Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  Tall and lissome, Alejandra von Offenburg wore a black bolero hat atop silky flaxen hair pulled into a long ponytail, and a white blouse whose loose sleeves billowed at the wrists, but whose front was stretched tight by a voluptuous bosom. Her riding breeches were cinched tight about her narrow waist and looked painted onto her curvy hips and long, well-toned legs. The heels of her boots clicked on the pavement as she sauntered through the doors toward Blackshot, an imperious twinkle in her pale blue eyes.

  As if she not an impressive enough sight on her own, she held in one gloved hand a leather leash which led to a studded collar encircling the neck of a jaguar! A menacing growl rumbled in the big cat's throat as it padded along at Lady Alejandra's heel, eyeing Blackshot suspiciously.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Lady Alejandra demanded. “I was promised a sultan.”

  “I thought you were promised a horse,” Blackshot replied.

  “So? You're not a horse either.”

  “I see I can't put anything past a clever girl like you.”

  “Well, where is the sultan? I was looking forward to buying a horse from a sultan.”

  “And so you shall. I have been employed by Mehmet Ali Pasha to act on his behalf in this matter.”

  “And why did he not come in person? When I purchase a horse, I want to meet the breeder.”

  “Maybe he's allergic to cats.”

  Alejandra laughed and turned back toward the lawn, jaguar in tow. “Well, I suppose you'll suffice well enough. Come out and see my horses. I adore horses; riding is the only thing that livens up my boring days. What about you? Do you fancy a ride?”

  “Like you said, I'm not a horse, but I'm up for it if you are.”

  Alejandra turned to face Blackshot and looked him up and down with a sardonic smile on her lips. “I warn you, I am quite a connoisseur of horseflesh, and I'm very picky about what I ride. Just what do you have to offer me, Senor....?”

  “Blackshot. Tom Blackshot.”

  “That's a nice name. Common and unremarkable, but nice.”

  “I am relieved that it meets your approval. Now I won't have to change it. As for what I have to offer, I think you have a pretty good idea, being the connoisseur that you are. If you want to know more you'll have to experience it for yourself.”

  Alejandra waved a gloved hand at the horses in the rows of stalls as they strolled past. “You see the quality that I'm used to,” she said. “Do you think your mount can measure up?”

  “You'd be surprised how it measures up,” Blackshot responded. “It might turn out to be more than you can handle.”

  “You don't know what I can handle, Senor Blackshot,” Alejandra purred, looking down her aquiline nose at him. “I've never had anything between my legs that I couldn't master.”

  “I don't reckon you've ever had anything this powerful between your legs before.”

  “That's a bold claim. Let's put it to the test, shall we?”

  “Fine, but afterwards we should really do something about Mehmet Ali's horse.”

  Alejandra threw back her head and laughed again. She shook the leash in her hand, and the jaguar hissed threateningly. “I must like you, Senor Blackshot,” she murmured. “Ordinarily I'd set Ottmar on a man that talked to me the way that you do.”

  “That's probably why your days are boring,” Blackshot said with a grin, touching the brim of his hat as he made for the door.

  The ancient Fernando had retired to some far recess of the house again, so Blackshot let himself out the front door. Abdul was lounging in the shade just outside the courtyard gate, fidgeting carelessly with the ends of the horses' leads.

  Blackshot beckoned for him to bring Khamsin. “Come on, we'll take him around the side of the house so the lady can see him.”

  Abdul stared blankly at him and cupped his hand to his ear.

  Blackshot shook his head as he stalked across the courtyard. “It's contagious, is it? Well, it doesn't make much difference in our case, I guess.”

  No sooner had Blackshot passed through the gate of the courtyard, than he felt the hard muzzle of a rifle jab into his side. From his other side, he saw a man with a pistol flattened against the wall behind Abdul, his gun aimed squarely at Blackshot's head.

  “So we finally meet face to face, Mr. Blackshot.” The voice was smooth and mocking. Blackshot turned to see the lean, black-haired man who had watched him earlier. He still held the Bowie knife, with which he was casually cleaning his fingernails as he grinned maliciously at Blackshot. Two more men stood on either side of him, and they too held guns at the ready.

  “You've got a funny way of greeting a stranger,” Blackshot said.

  “We ain't as much strangers as you think, mate,” the man sneered. “I'm Rodney Carson.”

  Chapter 6

  Blackshot was about to respond when Abdul spoke: “Careful, Mister Carson! Like I told you, he's a killer! He thought he killed you back at your farm!” His English was perfect, with a slight northeastern accent.

  “Well, ain't that a dirty shame for you, mate,” Carson snarled at Blackshot. “And here I'm going to have to disappoint you again.”

  Blackshot gritted his teeth. So it was all a setup. The pasha, the horse, the whole spread with the tents and girls and servants; all a big show to disguise a trap with his name on it!

  “Look, I brought you the boss and the horse he stole from you just like I said,” Abdul told Carson. “Now can I go?”

  “I want the rest of my money, too.”

  “He's got it in his pockets, all of it! Look, I was never part of this swindle! Mister Blackshot said he'd kill us all if we didn't go along with it!”

  “You sure learned the language fast, 'Abdul',” Blackshot growled. “Stick around and I'll teach you a few more lessons!”

  “Talk is cheap,” Carson cut in. He motioned to the man behind Abdul, who rifled through Blackshot's pockets, producing the sheaf of money that Mehmet Ali had given him. Carson hefted the pile is his hand and grinned at Blackshot. “But this is going to be an expensive little game for you.”

  He turned to Abdul and jerked his head toward the mule. “Okay, a deal's a deal, mate. Get your sorry ass outta my sight before I change my mind!”

  “Yes sir! Right away, sir!” Abdul climbed onto the mule and rode off down the street at as fast a pace as the round little beast could manage.

  A couple of the men laughed at the ridiculous sight, but Carson kept his dark eyes fastened on Blackshot. “Don't you fret about him, mate,” he said. “The little fuck thinks he's got himself away scot free, but all he's doing is leading me straight to the rest of your little band of thieves and whores. I'll slit his throat soon enough, but first we're going to get a little better acquainted, you and I.”

  “I can't wait.”

  “Oh, you won't have you,” He held up the Bowie knife and turned it in his hand so that the sun flashed brilliantly on the broad blade. “I got a little place down the street where I can show you why folks call me 'Skinner' Carson, and why I'm the wrong man to pull a swindle on. I'm gonna teach you that lesson real nice and real slow so you don't forget it.”

  “Talk is cheap,” Blackshot replied.

  Carson chuckled dryly. “Bring him along, boys,” he said, wiping the blade on his shirtfront. “Y'know, it's a good thing you came along, mate. I ain't had a chance to use my knife on a man for almost a month, and I was starting to worry that my skills would get rusty.”

  One of the gunmen took Blackshot's Colts from their holsters, and then the rifle was jabbed into his back again, urging him forward. He followed Carson down the dusty street while the other men spread out around him, watching him cautiously with their guns at the ready. The sun had fallen low in the sky by now, although the heat had not diminished, and the shadows of the men stretched out long ahead of them. Carson walked straight from the villa toward the house where Blackshot had seen him standing when he first rode into town; two other men were waiting on the porch to meet them, standing on either
side of the open front door, each with a pistol ready in his hand.

  “Sorry, I can't offer you as nice 'a spread as that stuck up bitch in the villa with all her money,” Carson chuckled over his shoulder, “but I think it's a nice cozy little place to entertain guests.”

  “More like a sty for a band of pigs,” Blackshot spat.

  Skinner Carson only laughed as he hopped lightly onto the wide porch and stepped into the front door. Blackshot hesitated in front of the porch and the man behind him shoved him forward, causing him to stumble on the step ahead of him. His hands flew up as if reaching for the door post to steady himself, then suddenly they darted out and fastened on the gun hands of the two men bracketing the door. With a powerful jerk, Blackshot pulled the men towards each other as his thumbs jammed down on their trigger fingers.

  Both pistols erupted at once, each blasting a hole into the gut of the man opposite. Blood spattered onto Blackshot's forearms as the two men reeled backwards, but he was already springing through the door before they had time to hit the ground. Carson was just turning around at the sound of the shots when Blackshot met him with a forearm smash that caught the outlaw right below his left ear and slammed him face first onto the floor.

  The Bowie knife went skittering across the floorboards and came to a stop against the back wall of the room, just below a narrow window whose ragged curtain swayed anemically in the faint breeze. Blackshot ran straight for the window and hurled himself through it just as gunfire broke out from the doorway behind him. Bullets bit into the window frame and showered him with splinters and dust as he hit the ground and rolled onto his hands and feet.

  To his dismay, Blackshot found that the area behind the house contained a whole lot of nothing; the parched earth stretched out toward the distant hills, featureless and barren of anything that could be used as cover. With a muttered oath, he turned aside and ran along the backs of the houses toward the end of the street.

  A dozen yards up ahead Blackshot spied a gap in the row of buildings and raced for it even as he heard a pistol cracking from the window he had just left. No sooner had he ducked into the gap than a slug smacked into the wall of the house just inches behind him.

  He found himself in a narrow alleyway made even more narrow by dusty sacks and crates stacked haphazardly against one wall. Blackshot swore under his breath; he had managed to get out of the immediate line of fire, but now he was hemmed in. Some of the bastards would be chasing him down from behind and the rest would be covering the street in front, and they knew he didn't have a gun so they would be coming fast.

  Suddenly Blackshot was aware that he was being watched; the dark faces of a woman and a child peered out at him from a side door half way down the alley. When he looked up at them they hastily withdrew and the door was slammed shut. Hearing the sound of running feet getting closer behind him, he sprinted straight for the door and threw his shoulder into it.

  The flimsy door gave way instantly with a loud bang, and Blackshot found himself standing face to face with the woman, her gaunt face pale with terror and the wide-eyed child shielded behind her back. She brandished a well worn hatchet in one hand, waving it at Blackshot to fend him off.

  “Sorry, ma'am,” he said, “Desperate times and all that.”

  Before the woman could react, he swiped the hatchet out of her hand. She let out a startled cry and backed into a corner, keeping the young boy behind her.

  “Take it easy, I'm not going to hurt you,” Blackshot told her. “It's some fellas outside I'm planning to hurt.”

  Chapter 7

  Footsteps were approaching from the rear of the building; Blackshot stepped behind the door post and waited. The steps slowed as they reached the doorway and a moment later a hand with a gun came into view just outside the door. With a sudden lunge Blackshot brought the hatchet slicing down into the man's wrist, severing the hand that held the gun clean off.

  The man cried out in shock and pain as he staggered back from the doorway, blood spurting from the stump of his wrist like a fountain. He didn't get far, however, for Blackshot burst from the door and ripped his throat open with a sweep of the slashing hatchet blade. The thug slumped back against the wall, leaving a vivid red streak on the boards as he slid to the ground.

  There was a shout from the front of the house, and Blackshot turned to see a short Mexican with a scarred face standing at the end of the alley, raising the rifle in his hands. Blackshot grabbed the shirtfront of the dead man, which was already soaked in blood, and heaved the body up in between himself and the gunman just as the rifle's report thundered through the narrow alleyway. The corpse shook with the impact of the bullets as they thudded into his chest, and toppled to the ground again, but by the time he fell Blackshot was already half way to the back of the house, pulling crates and sacks down behind him as he ran.

  Before he could reach the end of the alley, a brawny blond man with a curly beard loomed in the opening, pistol in hand. Two other guns were tucked in his waistband; Blackshot's guns. With an angry growl, Blackshot dove forward onto all fours just as a bullet streaked over his head, then pounced like a lion on his prey, driving his shoulder into the gunman's torso and tackling him to the ground.

  The big man thrashed mightily as Blackshot tried to get hold of his gun hand. He pinned the man's wrist to the ground just as the pistol roared, searing his cheek with the heat of the bullet passing inches from his head. Blackshot slammed the man's arm against the ground, but his strong hand clung tight to the gun, and with a feral roar he wrapped his legs around Blackshot's back and knocked him onto his side.

  Blackshot rammed a forearm into his opponent's unshaven jaw, driving his head backward and loosening the grip of his legs. He felt the burly tough's free hand fumbling at the back of his neck and grasping at his hair, but he shook it loose.

  Just then the butt of a rifle thumped into Blackshot's back, right between his shoulder blades. The impact knocked him back onto his side again, and he saw a wiry man in an army cap standing over him, raising the rifle for another blow.

  “Get 'im, Clete!” the blond man gasped. “The fucker's chokin' me!”

  “If you'd hold him still I could shoot him!” the thin man grunted, dancing around the struggling pair with the rifle poised to strike.

  Blackshot surged backward, pulling the big outlaw on top of him as the rifle knifed down towards him again. The butt thudded solidly into the hip of the blond man, who swore viciously as his momentum carried him onto his back. Blackshot swung up astride him and blasted a heavy fist into his face, crushing his nose flat and sending blood squirting across his mouth. The blow staggered him and sent the pistol spinning from his hand, and Blackshot wriggled free of his legs as Clete swung the rifle again.

  The hatchet was just at his feet, and Blackshot snatched it up and slashed it across the little man's knees. Clete let out a strangled squawk and toppled to the ground, dropping the rifle as he clutched at his bleeding legs. With his opponent now at eye level, Blackshot swung the hatchet again, smashing the blade down with all his vast might onto the crown of the ruffian's head. The sharp wedge split the brim of his cap as it plunged into his skull and drove down between his eyes to stop at the bridge of his nose. He sagged backwards to the ground, the hatchet handle jutting from his forehead and blood pooling quickly in the dirt around his head.

  There was no time for Blackshot to congratulate himself, however, for the blond man's hands were tugging on his shirtfront, dragging him back into a clench. At the same time, Blackshot caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked up to see the scar-faced Mexican charging down the alley toward them. He tried to break free and get to his feet, but the big outlaw let out a frenzied bellow and lunged upward, wrapping his muscular arms around him in a powerful bear hug.

  Blackshot strove fiercely to break free, but with the rifleman closing in, there was no time to fight strength against strength. He jerked forward, headbutting the thug savagely in the mouth, knocking his front teeth
down his throat. He felt the pressure around his arms weaken, and he pulled his hands in front of him to grasp the familiar grips of his black Colts that protruded from his opponent's belt.

  Without pulling the guns from the outlaw's waistband, Blackshot squeezed down on both triggers; with an almost deafening explosion the slugs ripped through the blond man's groin, emasculating him in a torrent of blood. Ripping the pistols free from the man's writhing body, Blackshot had just time to empty a chamber into his head before turning them on the Mexican as he emerged from the alley. Two bullets slamming into his chest stopped the man in his tracks and wrenched the rifle from his flailing hands; two more drilled through his gut, painting the wall red behind him as he stumbled and fell on his face in the dust.

  The echoes of the gunfire died away across the arid plain, and silence descended again on the little town. Blackshot quickly thumbed fresh shells into the chambers of the Colts, listening for sounds of movement and hearing none. They were all dead, all but one: Skinner Carson. Coiled somewhere like a snake ready to spring out with that deadly knife, Blackshot supposed.

  He didn't fancy climbing back through the window to find out if Carson was still inside, so he reentered the alley and walked quickly but cautiously to the front of the houses. Nothing moved in the main street, not even the breeze, and Camino Placido once again looked the sleepy little hamlet, although Blackshot could feel an electricity in the air. He could sense many pairs of eyes peeking out at him from behind curtains and cracked doors as he proceeded toward Carson's house.

  The two dead men lay still where they had fallen on the porch, and the house was as silent as the rest of the street. Blackshot approached the door carefully, watching the surrounding houses and even the roof from the corners of his eyes; he wasn't putting anything past Skinner Carson! Through the door the house was empty save for the lingering odor of gunsmoke. So where was the bastard? He wouldn't have been the first man Blackshot had met that was plenty brave with a gang around him, but turned tail and ran when it was one on one. Still, even a coward wouldn't run out into the inhospitable wilderness in this heat, and Blackshot hadn't heard a horse.