The Last Buffalo Hunt

by J. R. Roberts

  “Mr. Adams?” he said. “Mind if I talk to you?”

  “That depends,” Clint said. “Who are you?”

  “I own this hotel,” the man said. “My name’s Sam Robinson.”

  “Mr. Robinson,” Clint said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “I’m flattered,” Robinson said. “Fact is, I’ve heard of you, too.”

  Clint swung the door open and said, “Come on in.”

  He moved away from the door to let the man enter, put his gun back in its holster.

  “Are you happy with your room?” Robinson asked.

  “It’s a room,” Clint said. “A nice room.”

  “I can get you something bigger.”

  “Not that I need a bigger room,” Clint said, “but why would you do that?”

  “To make sure you’re comfortable,” Robinson said. “You and your friend, that is. Is he all right?”

  “He’s comfortable.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And I’m comfortable,” Clint said, “but why would you want to make me more comfortable?”

  “I understand you had dinner with Colonel Woods tonight,” Robinson said. “And Mr. Cross.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “Mr. Cross only came in for dessert. Along with Miss Woods.”

  “Ah,” Robinson said. “Did you have time to talk business with the colonel?”

  “Some.”

  “I suppose he told you I’m opposing Cross for the job of sheriff?”

  “He did,” Clint said, “and personally—even though I’ve only known you a short time—you’d get my vote—if I lived here.”

  “Well,” Robinson said, “maybe we can do something about that.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Clint said. “We’ll be leaving very soon.”

  “At least we can talk tonight.”

  “About what?”

  Robinson looked around.

  “How about a drink?” he asked. “I have some wonderful brandy in my office, and we can be comfortable there.”

  “I’ll put on my boots and you can lead the way.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Robinson’s office was on the first floor. It was impressive, larger than most hotel management offices Clint had been in before in Western hotels.

  “Have a seat,” Robinson said. He poured two glasses of brandy and handed Clint one. Then, instead of sitting behind his desk, he sat in a chair next to Clint’s.

  “I’m sure the colonel fed you quite a feast,” he said, sipping his drink.

  “It was quite a spread.”

  “I’m hoping it will take more than that to impress you.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I’m thinking it will take more than you both have to impress me, but by all means, take your best shot.”

  “Did he offer you money?”

  “Lots of it.”

  “How much?”

  “We didn’t talk numbers, he just said he’d be generous.”

  “I can be just as generous.”

  “Can you?”

  “Well…” Robinson swirled the brandy in his glass. “I actually don’t have the assets the colonel has, but I can get others to back me. Especially with you on my ticket.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer.”

  “You can’t offer me enough to get involved in politics,” Clint said.

  “Why not?”

  “Politicians are the biggest thieves of all,” Clint said. “I’d rather face bank or train robbers.”

  Robinson sat back.

  “Well, it looks like your mind is made up,” he said then.

  “Besides,” Clint said, “we were on our way somewhere when we came here. Just passing through, or so we thought. Now we’ll have to wait until my partner heals.”

  “And what will you do until then?”

  “Stay out of trouble… I hope.”

  Robinson raised his glass.

  “Here’s to keeping out of trouble.”

  Clint walked back up the stairs to his room, wondering why Robinson had given up so easily. One glass of brandy and he said good night. It was hardly worth coming up to Clint’s room and inviting him down to his office.

  Unless…

  He crept down the hall toward his door, his hand on his gun. Then he thought better of it and tried the doorknob of Crapface’s door. It turned. He opened the door and entered.

  “What the fuck—” Crapface said. He was lying on his back in bed, but had obviously not been asleep. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Did you hear anyone outside my room?”

  “A little while ago,” Crapface said, “somebody was knockin’.”

  “No, not then. Just now.”

  “Not before you. Why?”

  Clint told Crapface about Sam Robinson’s visit to his room, and his accompanying the man down to his office.

  “Why’d you go?”

  “I was curious, but now I’m thinking maybe it was a diversion.”

  “To get somebody into your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “To get the drop on me. Kill me?”

  “If both sides want to recruit you, why would anyone from either side wanna kill you?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “I can see a reason for John Cross to want to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “A girl.”

  “What girl have you gotten into trouble with now, Clint?”

  “None… yet. But the colonel’s daughter, Joyce, she’s…”

  “What?”

  “Interested.”

  “Interested, or interesting?”

  “Both.”

  “You better watch out, Clint. Be careful.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Clint said. “Can you get up?”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to lock this door after I go out.”

  Crapface tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

  “Never mind,” Clint said. “I’ll take your key and lock it myself.”

  “I’ll be locked in.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Clint said, taking the key from a nearby table. “Where’s your rifle?”

  Crapface reached down to the floor and lifted it up.

  “Good. Keep it handy.”

  “Now you think somebody’s gonna try to kill me?” Crapface asked.

  “Don’t you remember?” Clint asked. “Somebody already tried.”

  When he was in the hall, he locked Crapface’s door and pocketed the key. Then he turned his attention to his own door. For all intents and purposes, it looked just as he’d left it. With Robinson alongside him, he had taken no precautions, so he didn’t know if anyone was waiting inside or not.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He drew his gun, put his own key in the door, and turned it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint had found women in his room before.

  He’d found naked women in his room before.

  He’d even found dead women in his room before.

  He’d never found a Joyce Woods in his room before.

  Sitting on his bed, fully clothed, she was more desirable than many of the nude women he’d found in his bed.

  He’d had an idea that a woman might come to his room, but he thought it would be the girl from the saloon again, pretty Penny.

  “Are you disappointed you have nobody to shoot?” she asked.

  “I would ask you if your father knows you’re here, or Cross, but in both cases I hope the answer is no.”

  “Oh, it’s no,” she said. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want my father to find me here. He still thinks I’m his virginal little daughter.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Little?”

  “Virginal?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. She was still wearing the same dress she’d had on at dinner, but she had pulled the hem up to show
him her legs, which she had crossed. She was also wearing sexy dark stockings.

  He walked to the bedpost, holstered the gun, then removed the holster and hung it there.

  “What about Cross?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Does he think you’re a virgin?” he asked. “Or does he know different?”

  She smiled, a wide, lovely smile that lit up the entire room.

  “Are you asking me if John is my lover?”

  “I just want to know what I’m dealing with,” he said, “before I take off all my clothes and jump on you.”

  She looked startled, then laughed.

  “You’re planning on jumping on me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Clint said, “but not if Cross is going to come through the door with a gun.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How can you be positive?” He sat on the bed and began to remove his boots.

  “Well, for one thing, he’s not my lover. He wishes he was, but he’s not.”

  “Good.”

  She began to roll her black stockings down her legs as she spoke.

  “Second, I made sure I wasn’t followed here. He thinks I’m safe in my own bed.”

  Clint’s boots and socks hit the floor, and he started on his shirt.

  “How much do you know about him?” he asked.

  “He’s a killer,” she said, “who my father is going to try to turn into a lawman.”

  “What do you know about Sam Robinson?”

  “He’s a hotel owner who’s going to try to turn himself into a lawman.”

  “Do you think either can do the job?”

  “Cross can.”

  “Your father wants you to marry him, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said. She loosened her dress, took the top in both of her hands, preparing to pull it down, but first she turned to him and said, “I don’t have any intention of becoming the wife of a killer, or a sheriff.”

  She pulled the dress down and her bare breasts spilled out.

  Outside the hotel John Cross watched the lights in the rooms. He didn’t know for sure what Joyce Woods was doing in the hotel. He had an idea, but he was hoping he was wrong.

  There were actually only two reasons he could think of. One was to see his opponent, Sam Robinson, only he couldn’t imagine what she would want with him. He was, after all, not only Cross’s opponent for the position of sheriff, but also her father’s opponent for control of the town.

  The other person she could be there to see was Clint Adams. The looks the two had been giving each other at dinner had not escaped Cross.

  He was not foolish enough to think that Joyce was still a virgin. He left that kind of blind stupidity to her father. And even if she was in the hotel with Clint Adams, Cross still planned on marrying her. But if Clint Adams was putting his hands on her, the future sheriff of Woodsdale was going to make sure he paid.

  John Cross was not impressed with the reputation of the Gunsmith.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As her breasts spilled from her dress, Clint reached out and caught them. They were heavy in his hands, just the way he liked them. Warm, smooth, solid, large nipples, wide aureoles. Yes, exactly how he like them.

  Joyce ran her hands over his chest as well. They sat there, both naked to the waist, and did some exploring. He bent, lifted her breasts to his mouth, and tongued her nipples awhile before sucking them into his mouth. He rolled them between his lips, flicked them with his tongue, and then nibbled them.

  She gasped, reached for his head, held him there for what seemed like a long time, and then brought his lips up so she could kiss him. Her mouth was hot, avid, and sweet. They kissed for a long time, so that when they parted, her lips were slightly swollen. Her nipples were also sore, but it was a good soreness.

  Abruptly, she reached for his belt and started to undo it. He stood, pulled her to her feet, and yanked her dress the rest of the way to the floor. She stepped out of it, kicked it away, and stood there naked. There was nothing shy or awkward in her stance. In fact, she stood with her hands on her hips, breasts thrust out, while he removed his pants.

  “I could feel your eyes on me all through dessert,” she told him.

  “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  She looked down at his swollen penis.

  “And you’re a beautiful man.”

  They moved together and, skin to skin, kissed again for a long time. His penis was trapped between them, rubbing up against her belly, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

  He slid his hands down the smooth line of her back to her buttocks, grabbed them, and turned her around. He squeezed her buttocks, which were taut, the skin resilient. He bit her and she gasped, then he kissed both cheeks, licked the crevice between them.

  Her legs went weak just as he moved her to the bed. They fell on it again, still trapped in a tight, hot embrace. Once on the bed, they began to crawl all over each other.

  Finally, he ended up on top. He kissed her long neck, worked his way down to her breasts, where he spent a long time on her nipples. He loved nipples. The thing about them was most women had beautiful nipples, no matter what size their breasts were. But he preferred his nipples attached to large, heavy breasts, and hers certainly qualified.

  Slowly, he worked his way down her body until his face was nestled in the warm place between her thighs. She moaned and cried out as he eagerly tasted her. She grew so wet she began to soak the sheet beneath them. The smell of her was sharp and sweet at the same time. He lapped at her eagerly, because as sweet as she smelled, she tasted even sweeter.

  He used his mouth on her until she was on the verge of screaming, and then he mounted and entered her. She wrapped her long legs around him and laughed with delight as he took her hard and fast…

  Later, she used her hands and mouth on him, proving that she was no virgin. She sucked him until he couldn’t take it any longer, and he exploded, then slumped in exhaustion. She nestled her head onto his shoulder, also exhausted, and they drifted off to sleep together…

  When they awoke, they made love one more time tenderly, and then he asked, “Are you staying all night?”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t,” she said with a sigh. “My father will wonder where I am.”

  “Won’t he think you’re with Cross?”

  She laughed and said, “Probably.”

  “Then what’s the difference?” he said. “It’s pretty late anyway.”

  She snuggled up against him and said, “You’re probably right.”

  “But what about Cross?” Clint asked.

  She reached beneath the sheet, took hold of his penis, and said. “I can handle John Cross.”

  He didn’t doubt it.

  When Joyce Woods didn’t come out of the hotel by the time the saloons closed, John Cross decided to pack it in. He had no doubt that she was with Clint Adams, so Adams had now moved himself to the top of the list.

  A list he didn’t want to be on at all.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the morning they woke each other energetically, and then she got dressed.

  “We can’t have breakfast together,” Joyce said. “I’ll have to sneak back into the house so I can change these clothes.”

  “That’s all right,” Clint said. “I’ll console myself with a huge breakfast.”

  “A large meal will make up for not having me as a breakfast companion?”

  “Just barely,” he said.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. They had talked very little during the night, and yet she realized she felt very close to him. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t object to the feeling anyway.

  “Where can I get a good steak-and-egg breakfast?” he asked her.

  “Just walk down the street and follow your nose,” she said.

  She walked to the bed and kissed him, her hands on his bare chest.

  “You won’t be leaving town today
, will you?” she asked.

  “I doubt my friend will be ready to ride,” Clint said. “No, we’ll be here at least another day.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Before he could say anything, she hurried from the room.

  He slept another hour, then awoke, washed, and got dressed. His shirt was grimy, which reminded him of his friend. He went across the hall, knocked, and used the key to enter Crapface’s room.

  “It’s about time,” the buffalo hunter said. “I’ve been awake for hours, and starving.”

  “Sorry,” Clint said, “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “From across the hall?”

  “The walls are very thin,” Crapface said. “Who was it? Girl from the saloon?”

  “Joyce Woods.”

  “The colonel’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “As it turns out, she’s very aggressive.”

  “You and aggressive women,” Crapface said. “A great match.”

  “When they brought you the food yesterday, did they bring anything else?”

  “Yeah, some packages wrapped in brown paper. Over there.”

  Clint found them and tore them open.

  “What is it?” Crapface asked.

  “Clean shirts.”

  “Must be for you.”

  “Yes.”

  Clint took off his grimy shirt and donned the new one. It was crisp and clean. He tossed the other one into a corner.

  “What’s wrong with that one?”

  “Dirty.”

  “Not hardly,” Crapface said. “It looked okay to me. Better than mine.”

  “You can have it.”

  “And you can take those others.”

  “I’ll pick them up later,” Clint said as he walked to the door. “When I bring back some breakfast for you.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Soon.”

  Clint opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  “You’re not gonna run into another girl, are you?” Crapface asked.

  Clint reached for the door to close it and said, “Not until I bring you your food.”

  “Steak and eggs!” Crapface yelled.

  “What else?” Clint replied with a shrug, and pulled the door shut.