by Kurt Barker
The others turned and saw him, then guided their horses into the trees toward him. The man in the lead took off his hat to greet him, revealing a ruddy, bearded face and shaggy gray hair that blew in wisps across his bald forehead.
“Howdy, mister!” the man called with a broad smile. “Pleased to be meetin' you!”
“Howdy,” Blackshot replied. “What brings you gents out here on a day like this?”
“Lookin' for a feller,” a tall hawk-faced man grunted as he rode up beside the other. “Maybe you seen him.”
“Why, I reckon he has seen him,” the first man cut in, as the other two arrived beside them. “Seen him ever' time he looks in the mirror! Boys, I reckon this here is the feller we been searchin' for!”
Before Blackshot could reply, he was looking straight into the muzzles of four guns.
Chapter 11
“What the hell is this about?” Blackshot growled.
“Slide that gun back in its holster real slow like,” the graybeard said, “then drop your belt right in front of you and back away from it.”
The four guns trained on him weren't moving, so Blackshot had no choice but to do as he said. The old man cocked his head to the side and squinted at him. “You're that feller they sent from Jessop to run down Lefty Macon, ain't ya?” he asked.
“You fellas friends of his?” Blackshot inquired.
“Oh, not hardly. Lefty's a lyin', cheatin' bastard what stole a good sum of money from me, him and his fool gang. Me and the boys been out looking for him to take it out of his hide.”
“You'll have a hard time collecting anything from him now.”
“Yes, I know that; we been to that there farmhouse out yonder,” the man said with a grin spreading across his face. “You gunned all them rats down by yourself, did ya? I'm powerful impressed; them fellers weren't too bright, but they was plenty tough. All of us was plenty impressed; ain't that right, boys?”
The boys grunted in half-hearted agreement, not taking their eyes or their guns off of Blackshot.
“So now you've come looking for me to tell me how impressed you are? I'm touched.”
“Aw, just because Lefty's dead don't mean I can do without the money he took off me,” the old man replied. “and if I can't get it from him, I figure to get it from you. I want everything you got from that buzzard an' don't try holdin' nothing back!”
“All I got from Lefty was the documents I was sent to get,” Blackshot shrugged. “If you want to recover the money that he took from you, I reckon you'd have to sue all the bars and whorehouses between here and the border.”
The smile disappeared from the man's grizzled face. “You think you're funny?” he snapped. “You ain't gonna be laughin' too much in a minute! You gonna get what was comin' to Lefty if you hold out on me!”
“Hey, Cappy.” It was the hawk-faced man that spoke. He jerked his head laconically toward Khamsin, which stamped restlessly at the far side of the clearing. “Get a load of that horse, huh?”
Old Cappy's eyes lit up at the sight of the magnificent stallion. “Hey now, what have we here?” he chuckled. “That's a fine bit of ridin' stock there! Mighty fine indeed!”
“Reckon it'd fetch a good bit,” drawled the gunman on the other side of him, a gap-toothed man with a patchy beard.
“Hell, I reckon it'll fetch a sight more than we'd have got from Lefty!” Cappy crowed. He turned and sneered maliciously at Blackshot. “Seeing as how this feller ain't gonna need a horse no more, it'd be a damn shame to leave it out here by its lonesome. Yeah, I reckon I might even keep it and ride on it myself!”
“You're too old for that horse, Cappy,” the other man retorted. “That thing would throw your fat ass in a second.”
Cappy only grinned. “Shut up and fetch it here, Catfish.”
Catfish, the hawk-faced man, shook the reins and started his horse toward Khamsin at a trot. His path took him between Blackshot and the others for a brief moment, and the old man snapped, “Hey, careful now, dummy-” but it was too late. With the agility of a cat, Blackshot sprang suddenly at the rider, lashing a heavy fist across his jaw with a force that snapped his head back. As the man reeled backwards Blackshot snatched the wrist of his gun hand and dragged him out of the saddle.
“Shit! Kill him!” Cappy cried as his pistol roared with fire.
Blackshot spun towards him, hefting the dazed Catfish across his hip as he pivoted. He felt the man's body jerk as the bullet slammed into his chest, and he darted out a hand to catch the pistol as it fell from his fingers.
A second bullet thumped into Catfish's body and he pitched forward, landing face down in the snow with a spray of red splotches marring its whiteness. Catfish would fight no more, but his gun was hard at work in the hand of Blackshot. His first shot punched through the top button of Cappy's shirt, toppling him from the back of his horse even as a second slug shattered his jaw. He hit the ground with a thump and lay motionless, an eddy of blood from his torn jugular pooling quickly about his head.
Cappy's panicked horse was off like a streak, trampling Catfish's corpse as it made for the open plain. The horses of the two remaining gunmen were on the move, too, but they were being spurred on for the cover of the nearest trees. The gap-toothed man fired wildly over his shoulder in Blackshot's direction as he rode, but Blackshot stood his ground and calmly put a bullet between his shoulder blades. The next slug ripped through the man's kidney, sending blood spurting from his side like a fountain, and his horse reached the safety of the trees without him.
Blackshot tossed the revolver aside and scooped up his own gun belt, drawing one of the Colts as he ducked behind a thick-bodied oak tree. Slipping the belt around his waist, he waited for the sound of gunfire from the last man, but it didn't come. Instead he heard a nervous voice cry out, “Hey, easy there! Wait a minute!”
Blackshot peered out from behind the tree and saw the man, a wiry Mexican with long hair and an eye patch over his left eye, crouched behind a tree about twenty yards away, waving his hand. His horse stood a few feet away, skittishly pawing the ground.
“You got something to say?” Blackshot called.
“Listen, feller, don't shoot! I give up, see? Lemme go and I won't give you no trouble!”
“You won't give me no more trouble if I shoot you, either.”
“Hey, gimme a break, feller! I weren't for killing you; that was Cappy talkin'!”
“I didn't hear you arguing with him about it. When it was four to one, and me with no gun, the idea of killing me didn't seem to bother you so much.”
“I ain't no killer, I swear!” the man protested. “I got no quarrel with you! Look!”
The man stepped tentatively from behind the tree and placed his gun on the ground in front of him, then stood up with his hands in the air.
“Lucky for you I'm a soft-hearted guy,” Blackshot said. “Hit the trail and if I see you around here again you'll be sorry.”
The man crossed to his horse, and as he reached it he drew out a long, thin blade from a secret sheath beneath his saddle, keeping his body between the saddle and Blackshot to shield it from view. “Don't you worry about that,” he said as he spun around, hurling the knife with deadly precision, “You ain't never gonna see me again!”
The blade sped through the air toward Blackshot, but by the time it reached him he had dropped to one knee, and as it whistled overhead he sent a slug plowing through the man's skull.
“Works for me,” Blackshot said.
Chapter 12
There was nothing more to be gained by investigating the camp any further, so Blackshot returned to Khamsin and rode to the outskirts of the clearing, hoping to pick up the trail of the gunmen again. The riders had been clever, though; once they had reached the abandoned campsite, they had apparently slowed their pace to match the tracks that left the camp in various directions, and there was no way to determine which tracks were theirs.
Blackshot swore bitterly; he would not find the men now, and although he ha
d found a lot of evidence, none of it seemed to point in any clear direction. He seemed to feel the cold and wind more keenly now, and he could tell that behind the gray wall of clouds that masked the sky, the sun had sunken far down toward the horizon. There was nothing else to be accomplished out here today.
Or was there? The two gunmen may have been able to disguise their own tracks, but there was one set of tracks that would not be easily hidden. Riding in a wide loop around the camp, Blackshot soon picked up the tracks of a shod horse; the same one that the boot-wearing man had ridden in the gully. The prints trotted along the hillside past the stand of dense trees, and emerged from the woods into a clear track.
To Blackshot's dismay, he saw that this was the road that led to Dryer Hill, and the tracks were leading straight into town. Was the man friend or foe, and what did he have to do with the men that ambushed him in the woods? He had a feeling that he wouldn't like the answers to those questions, and if the man was in town there was a good chance he would find out that the girl was there, for better or for worse.
Once Blackshot reached the outskirts of Dryer Hill he saw that it would be impossible to trace the tracks any further, for the little town was bustling with activity and the narrow main street was a muddy slush of countless hoof prints. In front of the general store that sat alongside Captain Mike's he saw the wife of the Pawnee chief with a couple of other Pawnee women in tow, talking animatedly with a gray-haired couple and a round-faced woman who wore an apron over her dress. She'd have come to see the mysterious girl, the old busybody, and by now the story of last night's events would be spread all over the town and half the plains.
The news was bound to get out eventually anyway, Blackshot supposed, but it added an extra layer of complexity to the already murky case; the safety of the girl and Maisie would have to be accounted for now, too. He turned his horse into a gap between two buildings and rode around the back of the saloon to the stable, so as to avoid the old woman. He was in no mood to be roped into another lengthy gossip fest.
Of course it was also possible that with everybody around knowing the story, someone would come forward with information that would give him a valuable lead. Possible, but somehow not probable, Blackshot mused sullenly. His mood had become as gray and foreboding as the sky overhead.
After settling Khamsin into the stable behind the saloon, Blackshot trudged around to the front of the building and went inside. There was a decent sized crowd in the bar room and the air was filled with a steady hum of conversation. A few of the patrons looked up when he entered, but not with any particular interest, and no one spoke to him. This indicated to Blackshot that Maisie must not have told anyone that he was acting as sheriff and investigating the crime, and he was particularly grateful to learn that at the moment.
Captain Mike was holding court by the fireplace, surrounded by a small group of half-drunk gray beards who he was entertaining with a loud and profane story punctuated by guffaws of laughter. Maisie was tending to the customers at the bar, and when she saw Blackshot she beckoned him to an empty spot away from the other patrons. She wore the same ensemble he had seen this morning, only the blouse was unbuttoned half way down her chest to expose a healthy expanse of her abundant cleavage, and her rich gold hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
“First things first,” she said, and sat a cup in front of Blackshot and filled it with a generous measure of whiskey. After he had tossed it back, she asked, “Well, how was your first day on the job?”
“I wish it was my last day on the job.”
Maisie pushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead and regarded him benevolently. “How about Barkeep Maisie fixes you up some grub and then you can tell Sheriff Maisie all about it-- presuming that you don't need the services of Doctor Maisie, too?”
Blackshot grinned. “I came pretty close to needing them a couple of times, but no, Doctor Maisie's talents will not be required.”
“That's what I was hoping to hear. I was worried about you all day.”
“I was worried about me, too, but it turns out it was the other fellas that should have worried.”
Maisie looked up sharply at him. “Other fellas? You found the folks who whipped the girl?”
“Sort of, sort of not,” Blackshot shrugged. “Am I talking to Sheriff Maisie or is Barkeep Maisie just in a nosy mood?”
“Come on, I'll get you something to eat,” Maisie laughed. “Pa, keep an eye on the bar for me, will ya?”
Captain Mike waved noncommittally to her without leaving his seat by the fire, which was apparently good enough for Maisie. She led Blackshot down the dark hallway to the kitchen, a small, cramped room with barely enough room for two people to move around each other. There was a little wooden table and chair in the corner and it was here that Blackshot was ushered while Maisie cooked.
Maisie's culinary skills had not improved since that morning, and there was little that could be said for the food that she placed in front of Blackshot other than that it was hot and filling. However, hot and filling sounded pretty good to him right at that moment, and he downed it quickly without minding its other shortcomings.
Maisie stood watching him while he ate, and once he had finished she cleared the dishes from the table. “Feeling better?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Good. Barkeep Maisie's job is done!” She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it open to expose her plump, creamy breasts as she knelt down between Blackshot's feet. “Now tell Sheriff Maisie all about what happened today.”
“It's a long story,” Blackshot groaned as Maisie tugged open his jeans and brought his cock to a steely erection in her hand.
“Oh good! Let's see which one of us finishes first!” she purred, and slid his long shaft deep into her mouth.
Chapter 13
The skills of Sheriff Maisie more than made up for the dubious culinary abilities of Barkeep Maisie, and while the gentle slapping of her supple bare breasts against his legs while her head bobbed vigorously, pulling his turgid length deep into her sultry mouth, may have made it difficult for Blackshot to concentrate on telling his story, it certainly drove the chill out of his body!
When he got to the part about his encounter with William Littlehorse, Maisie slid his girth from her throat and gasped, “Did you shoot him?”
“No, I had no reason to shoot him.”
“Being William Littlehorse is reason enough! Do you remember me telling you about a Pawnee fella that comes in here and dusts up with everybody in the saloon?”
“William Littlehorse?”
“William Fucking Littlehorse.”
“The next time I see him I'll tell him that you miss his patronage,” Blackshot chuckled.
“The next time you see him, shoot him,” Maisie grumbled as she pulled Blackshot's cock back into her mouth.
Maisie's throat was deliciously hot and wet, and her probing tongue had lost none of its ability to stoke the fire in Blackshot's belly. He let out a deep groan as she brought him to the edge of his control. Sensing he was at the limit, she drew his thick shaft from between her lips just as he erupted in a fervid release, covering her face in thick white streaks. She held up his pulsing shaft and coaxed the last drops onto her tongue as cum streamed down her chin and fell in big drops onto her firm breasts.
“How about now? Feeling any better?”
“Plenty better.”
“Well, aren't you going to ask how may day was?” Maisie demanded, taking a cloth from the table and wiping her face and chest.
“I'm going to guess that a lot of it involved keeping some old busybodies out of your room,” Blackshot replied.
“They're persistent, those old bitches!” Maisie scowled. “They wanted to see the girl; said they could take care of her better than I could! That's some crust, huh? And they weren't the only ones wanting to have a gawk, either! What did you tell the whole world about her for? You might as well have put a sign out front saying 'Come see the mystery woman!'!”
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p; “I can hardly find out where she came from if I don't ask anybody if they know her! You didn't let anyone in, did you?”
“Of course not. I told them all that the doctor said she wasn't well enough for visitors today. Fortunately they didn't notice the real doctor nodding off in the corner. And that's another thing!” Maisie fumed, “I had to lean the old bugger against the wall so as he wouldn't tip over and fall into the fire, and not for the first time, either! I declare, you'd think a doctor would have better sense, even a drunk one!”
“It looks like I got the easy job!”
“Don't laugh,” Maisie grumbled as she got to her feet. “This whole mess is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes, your fault! The next time you find a half-dead person outside of town, take 'em to the general store! Captain Mike's is closed for that sort of business from now on!”
Blackshot couldn't help but laugh, and as she buttoned her blouse Maisie's green eyes twinkled and she cracked a reluctant smile. “I've got to go back out there and take over before Pa burns the joint down or drinks away all our profits,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Blackshot rose from his chair to follow her, but she stopped him. “You stay here and conserve your strength for later. I expect to get fucked good and hard tonight to make up for the day I've had, and I don't want to hear any excuses!”
Blackshot had no plans to make any excuses when it came to fucking Maisie good and hard, so he said nothing. After she left the room he set the two black Colts on the table and set about cleaning them while he thought over what he had learned today. He was musing pleasantly on the idea of shooting William Littlehorse when he was interrupted by the gin-soaked voice of Captain Mike: “Hey there, young lad! Me little gal wants yer out front for a wee moment!”
Blackshot holstered the Colts and made his way back into the bar room. He spotted Maisie near the front door with a nervous-looking young man in a fine Stetson hat and leather coat. He was thin and pale complexioned, but handsome enough, with a shock of thick black hair that curled around his temples. As Blackshot approached them, Maisie said to the young man, “Tell him what you told me.”
