“Naw, naw,” the other man said. He was wearing trail clothes with some dust on them, so Clint figured he’d ridden into town not too long ago. “It ain’t natural. No man can be that lucky.”
“I don’t think it’s luck, friend,” Wilton said. “It’s just that he’s that good, and the rest of us can’t play for shit.”
The other two men at the table laughed, but the complainer didn’t find it funny.
“Maybe you can’t play for shit, none of you,” he said, “but I know this game. And I know when someone’s cheating.”
It got very quiet then. They all knew the one thing you didn’t want to say at a poker table was the word “cheating.” And you sure didn’t want to accuse anybody of it. And you sure as hell didn’t want to accuse a man like Clint Adams of doing it.
“Now, ease up, friend,” Wilton said. “Nobody here wants any trouble.”
“Shut up, old man,” the complainer said. “I ain’t talkin’ to you.”
Wilton sat back and fell silent. He did not have a gun, and the complainer did.
“What’s your name, friend?” Clint asked.
“I’m Johnny Crespo,” the man said proudly.
“Well, Johnny,” Clint said, “I think the best thing for you to do is get up from the table and go to the bar. I’ll buy you a beer and you can drink it and calm down.”
“Look, Adams, I know who you are and I ain’t impressed,” Crespo said. “In case you didn’t hear me, I’m Johnny Crespo.”
“I heard.”
“That don’t mean nothin’ to you?”
Clint actually looked at Crespo for the first time.
“Not a thing.”
“Well then, you ain’t from around here,” Crespo said. “People around here know my name.”
“Probably,” Clint said, “because you’re a bigmouth.”
They had become the center of attention, and now that brought some laughs from the onlookers.
Crespo stood up so fast he shook the table and knocked over his chair. His hand hovered just over his gun.
“You makin’ fun of me, Adams?” he demanded.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Johnny,” Clint said.
“You better stand up and go for your gun!”
“Not a good idea, John—”
“I ain’t funnin’ with ya!” Crespo shouted, his face turning red.
Clint stared at the younger man.
“You really want to die while you’re still in your twenties, Johnny?”
“It ain’t me is gonna die,” Crespo said.
“Okay,” Clint said, “let’s test that out.”
“Whataya mean?”
“Let’s try something,” Clint said. “I’m going to stand up. Don’t get trigger happy.”
Clint stood up, kept his right hand away from his gun.
“Somebody give Johnny a beer,” Clint said. “A full mug.”
“I don’t wanna beer.”
“Just go along with me on this, Johnny,” Clint said.
One of the girls brought a full beer to Crespo.
“Take it in your left hand, Johnny, and just hold it.”
Johnny did so.
“Now, sweetie, bring me one, will you?” he asked the girl.
“Sure, Mr. Adams.”
She was a pretty little brunette with round, pale shoulders and an impressive bosom. She went to the bar, came back, and handed Clint a beer, which he held in his left hand.
“Okay,” Clint said.
“What the hell—”
“Here’s the deal,” Clint said. “We see who can shoot the beer mug out of the other man’s hand first. That’ll show us who is faster, and what would’ve happened if we’d slapped leather for real.”
Around the room people started taking bets.
“I’ll let you move first, Johnny.”
Crespo licked his lips. The beer in his left hand shook a bit, spilling some on the floor. Clint’s beer was as still as stone.
Suddenly, Crespo went for his gun, but before he could clear leather, the beer mug in his left hand shattered. Clint’s bullet kept going and broke some glasses behind the bar, but the bartender had moved aside to safety.
Clint sipped from his beer, which still had not spilled a drop.
“Too bad, Johnny,” he said, holstering his gun. “You would have died of a bad case of the slows.”
Some more laughter from the room, and Johnny Crespo turned and stormed out of the Tumbleweed Saloon.
EIGHTEEN
Clint had replaced the spent shells in his gun with live ones, cashed out of the poker game, and was standing at the bar with a beer when the sheriff showed up.
“I heard there was a shootin’,” Garver said to Clint.
“That what you heard?”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Just a beer mug,” Clint said.
“What?”
“You shoulda seen it, Sheriff . . .” the bartender said, and explained exactly what happened.
“Crespo, huh?” Garver said.
“You know him?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” Garver said, “he fancies himself a gunman. Maybe you cured him.”
“I hope so,” Clint said. “If not, he’s going to find himself dead very soon.”
“That’s his problem,” Garver said. “My problem is you.”
“Me? Why am I a problem?”
“Somebody’s already tried to push you into a fight,” the lawman said. “It’s gonna happen again.”
“That’s not what happened, at all,” Clint said. “He was playing poker and he was a poor loser. If someone else at the table would have been winning, he probably would have killed him. They were lucky I was the one who was winning.”
“Tell me somethin’,” Garver said.
“What?”
“Why’d you do that thing with the beer mug?” Garver asked. “Why didn’t you just kill him?”
“Contrary to what you might think, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I’m not out to kill anyone. If I can avoid it, I do.”
“Well,” Garver said, “that’s sure not your reputation.”
“I can’t help that,” Clint said. “Whatever my reputation is, I don’t try to live up to it. So you’ve got no reason to run me out of town.”
“I’m not runnin’ you out,” Garver said. “I’m just sayin’ . . . I’ll be watchin’.”
“If somebody does get killed,” Clint said, “it’s not going to be my fault. You can count on that.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” the lawman said. “What are your plans for the rest of the evening?”
“Another beer, and then a good book,” Clint said.
“I hope that’s true.”
Garver turned and left the saloon.
“Bartender,” Clint said, “another beer.”
“Comin’ up.”
As the bartender set the fresh beer in front of him, the cushy little brunette sidled up to him.
“Are you really gonna go to your room and cuddle up with a book?” she asked, pressing her warm hip up against his.
“That’s what I was thinking,” he said, looking down at her. “Why, do you have a better idea?”
“I might,” she said, wiggling her shoulders saucily, also making her breasts jiggle.
“What time do you finish here?” he asked.
“Late.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be awake, reading, if you want to come over.” He told her what room he was in.
“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she said.
“That is your hip pressing against mine, right?” he asked.
She bumped him and said, “What do you think?”
“Then I’ll see you later.”
NINETEEN
Clint was lying on his bed, still dressed but minus his boots, reading when the knock came at the door. It was a little after 2 a.m. He set the book down, slid his gun from his holster, and walked to the door. He cracked the door enough for him to
see the girl in the lobby, then opened it—still with caution.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.” He stuck his head out to look both ways.
“Did you think I was going to bring company?” she asked. “Another girl maybe?”
“I think you’ll be girl enough for me,” he said, backing away.
“You can bet on that,” she said, entering the room.
Her perfume was heady, smelled as if it had been freshly applied. He closed the door, then walked to the bedpost and replaced his gun in its holster.
“Guess a man like you has to be careful, right?” she asked.
“Definitely,” he said. “It’s how I stay alive.”
She approached him, put her hand against his crotch, and said, “Mmm, I think I’m going to be glad you stayed alive.”
He looked down at her bulging cleavage while she undid his belt. She reached into his pants and wrapped her warm hand around his hard penis.
“Mmm,” she said again. She fell to her knees and tugged his pants down around his ankles. His penis popped free and her eyes widened. She took it in both hands, inhaled a deep breath, and then wrapped her lips around it.
Clint closed his eyes as she slid him into her hot mouth. She reached around and grabbed his buttocks with both hands, kneaded them while she suckled him. She then moved one hand down to fondle his testicles.
“Okay,” he said, reaching down for her. “Come up here.”
He pulled her up to him and kissed her soundly, then spun her around and pushed her down on the bed.
“Hey!”
He kicked his pants and underwear away, then quickly removed his shirt and joined her, naked, on the bed.
He raised the hem of her dress above her waist, tugged off her undergarment, and buried his face in her hot crotch.
“Omigod!” she gasped as his tongue lapped at her.
She struggled to get out of her dress, lifting it over her head and discarding it, then reached down and held his head in place.
“Oooh, yeah,” she said, “ooh . . .”
He slid his hands up over her ribs to cup her breasts and squeeze them, popping the nipples with his thumbs. Her breasts felt so heavy and good in his hands that he decided they were demanding more attention.
He gave her one last, long lick, then kissed his way up her body to her breasts. He bit and licked her nipples, continued to massage her breasts while she reached between them for his penis. She grabbed him and held him tightly, yanking on him every so often as he continued to work on her big breasts.
“You men,” she said, “you just love tits, don’t you?”
“I love these tits,” he said with his face buried between them.
“And I love this,” she said, tugging on his cock again. “I guess we’re both lucky.”
He concentrated on her breasts a bit longer, and then she became impatient.
“Oh, please,” she said, pushing him, trying to turn him onto his back. “Come on, come on . . .”
He finally rolled onto his back and asked, “Is this how you want me?”
Joe Crespo stared at the hotel, and the few windows that were still lighted.
“Which room?” he asked his brother.
“How do I know?”
“Johnny,” Joe asked, “how are we supposed to get revenge on the man for shamin’ you if we don’t know where he is?”
Johnny pointed and said, “He’s in that hotel.”
“You know,” Joe said, “you might be three years older than me, but you’re still dumber.”
“Never mind that,” Johnny said. “We’ll just wait here for him to come out.”
“In the mornin’? I got better things to do than stand here all night.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The whore just went in,” Joe said. “He’s gonna be busy for a while. We just gotta find out what room he’s in.”
“And how do we do that?”
Joe shook his head and said, “We’re gonna ask. Come on.”
TWENTY
“What’s your name?” Clint said.
“What?” She stopped with one leg in the air.
“I think before I let you mount me, I should know your name.”
“Is that important to you?” she asked.
“I thought it would be important to you.”
She finished throwing her leg over him, then lay down on him, pinning his penis beneath her.
“Do you want my real name, or my saloon girl name?” she asked.
“They’re different?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he asked, reaching up and grasping her breasts, “whose tit am I grabbing now?”
“Oh,” she said, closing her eyes, “those belong to Delores.”
She began to rub her crotch over him. The combination of the roughness of her pubic hair and the slickness of her juices made him even more excited.
“Wow,” he said as she began rubbing faster, “who does that belong to?”
She leaned down, pressed her mouth to his ear, and said, “That’s Amy.”
She lifted her hips and slid down on him, taking his dick into Amy’s pussy while rubbing Delores’s tits in his face.
In the lobby Joe and Johnny Crespo woke up the hotel clerk, who was sleeping with his head down on the desk.
“Huh?” Joe showed him a dollar.
“We want to take a look at your register.”
“I can’t do th—”
Johnny showed him his gun.
“We wanna look at your register.”
The clerk snatched the dollar from Joe’s hand and said, “Sure.”
He took the book from behind him and pushed it over to the Crespo brothers.
“Here,” Joe said, pointing.
Johnny looked and saw that Clint Adams was in Room 11. He nodded.
“Okay,” Joe said to the clerk. “Thanks.”
He pushed Johnny across the lobby and out the front door.
“What are ya doin’?” Johnny demanded.
“We gotta have a plan,” Joe said.
“I know,” Johnny said, “I plan to kill Clint Adams.”
“Didn’t you learn nothin’ from that beer mug?” his brother asked him.
“Okay, okay,” Johnny said, “So what do you suggest?”
“Just listen,” Joe said.
It was fascinating to watch Amy/Delores ride him. Her big breasts bounced up and down, her nipples bobbing around in front of him. And the look on her face, her eyes wide open, biting her lip, tossing her head around. She was completely taken over by the moment. If two men burst into the room at that moment and started shooting, he doubted she’d even notice.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
He ignored it, still watching her, feeling his release building, like it was rushing up from his legs into his crotch . . .
“What if he don’t answer,” Johnny whispered.
“What are you talkin’ about?” Joe asked. “Somebody knocks on your door, you answer it.”
“He’s got a whore in there.”
“It don’t matter,” Joe said. “Who don’t answer the door when somebody knocks?”
He knocked again, harder.
The knocking came again, harder this time, and still she kept riding him. He thought about answering it, but suddenly he exploded inside her, his back arching, lifting them both off the bed. She began to spasm on top of him, and he could feel her insides gripping and releasing him, milking him . . .
“What the hell—” Johnny said when they heard the cries from inside.
“Ah, fuck it,” Johnny said. “Kick it in.”
“Now?” his brother asked.
“Right now!”
TWENTY-ONE
As the door slammed open, Clint reacted instantly, and from reflex. He lifted the girl off him and dropped her on the other side of the bed, so she’d be protected. Then he grabbed his gun from the holster on the bedpost. By the time the two men burst int
o the room, he had his gun trained on the door.
As Joe and Johnny Crespo rushed into the room, they saw that their idea had not been such a good one, after all. But they had their guns in their hands, and there was only one way to react. They pulled their triggers.
The brothers’ shots, fired in haste, sprayed the room. Clint calmly fired back, striking each brother in the chest, precisely in the heart. They both fell to the floor, dead.
The girl—Amy or Delores, whichever name she wanted to use—stuck her head up from behind the bed and said, “Is it over?”
“Let’s just make sure,” Clint said.
He rose from the bed and padded, naked, to the bodies. He kicked their guns away, then leaned over and checked the bodies.
“They’re dead.”
She stood up and walked, also naked and unconcerned about it, to the bodies.
“The Crespo brothers,” she said.
Clint recognized Johnny Crespo, the man who’d complained about being cheated at poker.
“He had a brother,” he said.
“Yes.”
“No one mentioned that.”
She shrugged, making her breasts jiggle. “I guess nobody thought it would be important.”
“It would have been useful to know,” he said.
He walked to the door and looked out. Some people had come out of their rooms and were milling about in the hall, wondering what happened. He tried to close the door but the lock was broken. It wouldn’t stay closed.
He turned to the girl and said, “You better get dressed. We’re probably going to have company.”
She grabbed her clothes and began putting them back on.
“I hope we can get another room,” she said.
He paused in pulling on his pants and looked at her.
“Well,” she said, “I wasn’t finished, were you?”
As expected, Sheriff Garver appeared soon, making his way through the people in the hall.
Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 5
