change his mind. He had seen their types plenty of times, and if they were waiting for him or waiting for Georgia, it was not to exchange pleasantries. He would have to keep her close to him.

  “Fine, we'll ride together,” he said, offering Georgia his hand. She took it and he pulled her up into the saddle behind him. Once she was settled securely with her arms wrapped around his midsection, he touched the spurs to the horse's flanks and they were off.

  As they rode along the narrow, sandy arroyo-turned-trail that wound through the arid canyons south of town, Blackshot did not turn to look behind him, but he knew that they were being followed. There was no point in looking; the men would not pursue close enough to let themselves be spotted until they were ready to make their move.

  About a half mile up ahead, a jagged wall of rock rose sheer from the side of the gulch and sloped away to a stony plain dotted with hulking boulders. Beyond it the land flattened out again to a sagebrush-dotted plain. Blackshot frowned; if
he was going to dry-gulch a rider, that's where he would do it. By the time the rider could see the ambush, it would already be too late-- unless the rider could turn the tables before he got there.

  “I have a treat for you,” he said to Georgia. “I'm going to teach you how to ride a horse.”

  Before she could say anything, Blackshot slipped down from the saddle and pushed the reins into her hands. “Mr. Blackshot, I can't-” she sputtered.

  “Just don't fall off. That's the trick to it,” he called over his shoulder as he sprinted up the side of the arroyo. He darted behind the nearest boulder and made his way up the ridge, running low and staying behind the cover of the rocky outcroppings.

  When he neared the rim of the rock wall Blackshot slowed his pace and moved silently from boulder to boulder until he reached the top. He stopped when a patch of blue caught his eye amongst the coppery rocks and he flattened himself against the face of a boulder; a long-haired man in a blue shirt knelt against a large rock at the edge of the cliff. He was not one of the men that Blackshot had seen in town, but the rifle resting across the man's knee left no doubt as to his purpose there.

  Blackshot scanned the ground at his feet and found a rough, hefty stone that fit well in the palm of his large hand. Then he stepped out from behind the boulder and walked up to the man.

  “Hullo, friend!” he exclaimed. “If you're hunting for prairie dogs, you'll have better luck on the other side of town.”

  The man's head jerked around and his wide eyes took in the grinning black-clad stranger for an instant, then his hands flew to the rifle. Before he could bring it to bear, Blackshot was on him. With a yank of his powerful arm, he pulled the rifle from the gunman's grip while his other hand brought the stone smashing down across the man's face, sending his hat fluttering down the wall of the cliff to the gulch below.

  The gunman lashed out a fist toward Blackshot, but another blow from the rock sent him reeling backward with blood streaming from his forehead. Before he could recover, Blackshot sprang onto him, pinning him to the ground. He lifted the stone high above his head, then brought it crushing down with all his might against the man's head. The stone split in his hands as it shattered the man's skull and drove into the meat beneath. Blackshot felt the straining of the man's body ebb away as an eddy of blood streamed from his ears and began to pool around his motionless head.

  After he had dragged the man's body behind a boulder, Blackshot found another large outcropping that provided good cover from the plain below, and sat down behind it to wait. Soon the riders that had been tailing them would come to see why their compatriot had not shot down their prey, and Blackshot would be there to give them their answer.

  Sure enough, only a few minutes had past when the sound of horse hooves striking on the stony hillside came to his ears. The sound neared and then stopped, replaced with the crunching of boots on pebbles.

  “Hey, Jonah!” a gruff voice barked. “What the hell happened?! Hey, Jonah!”

  Blackshot stepped out from behind the rock and found himself face to face with the stocky, bearded man from town. “Jonah was looking the wrong way,” he told the dumbstruck man. “It was his last mistake, and yours, too.”

  The stocky man's hand flashed to the pistol at his side with impressive speed, but not fast enough. As the barrel cleared leather, Blackshot's Colts were already out and roaring into action. The first slug punched through the man's gut, sending him staggering backward, doubled over and spewing blood in his wake. He tried to raise his gun and return fire, but an instant later the next bullet tore through his throat, painting the rock face with blood and sending him tumbling and rolling down the rocky slope as limp as a rag doll.

  As the echoing of the gunshots dissipated among the boulders, Blackshot heard another sound from the gulch below; a horse, galloping fast. The last man was riding after Georgia.

  Chapter 4

  Blackshot saw the dead man's horse near the bottom of the hill and sprinted for it. It was skittish from the gunfire and shied away from him, but he commanded it with a firm tug of the reins and an instant later he was digging his spurs into its chestnut flanks as they hurtled across the stony ground toward the arroyo.

  The dust from the lean killer's horse still hung in the air as Blackshot turned the bay onto the trail. Up ahead the rider's dark form came into view, shimmering in the heat, and beyond that the little white dot of Georgia's dress against the gray of the valley. The tall man was closing fast on the slow-moving mustang that weaved uncertainly under the girl's inexpert control.

  Blackshot drew one of the revolvers from the holster and rattled off three quick shots at the horseman ahead. He did not hope to hit anything, riding at the speed he was, but with any luck it might cause the man to slow or break off the pursuit. There was no luck to be had, though; the rider only hunched lower in his saddle and spurred his horse onward.

  The mustang, however, sprang forward at the sound of the shots and scrambled wildly up the side of the gulch, nearly throwing Georgia from its back. Blackshot could hear her terrified shriek as the horse tore across the desert plain, kicking up huge plumes of dust in its wake.

  The other horseman turned sharply and urged his mount up the bank of the arroyo in hot pursuit. Blackshot saw that the grade beside him was not as steep as it was up ahead where the other horses had climbed, and he quickly steered his horse up the bank at a dead run.

  The tall man's horse had slowed as it mounted the ridge, and before it could regain its speed, Blackshot had closed the gap. As he bore down on the other rider, he saw the man grab for the butt of his revolver. With a desperate lunge, Blackshot threw himself from the charging horse's back. His shoulder drove into the tall man's side and sent them careening together down the side of the arroyo as a bullet sang past Blackshot's ear.

  The impact with the ground separated them, and they slid to the bottom of the sandy grade a few feet apart. Blackshot was on his feet first, but the wiry man had kept hold on his gun and swung it toward his charging opponent. With agility unnatural for a man of his size, Blackshot covered the distance between them with a great leap and slammed his boot into the man's shoulder, sending his shot kicking up sand from the bank of the gulch.

  Before the man could recover, Blackshot was atop him and dealing solid punches to his jaw. The tall killer was not as strong as Blackshot, but he fought like a wildcat and kicked free before another hit could land. He swung the gun at Blackshot's head, but a quick feint saw the blow glance off a muscled shoulder, and then he was driven back to the ground by a crunching forearm stab.

  Blackshot dove for the man's gun hand and held his wrist fast, getting a knee to the ribs in the exchange. Another kick stung his side, but he did not let go; he brought his other hand down in a hard chop against the inside of the man's elbow. The gunman's arm gave way and before he could resist, powerful hands were twisting his across his chest and forcing the muzzle of the gun in his hand against his chin.

  Blackshot could feel his opponent's body writhing and thrashing to free himself from his steely grip, but he held fast and with a strong hand pressed the man's finger down onto the trigger. The bullet drove into the gunman's jaw and exploded from the top of his skull, taking part of his head with it in a shower of blood and brains.

  The lifeless body fell against the sandy grade and slumped to the bottom of the gulch, and Blackshot rolled it face down with his boot. Then he climbed up the slippery bank and surveyed the surrounding landscape for Georgia. A couple of hundred yards across the desert plain, he saw the mustang standing alert among the patchy, low growing nettles that dotted the sandy expanse; Its saddle was empty.

  Blackshot sprinted anxiously toward the red horse, drawing a pistol as he did so. His eyes scanned the valley for signs of movement; had there been another ambush laid? His mouth set in grim determination as he pressed forward as fast as his long legs would carry him.

  When he approached the spot where the mustang stood, he saw a sight that made him set his mouth
firmly again, this time to stop from laughing; sitting spread-legged in the dirt was Georgia, her skirt fanned out around her and her crushed hat beneath the horse's hoof.

  “So, the trick is not to fall off, huh?” she snapped.

  “Are you okay?” Blackshot asked, grinning in spite of himself.

  “No, the fool thing shook me right off and I landed on my derriere!” Georgia pouted, “I declare, between you and your horse, my nether regions are taking a powerful lot of punishment!”

  Blackshot helped her to her feet and dusted off her dress with his hat. Once she was restored as close as possible to her original state (with the exception of her hat, which was past saving), he climbed back into the saddle and pulled her up behind him again.

  “So what happened?” Georgia inquired as Blackshot steered the mustang back onto their original course. “It sounded like you were shooting some folks.”

  “That's because I was shooting some folks,” Blackshot replied.

  “And just who were they; men from Jack's gang? What were they doing here?”

  “What they were doing is ambushing us. As for who they were.... that's a more difficult question to answer. I don't think they were Jack's men.”

  “Why, who else could they be?”

  “I reckon someone sent them after you,” Blackshot said. “Mad Jack doesn't know you're looking for him, so it must have been someone else that sent them. Tell me who knew you were coming out here.”

  Georgia shrugged. “I wrote to my cousin Beau; he's the only kin I got left and all, and to a couple of girlfriends back home to let them know I was taking a trip out West, but I didn't tell them why,” she said. After a pause she added, “Oh, and Jeff's brother Maxwell. He knew I was leaving, but I didn't tell him much either by way of a reason.”

  “Jeff's brother? I thought everyone in the wedding party was killed.”

  “Maxwell didn't come to the wedding,” Georgia sighed. “He didn't approve of the marriage. He thought I was just a cheap tart looking to get rich off of his brother, and told me as much to my face.” She laughed, “He even hired detectives to find sordid details about my past (of which there are many, and just as sordid as you please) to convince Jeff to call it off, but my sweet little Jeff just tore their reports right up.”