by Kurt Barker
Blackshot: The Deathtrap Girl
by Kurt Barker
Blackshot: The Deathtrap Girl
copyright 2018 by Kurt Barker
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Gunslinger. Mercenary. Killer. Lover.
They called him all this and much more, but like no other in the wild lawless West, the name Tom Blackshot struck fear in the black hearts of outlaws and renegades, and sparked desire in the bosoms of beautiful women. If you were lucky enough to hire the legendary mystery man, no danger was too great and no enemy so deadly that Blackshot could not overcome them. With a gun in his hand or a woman in his arms, Blackshot was without equal.
This is a tale of but one of his many harrowing adventures.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 1
“You're a dead man, Blackshot!” Lefty Macon rasped, beads of sweat running down the old bandit's grizzled jowls in spite of the cold night.
The tall, broad-shouldered man that faced him did not look dead, although seeing the cold gray eyes that stared out from beneath the flat brim of the black hat, or the pair of jet black Colt revolvers slung low from his narrow waist, one could be forgiven for mistaking Tom Blackshot for an angel of death!
“You know why I'm here, Macon,” Blackshot said. “The new mayor of Jessop hired me to get those land deeds from you, as well as that gold pocket watch. You know them; they're the things that you took from his brother, the old mayor of Jessop when you killed him.”
Macon squinted and curled his lip disdainfully as he began to pace haltingly across the floor of the farmhouse, the ancient boards creaking beneath his shuffling feet. The walls of the big room trembled and groaned as the icy wind outside buffeted them with unbridled ferocity. “Yeah, I know why you're here,” the old man growled. “And I knowed that tin horn clown would send some fool like you after me, so I took them papers and that fancy watch and set a trap for you right here. And now you done fell right into it!”
“I was hoping you'd decide to do that,” Blackshot replied. “It saves me a lot of time in hunting down the rest of your no-account gang.”
With an almost inhuman speed, his right hand flashed to his side and an instant later one of the Colts was in his hand, blooming with fire. His first bullet sliced through the gap in a half-opened door at the far side of the room, and the second followed close behind it. There was a meaty thud and a gurgling cry from behind the door, and then it burst open as a long haired man with a dark red stain spreading across the front of his buckskin shirt came stumbling into the room and collapsed onto the floor, a short-barreled shotgun slipping from his hands as he fell.
As the body hit the floor, Blackshot sprang suddenly toward the opposite wall of the house as a rifle roared behind him. The slug bit into the floorboards just beyond the spot where he had stood a moment before, kicking up a hail of splinters that peppered his boots.
As he spun around toward the source of the shot, Blackshot palmed his second Colt in a lightning-fast sweep of his hand. A lanky, lazy-eyed man with a crooked grin had emerged from a large wardrobe against the back wall of the room, and the repeating rifle in his hands was swinging toward Blackshot. When the rifle fired again, though, it was into the floor at the man's feet, for the bullet that punched through his gut doubled him over as it burst from his back in a shower of blood. Blackshot's second shot ripped through the gunman's throat, painting the doors of the wardrobe red as he reeled back against it, his head almost severed from his body.
Macon had frozen for an instant, taken aback at Blackshot's sudden action, but now he drew back his coat and jerked the well-worn revolver from his belt. Lefty Macon had made many mistakes in his tumultuous life, but this proved to be his last, for the steely gray eyes that were staring into his were already glinting gold with the reflection of the flames spitting from the Colts. His gun dropped to the floor, followed closely by his hat, which was marred by a bullet hole in the front and a broad smear of blood and brains across the back.
As the old killer's lifeless body thudded to the ground, Blackshot heard the sound of clattering hooves above the howl of the wind outside. The last of Macon's gang had lost their appetite for the ambush, it seemed. He sprinted to the front door and threw it open with a jab of his boot; the pitiless wind met him like a thousand icy knives stabbing into his flesh, but he paid it no mind.
No sooner had Blackshot stepped out onto the frozen turf than two riders burst from behind the house, hunched low over their galloping mounts as they fled for the safety of the dark valley. He fired from the hip, lifting the first man out of his saddle with a slug through his kidneys and following it with another through his groin on his way toward the ground.
At the sight of his partner's demise, the second man wheeled his horse about, firing wildly in response. Blackshot stood his ground as the bullets whizzed by, smacking into the wall of the farmhouse above his head, and snapped off three quick shots of his own. The first slug caught the bandit right at the collar of his coat, sending a plume of blood spewing from his throat, and jerking him sideways as the other two bullets drove into his chest. As he toppled from the back of his horse, his foot caught in the stirrup, and the last Blackshot saw of him was his broken body being tossed to and fro like a bloody rag doll as the panicked mare dragged him into the night.
Blackshot thumbed fresh cartridges into the hot cylinders of the Colts as he stepped back inside the house. He knelt beside Macon's contorted body and rummaged through the pockets of his coat until he located the gold watch and an envelope tied with a string. The envelope was stained with blood on one edge, but when he opened it and examined the documents inside he found only a few spots on the corners of the sheets. Blackshot was no lawyer, but he supposed that a few spots of blood were not the worst things that had ever stained a legal document, so he returned them to the envelope along with the watch, and slipped the little bundle into the pocket of
his jeans.
Outside once more, he stalked quickly across the hard ridges of frozen mud that made up the expanse between the house and the stable, shaking his arms as the frigid wind cut into them. The remaining horses were still skittish from the gunfire and paced their stalls uneasily, all except the great black Arabian stallion at the back of the room. Khamsin regarded Blackshot with placid indifference as his reins were loosed from the post, as if he had had no doubt that the five hardened killers in the farmhouse would prove no match for his master.
Blackshot donned his thick wool coat which he had left across the horse's back, and swung into the saddle. One snap of the reins and the powerful Arabian was off at a brisk pace, its flashing hooves eating up the ground with such speed that in a few moments the dark hulk of the farmhouse had vanished into the gloom behind them. Soon the tree-lined hills which had been barely visible in the distance when they started off were looming tall and black ahead of them.
Blackshot pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes to deflect as much of the frigid wind that whipped by his face as possible. This was no night for riding, but the first flurries of snow were sweeping across the plain and circling Khamsin's legs like ghostly wisps, and he had no intention of being snowed in for the night at a ramshackle farmhouse with a collection of dead bodies for company. Jessop was still a good hour's ride away, but there would be a warm room, good hot food and a fat stack of the mayor's cash waiting for him there, and that was a reward worth braving the inhospitable night to win.
These pleasant thoughts of what lay ahead spurred Blackshot on his way and helped him forget the icy wind and the dark trail; at least they did until he saw the bloody footprints.
Chapter 2
The snow clouds were fast covering what moon there was, but even in the low light there was no mistaking them; prints of bare feet on the stony ground at the edge of a wooded gully, fresh and still glistening crimson in the faint light. The feet that had made them were small, feminine, and staggered as they walked.
Swearing under his breath, Blackshot pulled Khamsin to a stop and turned him about to follow the scattered drops of blood as they meandered away from the trail. He tracked the traces along the rocky turf at the edge of the treeline, but at a break in the foliage the stumbling feet turned and disappeared into the blackness of the forest.
With no choice but to continue the hunt on foot, Blackshot dismounted and fished through his coat pockets until he found a few matches. He struck the first one, only to have it blown out by the rushing wind before he had a chance to shelter it with his hand. Swearing again, he stepped into the relative shelter of the underbrush and tried a second match, this time managing to keep a small flame alive.
The trail of blood was harder to pick up among the windswept leaves that covered the floor of the gulch, and a wave of desperation crossed Blackshot's mind as he saw the big white flakes peppering the ground, knowing that soon the signs would be gone for good. A bloody palm print on a tree by the lip of the gully showed him the way again, and he pressed on in the dim light of the match.
As he crossed the dry creek bed, Blackshot spied a dark shape huddled among the twisted roots of a towering oak. At first he was unsure if it might merely be a large rock, but as he approached it the flickering match light shone on blood-streaked bare skin.
She was a young Indian woman, completely naked and curled motionless in fetal position beneath the tree. Her long black hair was plastered to the blood that oozed from her back where a whip or belt had cut into her flesh repeatedly; her thick, firm legs also showed the signs of many lashes and the soles of her feet were stained red with their blood.
As Blackshot took the woman in his arms, he felt no movement or sign of life, and her body seemed as cold as the frozen ground. He held his hand close to her face; a pretty face, aside from the blacked and swollen eyes, but if there was any breath coming from her broken and bloody lips, he could not feel it. He pressed his hand to her plump, copper breast and to his relief, felt a heartbeat! It was faint but steady enough, and he knew there was a chance that he had not found her too late.
Blackshot stripped off his coat and wrapped the girl in it as snugly as he could. Lifting her gently into his arms, he made his way stumbling up the slippery bank of the gully and back to the stallion as fast as he could manage. Once in the saddle with the woman in front of him, he spurred the Arabian into a dead run in the direction of Jessop.
The snow was falling in thick waves now, the flakes seeming almost motionless as the horse streaked through them. Blackshot's mind was racing almost as fast as Khamsin's hooves; the girl's lips were turning blue and her chances of lasting another hour in the cold until they reached Jessop seemed slim.
But where else could he take her? Back to the farmhouse? The old rattletrap was scarcely closer than Jessop at this point, and there would be nothing there to treat the girl's wounds and barely even the necessary fuel to start a decent fire. No, another place would have to be found, and quickly!
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye he caught the flicker of a distant light. Then it was gone; had he imagined it? There is was! He saw it again as they rode clear of a patch of dense brush that had blocked the view. The ground beneath the horse's feet had sloped gently upward as they had left the gully, and now Blackshot could see a dark wooded hill off to his right, and from that hillside the tiny but clear light of a candle was shining through the trees. At once he jerked the reins and turned the stallion in the direction of the light, urging it once more into a gallop.
They had not gone far into the trees that dotted the slope before Blackshot could see the angular outlines of rooftops, already covered in a thin coat of snow. It was a town; a small, backwater sort of town, but a town nonetheless. Halfway down the lone street he spied the light he had glimpsed from the trail; it shone from the window of a broad-faced building with a wooden porch running along its length. As he approached it he could make out a hand-painted sign nailed above the door reading “Captain Mike's Saloon – Liquor – Beer – Meals”.
Blackshot pulled to a stop in front of the building and carried the girl up onto the porch. He gave the door a couple of solid thumps with his fist and waited for a moment, but heard nothing stir in response. Again he banged on the door, hard enough to start a mist of snow fluttering from the porch roof.
“Hey! Open up in there!” he shouted.
From inside the building he heard the creak of an interior door opening, and a woman's sharp voice snapped, “Go home, you old drunk! Can't you see we're closed?!”
“Open this door before I break it in!” Blackshot roared. “This woman's almost dead!”
Now the movement inside was quick, and a few seconds later the door was thrown open and a pretty, freckle-faced young woman with tousled blonde hair stared out at him, her green eyes bleary with sleep. She wore a long leather duster and held the candle in one hand. “What the hell?” she stammered. “I thought you were-”
Blackshot pushed past her into the room; it was a modestly-appointed barroom with a long, polished bar running the length of the left hand wall, and bottles of liquor lining a shelf behind it, but it was the opposite side of the room that drew Blackshot's attention, for there a few dark embers were still smoldering in a small stone fireplace.
“Get that fire going!” he barked. “She's freezing to death!”
“Lay her down and wrap her in that skin!” the blonde cried, pointing to a coyote-skin rug that lay by the hearth as she ran to rekindle the fire. “What the hell happened to her?”
“I found her like this out on the trail,” Blackshot replied as he covered the girl with the rug. “Someone beat the crap out of her and left her out in the woods to die.”
“Son of a bitch! What kind of damn animal would do that?!”
“Maybe she'll tell us if we can keep her alive!”
“Let's get some brandy in her,” the blonde said, pointing to the bottles behind the bar. “That should warm her up!”
Blacksh
ot slid over the bar and scanned the bottles until he found a bottle of brandy. “No, not that one!” the girl said as he picked it up. “The one next to it!”
“This is brandy!”
“But that's the good brandy! Get the cheap one! She won't know the difference!”
Blackshot was not one to argue against such unassailable logic, so he exchanged his bottle for the other one and brought it back to where the unconscious girl lay. He tipped her head back gently and poured a little of the golden liquid between her broken lips, and then a little more. It seemed to him that she stirred slightly, but he couldn't be sure.
“Not too much,” the blonde cautioned, standing up. “We don't want to choke her.”
She slid behind the bar and pushed open a door beyond it that gave way to an unlit hallway, and disappeared into the darkness. Blackshot heard another door open and then close a moment later, and the woman emerged from the hall with a woolen blanket balled up in her arms.
“I know something else we can do to warm her up,” she said, dropping the blanket at Blackshot's feet.
Her hands flew to the buttons on her duster, and a moment later she had torn it off and cast it onto the floor beside the blanket. She wore nothing beneath it, and although Blackshot wasn't sure what she planned to do for the girl, the sight of the flickering firelight playing across her ample bare breasts, slender stomach and firm, generous hips was certainly warming him up!
The blonde knelt down beside the slumped body of the girl and pulled the rug off of her. “I'm going to share my body heart with her,” she said, holding the girl's naked body against her own. “Wrap that blanket around us and then the rug and the coats.”
Blackshot did as she said, covering them snugly, and then retrieved the bottle of brandy from the floor. Just then, the door behind the bar opened with a bang and a man shuffled out into the room. His close-cropped beard and hair were gray, and a sizable pot belly bulged against the red long johns that were his only garment. His eyes seemed to be closed as he made his way behind the bar, and if he noticed the desperate scene on the other side of the room, he showed no signs of it. He took a tin cup from the shelf, filled it with a healthy measure from a whiskey bottle, and drained it in a single gulp. With that, the bottle and cup were returned to their places, and the man shambled back through the door, closing it behind him.
