Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  “And then Jefferson Donner, richest man in the west dies, making Brother Maxwell the new richest man in the west,” Blackshot said.

  “Don't you think I thought about that?” Georgia replied. “The thing is, after it happened Maxwell has been real nice to me. He paid for my doctors, and hired a nurse to look after me until I mended and everything. Hell, he was the one that lent me the money to come out here-- pardon my language. He's just been real nice. I think he's sorry he was on bad terms with Jeff when he died and taking care of me was his way of making it up to him.”

  Blackshot was silent for a while. It didn't add up in his head, and that made him uneasy. Those men that were feeding the vultures back in the gully were no random bandits, but Mad Devil Jack was off raising hell south of the Rio with no reason to know or care what Georgia was doing.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Georgia's voice: “Besides, even if he knew, he certainly wouldn't try to stop us from hunting down Mad Jack. After the murders Maxwell put out a big bounty on the bastard's head. You know you might just be able to collect that!”

  “You know I might just,” Blackshot said.

  Chapter 5

  When the moon rose over the desert and cast its shimmering reflection onto the black waters of the Rio, it found Blackshot and Georgia encamped beneath a rocky bluff that ran along the river's southern bank. Blackshot had chosen this camp site because the tall rocks that sheltered it provided only one easily-guarded direction of approach, and also allowed a small fire to be kindled without being visible from the surrounding plain.

  He had spread the horse's blanket by the fire for Georgia to sleep, and had tried to make her as comfortable as possible before finding a spot to lie down where he could hear anyone that might approach the camp. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and tried to doze, but found himself turning the tangled puzzle over in his mind. The massacre of the wedding party had been very convenient and very lucrative for Maxwell Donner, but what reason would he have to kill Georgia now? And why wait? He surely had plenty of opportunities over the past year to do away with her if he wanted to.

  With an effort Blackshot pushed it out of his mind. In the morning they would ride to a little town a few miles south called Dos Fuentes where either he would find the sheriff who would tell them what place Mad Devil Jack was haunting now, or he would find Mad Devil Jack which would settle the matter one way or the other.

  A slight rustling noise caught Blackshot's attention, and he raised his hat to look for its source. The fire had dwindled to a few ruddy embers, and its faint glow played on Georgia's bare flesh; she stood over him, fully nude.

  “I do apologize for disturbing you,” she whispered, kneeling beside him and tugging at his belt buckle, “but I am just as horny as hell, pardon my language! Before today, I had not been fucked in a whole year, and I had forgotten what great fun it can be!”

  Before Blackshot could think of what to say, his manhood was free and hardening in Georgia's warm hand. Once it was standing fully erect, Georgia straddled his hips and lowered herself atop him, impaling herself on his fat shaft. Then she was rising and falling upon him in a brisk rhythm, her golden ringlets bouncing across her shoulders like a dancing flame, and her ample breasts jumping and compressing on her chest.

  Soon Georgia was panting raggedly and the sweat running down the ridges of her ribs glistened in the dying fire light as Blackshot's thick cock plunged deep into her hot, wet core again and again. With a shudder, a fiery orgasm surged through her undulating body, and an instant later Blackshot's release exploded into her loins with equal force.

  A long low moan emanated from the mass of blonde curls that had spilled across Georgia's face, and she squeezed her swollen tits hard against each other as her body convulsed a final time. Then she bent over Blackshot and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blackshot,” she said softly as she rose to her feet. “You are truly a man that a girl can count on.”

  “I thought you said you didn't know how to ride,” Blackshot groaned.

  “It's just like you told me; the trick is not to fall off,” Georgia replied as she wrapped herself in the blanket again. In a moment Blackshot could hear her snoring gently, and the sweet smile on her face made her look just like a sleeping angel.

  Chapter 6

  The squat buildings of Dos Fuentes formed two uneven lines along the stretch of cracked, sun baked earth that passed for a main street. The harsh midday heat seemed almost palpable as the hooves of the mustang moved slowly between the gray, weather-beaten storefronts, as still and colorless as a daguerreotype. Despite the name, there was only one fountain visible anywhere that Blackshot could see; a bone dry wreck of broken, bleached stone that stood at the end of the street seemingly out of habit.

  Rivulets of sweat ran down the thickly-muscled neck of the mustang as Blackshot guided it to the hitching post in front of a low, square building with a wooden sign reading “Oficina del Sheriff”. His eyes moved along the length of the empty street as he helped Georgia down from the saddle. It was siesta in the sleepy little town and nothing moved anywhere in sight, yet Blackshot could perceive an undercurrent of nervous energy about the place, like the ripples from an outside force troubling the placid surface of the little town. He shook his head; perhaps the heat was making him imagine things.

  When they opened the door of the sheriff's office, a neatly-dressed middle-aged man that had been dozing in a chair with his feet resting on the small desk at the center of the room jumped up to greet them. His dark, sun-burned face was freshly shaven, his jet black hair carefully combed, and the hand he extended to Blackshot as introductions were exchanged bore a gold ring.

  “A very pleasant day to you, señor,” he said, shaking Blackshot's hand warmly. Once he had released it he took up Georgia's hand and pressed his lips to the back of her gloved fingers. “And to the lovely señora as well. I am Sheriff Rudy Valdez, at your humble service.”

  “Gracias, sheriff,” returned the beaming Georgia.

  “We've come to Dos Fuentes looking for a man, sheriff,” Blackshot said. “Maybe you can help us find him.”

  “I'm sure I will be able to help you,” the sheriff replied. He dragged two chairs from the back of the room and ushered his guests into them with the of scrupulous deference of a commoner entertaining royalty.

  “He's a bandit that goes by the name of Mad Devil Jack,” Blackshot said. “I've heard he's been around these parts.”

  The ingratiating smile did not leave the sheriff's lips, but the color drained from his face. “He is a very bad man,” he said in a strained voice. “Why would you seek such a man, and with a lady with you? It would be safer if you left him alone.”

  “I know it, but I have my reasons,” Blackshot replied. “Have you heard anything about where he's been seen recently?”

  The sheriff was silent for a minute, studying Blackshot's face with a worried eye. “I suppose I can tell you where to look for him,” he said finally. “When he is in the area his gang is known to stay at Casa Amarillo, an abandoned villa in the hills a few miles south of town. I had heard that he was seen in the region recently, so most likely that is where you will find him if he is still around.”

  “Then I suppose that's where we're going,” Georgia said.

  “That's where I'm going,” Blackshot replied. “You'll stay here in town until I get back.”

  “That would be wise,” the sheriff concurred.

  “That would be nonsense!” Georgia pouted. “I didn't come all the way out here to sit in some little town and twiddle my thumbs- no offense; I'm sure it's a wonderful town,” she added to the sheriff.

  “I only brought you with me in the first place so that you wouldn't get killed by those drygulchers,” Blackshot said. “I'm not going to lead you into a den of killers so that they can have another crack at you.”

  “I'm not afraid to die,” Georgia snapped. “I've just about done it once already. I want to see the bastard die
for myself and I don't care what happens after that.”

  The sheriff looked confused and turned to Blackshot for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. “Well, I care,” Blackshot said. “I'll get your ring back, but I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

  Georgia turned away from him. “I don't care anymore,” she said grimly, “I don't care! He took away everything I had, and I know I'll never get it back. That ring was the only thing I felt I could take back, but it doesn't matter anymore. I wish Jack had just finished me off back when he took it! I feel like I died then anyway.”

  The sheriff looked from one to the other with a stunned expression, and started to speak but then thought better of it.

  “Maybe you did,” Blackshot said. Georgia turned sharply to him and glared at him with teary eyes, but he continued, “Maybe your old life died back then; but your new life started at the same time whether you like it or not, and sooner or later you'd better stop trying to crawl back into the old one, and start living the new one.”

  Georgia said nothing but turned away from him again. Blackshot stood up from his chair and the sheriff rose tentatively as well.

  “Thanks for your help, sheriff,” Blackshot said, extending his hand. “Please keep an eye on Miss Motherwell for me. I'm going to go see a man about a ring.”

  Not an hour later, Blackshot was lying on his stomach on a hot, sandy knoll that overlooked the sun-bleached walls of the Casa Amarillo. It stood shimmering in the sultry cauldron of the valley, looking as empty and unreal as the town had done. Nothing stirred in his sight and no sound broke the stillness of the sweltering air.

  Blackshot spat on the ground. None of this felt right; he couldn't put his finger on it, but something gave him an uneasy feeling about the place, much like he had felt in Dos Fuentes. As he considered this, he became aware of another feeling that was creeping over him; he was being watched. Was he imagining things? The heat playing more tricks on his mind?

  Above him from the craggy bluff that rose high behind the knoll on which he lay came a faint metallic noise, so faint that it was almost inaudible. With a sudden lunge, Blackshot dove from the crest of the knoll, and not an instant later a volley of bullets plowed into the dirt where he had been lying, and the roar of gunfire echoed through the hills.

  “At least I'm not imagine things,” he muttered.

  Chapter 7

  Blackshot palmed the black Colts and flattened himself against the side of the knoll. Atop the sheer bluff the dark form of a man arose, almost a silhouette against the blazing sun. Blackshot leaned out from the cover of the knoll and squeezed off two shots at the man. The shadowy form disappeared behind the rim of the cliff with a sharp cry, followed by muffled swearing.

  Suddenly the report of horse's hooves thundered through the valley, and Blackshot whirled around to see a pair of riders galloping toward him from the gate of Casa Amarillo. Another horseman turned into view from behind a rocky crag opposite them and sped toward him, tufts of white smoke billowing from the revolver in his hand.

  Blackshot leaped behind the face of the sandy knoll as plumes of dirt and rocks burst from the ground all around him as the bullets sought their target. He was surrounded; his mind raced for a plan of action as sound of the charging horses grew quickly nearer. He reached an arm out and sent a couple of quick shots in the direction of the pair that came from the villa. As they turned aside to avoid his line of fire, Blackshot sprinted back to the top of the knoll and slid to the ground on his back as more lead dug into its rocky face.

  The man on the ridge sprang into view again, raising his rifle to fire, but before he could bring it to bear Blackshot sent a slug slamming into his chest. The man staggered like a drunkard toward the edge of the bluff, clutching at his blood-stained shirtfront until a second bullet shattered his knee and sent him toppling over the edge.

  As his broken body came crashing down to the rocky floor, Blackshot was already rolling onto one knee facing the third rider. He set both Colts hammering into the swiftly approaching horseman, and the gunman's body jerked in the saddle as his mount stumbled beneath him. As the wild-eyed horse scrambled to its feet again, the man pitched from its back, his shirt stained red and his disfigured face masked in blood.

  Blackshot did not wait to look for the other horsemen, but dropped to the ground and pressed his body to the sandy earth as a hail of bullets ripped through the rim of the knoll, sending geysers of dust and stones into the air and clipping the brim of his hat. He returned fire blindly over the edge of the rise, then rolled down to the far side where he could regain his footing.

  From the direction of the shots Blackshot could tell that the two riders had split up to try to hem him in. To his dismay he could hear the thumping of more horse's hooves between the barking of the guns, telling him that more riders were on the way. As he thumbed cartridges into the cylinders of the Colts, his eyes scanned the ridges about him for any means of escape.

  Suddenly the gunfire was cut off and as the echoes died away against the rolling hills the hot air was silent once again. Before Blackshot could question this new development, a thin rasping voice called out from the opposite side of the valley. “Hey, Monsieur Gunfighter! Why so unfriendly?”

  Blackshot peered cautiously around the side of the knoll and saw a tall, gaunt figure standing in the open between two tall crags with his hands raised above his head. His face was shadowed beneath the brim of a battered slouch hat, but Blackshot could see a long, braided red beard hanging down over the multitude of gold and silver necklaces that crisscrossed the man's brown chest. He wore a long tattered duster that hung halfway down his lanky legs, and his feet were bare. Although he had never laid eyes on him before, Blackshot knew that this could be none other than Mad Devil Jack.

  “See, I come in peace, Monsieur Killer!” Jack called in a mocking sing-song voice, waving his hands. “I only wanted to invite you to be my guest at my humble chambre!”

  “Careful, Jack,” Blackshot retorted, “I can put you in the ground just as easy as I did the others.”

  “Oh, don't be so unfriendly, Monsieur Gunfighter!” came Mad Devil Jack's reedy voice again. “You really should come along and be my guest!”

  He waved a long arm, and out from behind one of the tall crags emerged Georgia, white-faced but composed, accompanied by Sheriff Valdez who held a silver revolver pressed to her neck. Jack tilted back his head and his gold-capped teeth glittered in the sun as he smiled broadly.

  “Because if you don't come along, poor little miss lily white will have to stay at the villa all alone with bad, bad old Jack!”

  Chapter 8

  “Don't be too hard on the bon sheriff,” Mad Devil Jack said. His wild eyes bulged from his thin, almost skeletal face and a wide grin creased his hollow cheeks. “He's not a bad man; he'll just do absolutely anything for money!”

  His uncanny laugh rang again from the stucco walls of the ancient villa. Blackshot stood stripped to the waist on the dusty expanse that passed for the courtyard of Casa Amarillo, facing the gangly madman as he paced back and forth in front of a long row of sandy mounds, each about six feet long. If there was any doubt that they were graves, that was dispelled by their headstones; short wooden spikes protruding from the head of every mound, each adorned with a blackened, rotting skull.

  Sheriff Valdez was not present, having hustled Georgia at gunpoint into the low, rambling main house, but three of the Jack's bandit gang surrounded Blackshot.

  “C'est bon, we have plenty of money lying around,” Jack continued, “so we can always count on the sheriff to warn us if any real lawmen come calling.... or a gunfighter with a petit femme in tow!”

  He motioned to one of his henchmen, a fat Mexican with a thick mustache, who produced a rusty shovel and cast it down at Blackshot's feet. Jack flashed his crooked gold teeth at Blackshot and ran his ringed fingers gently across the dome of one of the skulls.

  “Now you are my guest, and you will stay here with my other guests and k
eep them company!” he said. “You may think I lack les bonnes manieres in that I make you dig your own grave, but the ground is dry and this hot weather is too much for me. I must preserve my strength to entertain the fille jolie, and you will not need your strength much longer!”

  The echoes of his mocking laughter faded as he disappeared into the main house, leaving Blackshot alone with the three bandits. One of them, a short, grizzled man with an eye patch, nudged the shovel toward Blackshot's feet with the toe of his boot.

  “Get digging!” he snapped. “We ain't got all day for this!”

  Blackshot bent down and picked up the shovel. “You're right, you ain't got all day,” he said, driving the sharp point of the shovel blade into the sandy turf, “Your time's just about run out.”

  He scooped up a shovel full of dirt and tossed it across the one-eyed man's boots. The man's face flushed with anger, and his hand jumped to the butt of his pistol. The third bandit, a tall, dark man with a scarred face, stood up from the large, flat stone where he sat to check the other man.

  “Take it easy, Poco!” he barked. “If you kill him you have to do the digging yourself!”

  The little man let his hand fall from the gun, still glaring at Blackshot. “Fine, I can wait,” he muttered. “Won't make any difference in the end.”

  “I'm glad you worked that out,” Blackshot said. “I hate seeing you boys disagree.” He shoveled another load of dirt onto the one-eyed man's boots.

  “You fucking bastard!!” the man howled and lunged forward. As he neared, Blackshot brought the blade of the shovel up between the man's legs and drove the sharp point into his balls. The little man let out a gasping whine, his one eye wide, and he doubled over in pain. Before he could recover, the shovel blade slashed through his throat, showering blood onto his dirty boots.