“Not much,” Crane said. “He lives in town, plays poker badly, but always seems to have the money to play. Unlike me, he gets cleaned out and keeps coming back.”
“Maybe he’s just too dumb to realize how outclassed he is,” Clint said.
“Meaning I was outclassed?”
“At that time you were,” Clint said. “When you play again, you won’t be.”
“That would be nice.”
They approached Clint’s hotel.
“What’s your interest in Denim?” Crane asked.
“Just wondering where he gets the money to keep coming back.”
“He must have a good job.”
“Do you know what that would be?”
“No idea.”
“This is my hotel,” Clint said.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” Crane said. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll want you at your best.”
“I’m always at my best,” Clint promised.
TWELVE
Clint removed his boots when he got to his room, hung his gun belt on the bedpost. He sat on the bed, took out the hundred-dollar bills he’d won off Denim, and the one he’d taken from Pike’s room.
Briefly he had considered spending the night in Pike’s hotel room, but the memory of how it looked and smelled changed his mind.
He lined the bills up on the bed in front of him and examined them. He took out a real hundred and laid it alongside. He was no expert, and it was hard to see the difference. He put the real one away in his pocket, then set the phony ones aside, not wanting to mix them in with his own money.
He was preparing to turn in for the night when there was a knock at his door. He doubted that the girl, Izzy, could have followed him there without him noticing her. Slipping his gun from his holster, he kept it in his right hand as he approached his door.
“Who is it?”
There was no immediate answer, and then a timid female voice said, “Uh, Mr. Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Um, my name is Aurora Lane. I’d like to speak with you.”
Clint cracked the door and peered out. A very pretty redhead with green eyes stared back at him.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
“No, sir,” she said, “but if you let me in, we can fix that.”
“Did someone send you?”
She frowned.
“You’re very suspicious.”
“Well, it’s late,” he said, “and a beautiful woman I’ve never seen before is knocking on my door.”
“Is that an unusual occurrence for you?”
“At this time of night,” he answered, “I would have to say yes.”
“I can assure you,” she said, “I mean you no harm.”
Clint studied her for a moment, then opened the door all the way and peered out, looking both ways.
“May I come in?”
“If you’re not worried about your reputation.”
“Pooh,” she said. “Reputations are a bother. I’m sure a man such as yourself realizes that.”
“All right,” he said, backing away, “come in.”
She entered with a swish of fabric and he closed the door, turned to face her. She was wearing a green dress that made her eyes pop, held a shawl over shoulders that were bare.
“You look familiar,” he said.
“Have you been to the Lulu Belle?” she asked.
“Once,” he said, “when I first got to town.” The Lulu Belle was a very high-class saloon and gambling house.
“You might have seen me there.”
She looked like a woman who worked in a saloon, with her off-the-shoulder gown, lustrous long red hair, and carefully made-up face.
“Maybe that explains it,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“I heard several of our customers talking about you being in town,” she said.
“Is that a fact?” he asked. “And here I thought I was keeping a low profile.”
“I suppose that’s hard for a man with a reputation like yours,” she said.
He walked to the bedpost and holstered his gun, feeling no danger from Aurora Lane.
“So you heard some men talking about me,” he said. “How did you find me? And why?”
“How wasn’t hard,” she said. “Why is to warn you.”
“About what?”
“That some men are plotting against you.”
“Plotting?”
“Planning to kill you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard them talking,” she said. “Men tend to talk around saloon girls when they’ve had a few drinks. We become . . . invisible.”
“I can’t imagine you becoming invisible to any man,” he told her.
She actually blushed and said, “Well, I . . . thank you very much.”
“I guess I should thank you,” he said. “Do you know the names of these men, or how they plan to do it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said. “I think one called another Cal at one point, but that’s all I know. I didn’t hear them say how they were going to do it.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Three,” she said.
“And since you don’t know their names, I suppose they’re not regular customers?”
“No,” she said, “they’re not. In fact, I think they’re strangers in town.”
“Then who, I wonder, told them I was here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that either,” she said. She pulled the shawl more closely around her. “I’m afraid all I know is enough to warn you that someone wants to kill you.”
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “excited.”
“Excited?”
“Yes,” she said. “If I took off this shawl, you’d see what I mean.”
“It’s exciting to come and warn someone that someone else wants to kill them?”
“No,” she said, “it’s exciting to be in the same room with the Gunsmith.”
“Oh,” he said, “well—”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I mean, if you were the Gunsmith and you looked like an ogre . . . but you don’t. You look . . . handsome.”
“Well, thank you.”
“You have a reputation . . . I mean, other than with a gun . . . with women. It makes a woman . . . curious.”
“And excited.”
She laughed and said, “Yes.”
He tried to see through the shawl, to see what she was talking about.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?” he asked.
“Stop trying to see through my shawl.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that you said—”
“Do you want to see?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“All right.”
With a shrug, she dropped the shawl to the floor. Immediately, he saw what she meant. She had large, round breasts and large nipples that were almost poking through the fabric of her dress.
“See?” she asked.
He wet his dry lips before saying, “Yes, I see.”
Her skin was very pale, with a light dusting of freckles showing just a bit through her makeup. There were also some freckles on the swollen slopes of her breasts.
“Convinced?”
“Um, well, yeah.”
“Now,” she said, “maybe you’ll satisfy the lady’s curiosity.”
“About . . .”
She took a few steps, bringing herself right up to him. He could feel the heat coming off her body.
“About you.” She looked down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “Maybe you’re a little excited at the moment, too?”
“
Maybe,” he said, his mouth still dry. He stared down at her cleavage. “Just a little.”
THIRTEEN
She placed her hand on his chest and stared up into his eyes. He put his hand on her rounded shoulders, felt her smooth skin with his palms. She slid her hand down over his belly, tugged on his belt, then felt the bulge through his pants.
“My, my,” she said.
He ran his hands over the front of her gown, felt the hard nipples with his thumbs.
“Same here,” he said.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she demanded.
He slid his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her. Her mouth opened and her tongue slid into his mouth. They kissed that way for a long time, their mouths fused together. When they broke apart, they were both breathless.
“Aurora . . .” he said.
“Clint . . .”
They kissed again, and this time they fell onto the bed, limbs entwined. While they kissed, they pulled and tugged at each other’s clothes until they were in a pile on the floor and their naked flesh was pressing together.
They rolled around on the bed for a while, getting to know each other’s bodies by feel and taste. Her breasts were incredibly firm and smooth, but the amazing thing were those nipples. They were brown, large, with very wide areolas. He spent some time on them, enjoying the way they felt in his mouth.
She found enjoyment with his body, as well. Specifically his penis. It was hard and long, and she had to pry her nipple from his mouth so she could slither down between his legs and make love to his hard cock.
He rolled over onto his back to make it easier for her. She rubbed the smooth column of flesh against her even smoother cheeks, ran her nose along the length of him, inhaling his scent. Finally, she ran her tongue over it, wetting it thoroughly, before taking it into her hot mouth.
He moaned, reached down to cup her head with his hands as she bobbed up and down on him, sucking him. She slid her hands beneath him, cupping his balls, caressing them. As he lifted his hips, she took his buttocks into her hands as she continued to suck him.
When he felt he wouldn’t be able to stand it anymore, he reached down for her. She resisted, but finally allowed him to slide from her wet mouth.
He pulled her up so she was lying on top of him, and kissed her again. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he could feel her hard nipples. Trapped between them was his hard cock, and she began to run her pubic hair over him, up and down, until he could feel how wet she had become.
Abruptly, she sat up on him, stared at him, and lifted her hips. She reached between them and guided his hard penis up into her. She was as hot as steam, and so slick he slid into her easily.
She gasped as he speared her, and she sat up straight, her hands pressed down on his sternum. She began to ride him that way, up and down, slowly at first, and grinding each time she came down, with a circular motion of her hips.
He reached out to hold her by the hips, but he couldn’t keep his hands still. Her skin was so smooth and soft, he ran his hands all over her, coming back to her breasts. He cupped them, enjoying how heavy they were, and used his thumbs on her nipples. She gasped as she began to ride him faster and faster. He moved his hips with her, catching her rhythm, lifting himself to meet her each time she came down on him.
Her head dropped back so that he could see her long neck, and her breathing became ragged. She moved faster and faster, and he tried to stay with her as long as he could before he finally let out a roar and erupted inside her . . .
* * *
“Funny,” she said moments later.
They were lying side by side on the bed, still naked.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“It seems like moments ago that we were strangers.”
“It was moments ago.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe minutes . . . and yet here we are, naked together.”
“Yes,” Clint said, “here we are.”
She lifted her head and looked at him.
“Are you sorry?”
“Not at all.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Not at all.”
“Good.” She let her head fall back onto the pillow. “I’m very comfortable.”
“Stay the night,” he said.
“I can do that,” she replied, “but if I do . . .”
“Yes?”
She reached out and let her hand fall onto his penis.
“I don’t think we’ll get much sleep.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.”
FOURTEEN
In the morning Clint watched as Aurora dressed, covering up that glorious, pneumatic body with her gown and shawl.
“Come by the saloon later today,” she said, leaning over him.
“I will,” he promised.
She kissed him and slipped out.
He was tired from the night with her—she woke him three different times for more sex—but he forced himself to get up, wash, and dress. He put the phony hundreds—or the bills that Pike would identify as phony or not—into a pocket away from his own money, and left the room.
His hotel had a dining room that served a palatable breakfast. If he’d wanted a better meal, he would have gone to any one of a few cafés and restaurants he’d found in Saint Louis, but for now bacon and eggs in the hotel would suffice.
He ate slowly in the half-filled dining room, washing the food down with a full pot of coffee. Around him other diners—some hotel guests, others citizens of Saint Louis—ate their breakfasts, paying him only the slightest attention. He’d been in Saint Louis long enough for the people to get used to the idea. That is, the people around his hotel, and in the Blue Owl.
He thought about what Aurora had told him the night before. There were three men in the city plotting to kill him. First, that sort of news was never a surprise to him. Second, he would be surprised if there weren’t more than three. Aurora just happened to have heard these three discussing it.
Under normal circumstances, Clint watched his back diligently. After this, he’d have to watch it even more so. Also, since he was helping Pike. Suddenly, in the course of one day, everything about his stay in Saint Louis had changed.
Everything.
* * *
He left this hotel and caught a cab out front, telling the driver to take him to the hospital. When he arrived, he didn’t go inside right away. He found a nearby café and bought some breakfast for Pike—the kind of breakfast they would not serve him in the hospital.
With the food in a bag, he returned to the hospital and made his way to Pike’s room.
FIFTEEN
There was still a policeman seated by the door, and when Clint approached, he stood up.
“Clint Adams,” Clint said.
“What’s in the bag, sir?”
“Food.”
“May I see?”
Clint allowed the man to look in the bag. The policeman frowned.
“What is that?”
“It’s breakfast.”
“Yes, but what—”
“There are three of them in there,” Clint said. “Take one.”
“Really?”
“I think two will be plenty for Mr. Jones,” Clint said. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man took one out and unwrapped it.
“It’s a biscuit,” he said.
“I had them put some bacon and egg between it,” Clint said
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. I mean, I’ve seen sandwiches—”
“Just enjoy it,” Clint said, and went into the room.
“I thought I smelled something other than hospital food,” Pike said.
“Here you go.”
“I saved some coffee,” Pike said,
indicating a cup near his bed, on a table. “Don’t know how warm it still is.” He took the bag from Clint and looked inside.
“What is it?”
“Breakfast.”
“Yes, but—” Pike took one out and unwrapped it. “A biscuit, but—”
“It’s got egg and bacon in it,” Clint said.
Pike took a bite.
“Wow,” he said, “this could be very big. They did this?”
“It was my idea.”
“You could get rich with an idea like this.” Pike took another bite.
“Speaking of rich,” Clint said, taking out the hundred-dollar bills he’d won from Denim.
“Are those the bills from my room?”
“No,” Clint said, “I took these off Jack Denim in a poker game.”
“Denim!” Pike said with distaste. “Let me see them.”
Clint handed them over. Pike put his breakfast down and accepted the bills. He held them up to the light coming in through the window.
“Are they . . .” Clint said.
“Counterfeit.”
“Show me.”
“Look at this green line here, just at the top. See it?” Pike asked.
Clint squinted, then said, “Yeah, yeah, I see it. So that’s it, huh?”
“That’s it,” Pike said. “If the counterfeiters discover it and fix it, we might never be able to tell the real bills from the fakes.”
Clint took out the one bill he’d removed from Pike’s room and looked at it. He saw the same green line.
“What’s that?” Pike asked. He’d once again picked up his breakfast sandwich.
“This is one of the bills I took from your room,” Clint said. “I left the others in place.”
“That room was pretty bad, huh?”
“Awful,” Clint said. “I don’t know how you managed to sleep in there.”
“Hey,” Pike said, “undercover is undercover. But believe me, it wasn’t easy.”
“These bills are amazing,” Pike said, fishing the second sandwich out of the bag. “I can’t wait to catch this guy to find out how he does it. Do you want this one?”
“No,” Clint said, “I bought three, one for the policeman outside and two for you.”
“Ah,” Pike said, “making friends.”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 4
