Cross Draw

by J. R. Roberts

  “That’s right.”

  “In this town? Why?”

  “Just passing through,” Clint said. “I’m escorting five women traveling in a wagon.”

  “Five women?”

  “They were traveling alone for a while, and then we met up,” Clint said. “I thought they needed some protection.”

  “Well, lucky for them,” Kane said. “How long will you be stayin’ in town?”

  “The women need some rest,” Clint said. “Two or three days, I guess.”

  “You ain’t here lookin’ for anybody, are you, Mr. Adams?” Kane asked. “I mean, you ain’t lookin’ for trouble?”

  “Deputy,” Clint said, “I’m never looking for trouble.”

  Clint went back to the hotel and found Jenny in the lobby.

  “You told us to keep watching the street,” she said.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I told you to take turns.”

  “Well, it’s my turn and I saw three men ride into town.”

  “When?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Half a day behind us,” he said. “They could have been following our trail.”

  “But it wasn’t the same three men,” she said. “The Mexican and the other two. Maybe they’re just passing through?”

  “We came to town today, and then they come in? Too much of a coincidence for a small town like this.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We’ll just have to keep an eye out for them,” Clint said.

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “He’s out of town,” Clint said. “There’s only a young deputy.”

  “Can he help?”

  “If he’s any good at his job,” Clint said, “which I doubt.”

  “We need guns,” she said.

  “No,” Clint said. “No guns. In fact, none of you should even be seen with me outside the hotel.”

  “Why not?”

  “If there’s shooting on the street, you might get hurt.”

  “But we have to back you up.”

  “No, you don’t,” Clint said. “The five of you just have to stay out of the way, and safe. Leave the rest to me.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Clint figured if the three men were after him, they were going to take a look around town, first. Before they did anything they’d have to check out how much law was in town. So he was pretty safe for the night. Still, he took precautions. He laid the pitcher and basin on the windowsill, and was jamming the back of a chair underneath the doorknob when there was a knock.

  It was difficult to open the door and hold his gun at the same time, so he stuck the gun in his belt and then opened it. It was Rosemary.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She stepped in and he closed the door. She looked at the chair standing next to him.

  “Oh, I was just locking up for the night,” he said, “being careful.” He indicated the windowsill, where the pitcher and basin were. “I was putting the back of the chair beneath the doorknob.”

  “Well, go ahead and lock up, then,” she said, sitting on the bed. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then stuck the back of the chair beneath the knob.

  Rosemary removed Clint’s shirt, careful not to jostle his right arm.

  “You carry this well when you’re dressed,” she said. “Nobody can tell you have an injured arm.”

  “If they can tell, I’d be dead,” he said.

  “What about you wearing the gun with the butt forward?” she asked. “Is that necessarily a giveaway?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve known a few men who have worn it that way, even though they’re right-handed. I’ve never understood it, though.”

  He was lying on his back on the bed; she was next to him, still fully dressed. She undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He lifted his hips so she could slip them off. He had already removed his boots—with difficulty—before she got there.

  She discarded the pants and lay back down next to him. She traced a pattern over his chest with her fingers, moved them down to his belly, around his belly button. “You’re a fascinating man,” she said. “I thought that from the start.”

  “Even before the wagon fell on me?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, “even before then. How did you know how to fix the wagon? How did you know what a—what did you call it?”

  “A carter key?”

  “Yes, how did you know what a carter key was?”

  “I used to ride around in my own wagon,” he said. “Had to fix it plenty of times.”

  “What kind of wagon?”

  “A gunsmithing wagon,” he said.

  “You mean you really are a gunsmith?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I plied my trade for a little while, but eventually I gave the wagon up. That’s when I simply started riding around the country, from one end to the other sometimes.”

  “That must be wonderful,” she said, “but lonely, sometimes?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Mostly, I like it.”

  She slid her hand into his underwear, found him hardening. Hooking her fingers into the cloth, she dragged it down over his legs. He was totally naked.

  “You’re also a beautiful man,” she said, sliding her fingertips over the smooth skin of his hard shaft.

  “Won’t the others wonder where you are?” he asked.

  “I’m sharing my room with Abigail,” she said, “and she will know where I am.”

  He looked at her, reached for her shirt with his left hand.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Stand up and let me watch you.”

  She stood by the bed and undressed. She had a sleek body, small but round breasts, slender hips, long legs. She turned for him, showing her rounded, dimpled butt, the beautiful line of her back.

  Her hair was up and she let it down. It shimmered. He grew harder, still.

  “Come to bed,” he said.

  “You have to promise you’ll take it easy,” she said.

  “I promise I won’t hurt you, Rosemary.”

  “Silly, I’m worried about you hurting yourself,” she said. “Or me hurting you.” She got into bed next to him, pressing her naked hip against his. “I’ve been wanting this since we met, and I just might tear you to pieces.”

  FORTY

  Dillon, Raymond, and Quentin found a saloon with cold beer and hardboiled eggs on the bar.

  “How many other saloons in town?” Dillon asked the bartender.

  “One,” the man said, “but this is the best one.”

  “What’s the other one got on the bar?” Quentin asked.

  “Peanuts,” the bartender said.

  “I’ll take the eggs,” Raymond said.

  “Penny a piece,” the bartender said.

  “We’ll take three each, and a beer,” Dillon said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  The bartender drew them three beers. They carried them to a table with the eggs. There were only three other men in the place, and they ignored the strangers. There was one bored-looking saloon girl, a brunette in her late twenties. Or maybe she was younger and only looked like she was in her late twenties.

  “Come here, sweetie,” Dillon said.

  She rolled her eyes and walked over.

  “Don’t worry,” Dillon said, “you’re too skinny for me to want anything from you but answers.”

  “Whaddaya wanna know?”

  “Who’s the law in this town?”

  “Sheriff Hughes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not in town,” she said. “Had to go to the county seat.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Forty miles.”

  “Who’d he leave in charge?”

  “His deputy.”

  “Any good.”

  “Ain’t worth a damn,” she said, “but we ain’t got a bank, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.�
��

  “A bank?” Dillon asked. “Why would we be interested in a bank?”

  “You would if you were bank robbers.”

  “Well,” Quentin said, “we ain’t.”

  “What are ya here for, then?” she asked.

  “To ask questions,” Dillon said, “not to answer them, sweetie. Thanks. You can go.”

  She looked at all three of them.

  “You ain’t too skinny for me,” Raymond said with a leer.

  She rolled her eyes and walked away.

  “We only got one deputy to deal with,” Dillon said, “and even the saloon girl says he’s nothin’.”

  “So we go now?” Raymond asked. “Take the Gunsmith in his hotel?”

  “No,” Dillon said, “we take him on the street tomorrow, in front of everyone.”

  “Everyone?” Quentin asked. “There ain’t nobody in this town, Dillon.”

  “I only need a few witnesses,” Dillon said.

  “So, in the mornin’?” Raymond asked.

  “No,” Dillon said, “I want to check on the deputy, first.”

  “But the girl—” Raymond said.

  “You wanna risk your life on the word of a saloon girl?”

  “I don’t,” Quentin said.

  “So we check out the deputy,” Dillon said.

  “When?” Raymond asked.

  The batwings opened at that moment and a man wearing a badge walked in.

  “How about right now?” Dillon asked.

  “We take ’im?” Raymond asked.

  “We check him out,” Dillon said. “Just stay seated, boys.”

  Dillon stood up and walked to the bar, where the deputy was standing.

  FORTY-ONE

  Rosemary straddled Clint, leaned down to press her breasts into his face. He nibbled on her pink nipples as she sat up, and used his left hand to stroke and tug on them. He lifted his right arm at one point, but his hand was useless. He let it fall back to the bed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, kissing him tenderly, “it’s all right.”

  She kissed his mouth, his face, his neck, his chest, worked her way down over his belly, and then lower still. She nuzzled his hard cock, held it in her hands, stroked it, then licked it. She worked her way up and down the shaft, wetting him, then opened her mouth and took the bulging head of his penis inside. Her mouth was hot and wet and he groaned and lifted his hips as she started to suck. With his one good hand, he reached down and cupped her head as she sucked him avidly.

  Dillon stood next to the deputy and asked for a beer. The deputy already had one.

  “How’s it going, Web?” the bartender asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” Deputy Kane said.

  “When’s the sheriff gettin’ back?”

  “Few days.”

  “Been quiet.”

  “Hope it stays that way,” Kane said.

  “Not much excitement in this town?” Dillon asked the two men.

  “No, sir,” Kane said. “Stay pretty quiet around here.”

  “I just rode in, but I already heard somethin’, was wonderin’ if it was true.”

  “What’s that?” the bartender asked.

  “I heard the Gunsmith was in town.”

  “What?” the bartender asked. “Mister, if Clint Adams was in town, believe me, I’d know it.”

  Kane turned to face Dillon. “Where’d you hear that, mister?”

  “Just around.”

  “Naw,” Kane said, “that word ain’t goin’ around.”

  “It’s ain’t?”

  “I know that for sure.”

  “Then maybe you know for sure that he’s here, too,” Dillon said.

  “Kane?” the bartender asked. “Is that true?”

  “Quiet, Rufus,” Kane said. “Mister, we just finished tellin’ you how quiet this little town is. We aim to keep it that way.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, Deputy,” Dillon said. “I was just tellin’ you what I heard.”

  “And I’m sayin’ you didn’t hear that in this town.”

  Dillon frowned. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ that,” Kane replied. “But I am sayin’ you’re mistaken.”

  Dillon stared at the young deputy. He didn’t come to town to kill a lawman, and killing this one would warn Adams.

  “Okay, Deputy,” he said, “have it your way. I was mistaken.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t be passin’ false information like that around, anymore.”

  “Sure, Deputy,” Dillon said, picking up his beer, “have it your way.”

  He walked back to his table to rejoin his friends.

  “That was pretty good, Web,” the bartender said. “The sheriff’d be proud of you.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The man leaned in and asked, “Is it true? Is the Gunsmith in town?”

  “Shut up, Rufus,” Kane said, and left.

  “Hot damn!” Rufus said, and began to look around for somebody to tell.

  FORTY-TWO

  Rosemary sucked him until he almost exploded in her mouth, then released him, kissed his belly, fondled his sack for a few moments, then mounted him and took him inside. If her mouth had been hot, her pussy was like molten lava.

  “Ahhhhh,” Clint went, closing his eyes.

  “Oooh,” she said as he filled her up.

  He used his hand to roam her body, run over her smooth skin, knead it, pinch it. He felt her rounded ass, moved his hand up her back as she moved on him.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Mmmm, I’m just going to . . . do this for a while . . .”

  “Take your time,” he told her. “We’ve . . . got all night . . .”

  She rode his cock for a few minutes. He found her rhythm and moved with her until it was almost like a dance. Then, at one point, she brought her hand down on the bed, and onto his right arm.

  “Ow!” he cried out, and pulled his arm away.

  “Omigod!” she yelled. “I’m so sorry.”

  His erection was gone in an instant. She rolled off him and he sat up and grabbed his arm, cradled it, staring at his hand.

  “Damn, that hurt.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No,” he said, “you don’t understand. It hurt in my hand.”

  “Did—did your fingers move?”

  “No, but I had some feeling there!”

  “Oh, Clint!” she said. “That’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell the doctor tomorrow.”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her.

  “You mean—can you still?”

  He looked down and she followed his eyes. His penis was getting hard again. “It’ll take more than a little pain in the arm to distract me from you,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

  In his ear, she said, “I promise to be very, very careful with you.”

  “Then get back to what you were doing, girl,” he told her.

  “Jesus,” Raymond said when he woke up the next morning, “no whorehouse. Can you believe it?”

  “Shut up,” Quentin said from the next bed.

  They were sharing a room, while Dillon had taken his own.

  “Couldn’t even get that skinny saloon girl to come up last night,” Raymond continued to complain.

  “Guess she had better taste than that,” Quentin said, from beneath the covers.

  “I need some breakfast.”

  “Well, go get it!” Quentin said. “Leave me be.”

  While he dressed, Raymond asked, “When did Dillon say we wuz gonna kill the Gunsmith?”

  “He didn’t say!” Quentin snapped. “Why don’t you go wake him up and ask him?”

  Raymond finished dressing and left the room, grumbling.

  Dillon woke and checked the action on his gun, found that it worked smoothly. He sat on the edge of the bed naked, cleaning his gun and thinking of the girl, Candy. When this was all over, he was going to go back to that town.

  If he could only remember the
name of it.

  When he woke the next morning Clint’s arm was sore from where she had leaned on it, but that didn’t matter to him. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the hand, willing it to move. It didn’t, but he was still optimistic about what the doctor had said, and what he’d felt last night. Pain in his hand was a big improvement.

  He turned and looked at Rosemary. She was lying with her back to him, her knees curled up, her butt nicely rounded. He got back into bed and was able to lie on his left side, letting his penis ride in the crack between her butt cheeks.

  “Mmmm,” she said, “that’s the way to wake a girl up.”

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “Let me turn over.”

  “No,” he said. “I mean for food.”

  She reached behind her and took him in her hand, squeezing tightly.

  “This doesn’t feel like hungry for food,” she said.

  “Well, okay, then,” he said. “Turn over.”

  “No,” she said, moving her legs, “let’s do it this way . . .”

  FORTY-THREE

  Raymond decided not to wake Dillon. He went down to find breakfast by himself.

  Quentin couldn’t fall back to sleep after Raymond left, so he got dressed and left his room.

  Dillon got hungry, so he dressed, strapped on his gun, and left his room. In the hall, he saw Quentin coming out of his.

  “Breakfast?” Dillon asked.

  “That idiot woke me up, bitchin’ about no whorehouse,” Quentin said. “Yeah, let’s get somethin’ to eat.”

  The three men were staying at the other hotel in town, across the street and down the block from the one Clint and the women were staying in.

  When Clint and Rosemary came out of the hotel, Raymond was already in a small restaurant having breakfast. And they didn’t see Dillon and Quentin leaving their hotel.

  “Should we wake the others?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “let them sleep. I’d like to have breakfast just with you.”

  “Well, there can’t be too many places in a town this size,” he said.

  She put her hand on his arm—his left arm—to stop him.