Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “Okay,” Reeves said, “we’ll ride over there and check it out.”

  It was a town.

  That much they could tell when they rode in. It wasn’t much of a town, and they didn’t see a town name anywhere, but the lights were real lights in real windows and—best of all—they could smell food.

  They found a saloon, which looked like it was the place throwing out the most light.

  “This is probably the place we saw from a distance,” Reeves said, dismounting.

  They stepped up onto the boardwalk and started for the batwings. Clint put his hand on Bass Reeves’s arm to stop him.

  “What?”

  “How about taking the badge off?”

  “What?”

  “Put it in your pocket,” Clint said. “It’s just a suggestion. Let’s not look for trouble when we don’t know what we’re walking into.”

  Clint could see Reeves was struggling with the suggestion, but finally the black man took the badge off and put it in his shirt pocket.

  They stepped through the batwings.

  It was a small saloon, brightly lit and noisy, with girls working the floor. It was remarkably lively for a small-town place that apparently had no gambling and no music.

  They walked to the bar, watched blatantly by most of the men in the place.

  “I guess they don’t get many strangers here,” Clint said.

  “You might’ve been right about the badge,” Reeves admitted.

  They got to the bar, made room for the both of them, and ordered a cold beer each.

  “Did you notice a name on the front of the saloon?” Clint asked Reeves.

  “No saloon name, and no town name,” Reeves said.

  “They must be trying to keep this place a secret. Either that or there are signs all over the place that we can’t see in the dark.”

  Reeves called the bartender over.

  “Yeah?” The bartender was a middle-aged white man with a heavy beard. He was giving Bass Reeves a hard look. There were no other black men in the place.

  “What town are we in?”

  “Poison Springs.”

  “What?”

  The man looked at Clint.

  “You hard of hearin’?”

  “Why would anyone name their town Poison…anything?”

  “Look, friend, I just work here.”

  He walked away.

  “Not very friendly,” Clint said.

  “That’s because of me,” Reeves said. “I been gettin’ those looks since we walked in.”

  “Well, there’s a cure for that.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Put the badge back on,” Clint said.

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said,” Clint replied, cutting him off, “but I’d love to see everyone’s reaction when you put it on.”

  Reeves thought about it a moment, then shrugged, took the badge out, and pinned it back on.

  The bartender was the first one to see it. He stared at the tin, then looked at Reeves’s face again. Reeves didn’t react.

  Then Reeves picked up his beer mug and turned his back to the bar. That gave everyone in the saloon a clear look at the badge. In that moment Clint was almost jealous—almost wished he himself had a badge he could take out and pin on.

  SEVENTEEN

  There were a lot of big black men in the West, but when you saw a big black man wearing a deputy marshal’s badge, it was Bass Reeves.

  “Bass Reeves,” somebody said, and the saloon got quieter.

  “Here ya go, Deputy Reeves,” the bartender said. “A nice fresh beer.”

  Reeves turned and looked at the man.

  “I ain’t finished this one,” he said, “and by the time I do, that one’ll be warm.”

  “Yeah, okay, sorry,” the man said, taking the beer back. “Just let me know when yer done and I’ll let ya have another one…on the house.”

  “And for my friend,” Reeves said.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” the bartender said, “one fer your friend.”

  Clint thought Reeves was going to say his name, and was happy when he didn’t. No point in letting all the cats out of their bags.

  “I’m lookin’ for three or six more black men,” Reeves said, “You seen ’em?”

  “Three, or six?”

  “That’s right. Seen ’em?”

  The bartender shook his head.

  “If they passed by, they didn’t bother to stop here, Deputy,” the man said. “I swear. You can ask anybody. This ain’t a big town, and that many black men would be noticed.”

  Clint knew he was right.

  “Yeah,” Reeves said, finishing his beer. He set the empty mug on the bar. “I’m finished.” He looked at Clint. “You finished?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, setting his mug down, “I’m finished.”

  “Two more,” the bartender said. “Yes, sir, comin’ up.”

  He went off to draw the beers.

  “Whataya think?” Reeves asked.

  “Seems to me he’s telling the truth,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “We could ask a few of the others, but it probably doesn’t matter.”

  “Let’s get somethin’ to eat,” Reeves said, “and then a room.”

  “Right.”

  “Each,” Reeves said, “a room each.”

  “Suits me,” Clint said.

  They both liked their privacy. Clint liked to read in the privacy of his own room. He didn’t know what Reeves liked.

  * * *

  They were finishing their beers when one of the saloon girls came up next to Reeves, looking him up and down. She was pretty enough, looked to be experienced—late twenties, or early thirties—was tall and blond.

  She licked her lips and smiled at Reeves.

  “Are you really Bass Reeves?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re big.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you big…all over?”

  Deputy Reeves frowned, not sure what she was asking him.

  “Ma’am…I think so.”

  She laughed, ran her hand over his chest, and said, “You’re cute.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s true, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Are you stayin’ in town overnight?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, Mister Reeves,” she said, “I guess I’ll be seein’ you later.”

  She moved away from him, back onto the floor to do her job. Reeves turned to Clint, looking confused. Clint didn’t know quite how much experience Bass Reeves had with women—or with saloon girls.

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “You’ll get it.”

  While the blonde had been sizing up Reeves, the brunette saloon girl had been watching Clint from across the room. She was shorter, younger, more full-bodied than her blond counterpart. Clint returned her look, toasted her with his beer mug. She smiled, ran her finger along the cleft formed by her chubby breasts.

  “I guess we better get some rooms,” Reeves said, setting his empty mug down on the bar. “We gotta get an early start in the mornin’.”

  Clint nodded, drained his own mug, and placed it on the bar.

  “More, Deputy?” the bartender asked.

  “No, that’s enough,” Reeves said. “You got a lawman in this town?”

  The bartender fidgeted a bit, then said, “Well, sort of.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You gonna talk to him?”

  Reeves nodded, said, “In the mornin’.”

  “Then you’ll find out for yourself,” the bartender said, “he ain’t much of a lawman.”

  “As long as he’s wearin’ a badge,” Reeves said.

  “Oh, he wears one,” the barman said. “But he ain’t gonna be much good to you.”

  “Like you said,” Reeves replied, “I’ll find out for myself.”

  Clint and Reeves left the saloon. As s
oon as they were gone, the bartender’s expression changed to one of naked hatred. He looked over at a table of three men and beckoned them to come over.

  “What’s up?” one asked.

  “I got a job for you…”

  EIGHTEEN

  They left the saloon and took their horses to the livery. They had to wake the man to take the horses in. He gave Reeves a dirty look until he saw that badge. Then his attitude changed.

  “Would you be Bass Reeves?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  “And judging from this horse,” the man went on, “you’re the Gunsmith.”

  “You know that from my horse?”

  “Fella,” the man said, “I’m eighty years old.” Clint thought he looked abut sixty. “I’ve seen a lot over the course of my life. I can usually make a good guess about who a body is.”

  “Then maybe you can guess the location of about half a dozen black men, ex-Buffalo Soldiers,” Clint said. “Been seen in the area?”

  “Not here,” the man said, “but they did pass by, on their way…somewhere.”

  “Like where?”

  “North.”

  “That’s it?”

  The man shrugged.

  “They were headin’ north when they passed here a couple of days ago,” he said. “After that they could’ve went…anywhere. That helpful?”

  “Not a lot,” Reeves said.

  “But I still get to look after your horse for one night, right?” he asked Clint.

  “Right.” Clint handed him Eclipse’s reins. “And he better be here and happy when I come back tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t worry,” the man said. “I wouldn’t do anything to a magnificent beast like this.”

  “And mine?” Reeves asked.

  “I’ll see to him, too.”

  Reeves handed his reins over.

  “What can you tell us about the lawman you got in town?” Reeves asked.

  “You ain’t gonna get much help out of him,” the old man said.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s only wearin’ it because nobody else wanted it,” the liveryman said.

  “But he does his job, doesn’t he?” Reeves asked.

  The man shrugged.

  “I guess we will have to find out for ourselves in the morning, like the bartender said.”

  “This town might as well not have a lawman at all. The bartender knows what he’s talkin’ about,” the liveryman said.

  “That a fact?” Reeves asked.

  The man nodded.

  “He learned from me,” he said. “He’s my son.”

  “That a fact?”

  The liveryman nodded.

  “My oldest.”

  Considering the way the man had looked at him when they entered the stable, Reeves said, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “You got a hotel in this town?” Clint asked.

  “Poison Springs Hotel,” the man said. “Only one in town.”

  “Clean?” Clint asked.

  “Does that matter?” the man asked. “I said it’s the only one in town.”

  “Right.”

  “Can you tell us how this town got named Poison Springs?” Reeves asked.

  “Oh, that’s simple,” the man said. “At the time, I couldn’t think of anything else to call it.”

  NINETEEN

  They checked into the hotel, which had plenty of rooms, so they were able to get one each. They carried their rifles and saddlebags upstairs.

  “You see that desk clerk?” Clint asked in the hall. They had gotten rooms right across from each other.

  Reeves nodded.

  “Heavy beard, beady eyes.”

  “What do you want to bet he’s another son?”

  “Family-owned town,” Reeves said. “I hope this wasn’t a bad idea.”

  “Too late now,” Clint said. “Let’s get some sleep and get out of here in the morning.”

  “After breakfast,” Reeves said. “I want a hot breakfast.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Night, Clint.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Clint opened the door to his room and went inside. He heard Reeves’s door close.

  * * *

  It was a couple of hours later when Clint heard the sound of someone walking down the hall. The walking stopped and then he heard a knock—but not at his door.

  He grabbed his gun from the holster on the bedpost—a tried-and-true place to keep his gun when he was in a hotel room—and padded barefoot to the door. He cracked the door open enough to look out. He saw the blond girl from the saloon standing at Reeves’s door. At that moment she knocked again, and the door opened.

  Reeves appeared in the doorway, bare-chested and barefoot.

  “What—” he said.

  She quieted him by putting her hand against his bare chest and rubbing it.

  “Oh my,” she said. She pushed him and he stepped back. She entered and closed the door behind her.

  Clint closed his door quietly, returned his gun to his holster, and resumed his position on the bed. He picked up the book he had been reading.

  The saloon girl was about to find out if Bass Reeves was that big all over.

  A short time later Clint again heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. They stopped, and the knock came on his door.

  He grabbed the gun once again, padded to the door, and opened it. It was the other girl from the saloon, the brunette with the chubby breasts.

  “Surprised to see me?” she asked. “I thought we were sending each other messages across the room.”

  “We were,” Clint said. “Come in.”

  He backed away from the door to admit her, once again returned his gun to his holster.

  “What made you think you’d need that?” she asked. “You must have known I was coming.”

  “But how did I know you’d come alone?”

  “Oh, handsome,” she said, “I wouldn’t want to share you with anybody. Besides, the only other person I might have brought was Letty, and isn’t she across the hall with your big black friend?”

  “I suppose she is.”

  “Want to go and listen at the door?”

  “No, thanks,” Clint said. “He may have kicked her out.”

  “I haven’t met a man yet who would kick her out of bed.”

  She dropped her shawl to the floor. She was still wearing her saloon dress, cut low to reveal creamy shoulders and lots of equally creamy breast.

  “Or me,” she added.

  “I can believe that.”

  “What?” she asked with a smirk.

  “What you just said.”

  “I want to hear you say it, handsome.”

  “I can believe that no man has ever kicked you out of bed.”

  “Show me,” she said. “Show me how you believe it.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked. “Have I frightened you away?”

  “No,” he said. “I just want to make sure the door is locked.”

  He turned the key and locked it, then pressed on the door. It wasn’t a good one. One good kick would splinter it open.

  “Are we ready?” she asked.

  He turned, saw her standing there with her dress down around her ankles.

  “You are,” he said.

  She put her hands on her hips and said, “I’ll wait.”

  TWENTY

  In the lobby the bartender entered with three other men from the saloon.

  “What are you doin’ here?” his brother, the desk clerk, asked.

  “Did that big black bastard with the badge check in?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah, he’s in room five,” the desk clerk said. “His friend is in six.”

  “Bass Reeves, right?” the bartender asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, get your gun,” the bartender said. “That black bastard made a fool of me and I ain’t about to stand for it.”


  “What about his friend?” the desk clerk asked.

  “I don’t care about the friend,” the bartender insisted.

  “I think you better care about him.”

  “Why?”

  His brother reversed the register and said, “Look for yourself.”

  The bartender read the name on the register, then turned to the three men with him.

  “We’re gonna need more guns.”

  While Clint undressed slowly, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Julie.”

  “Don’t you have any men in town you like, Julie?” he asked.

  “It’s the fact that you’re a stranger that makes you appeal to me,” she said. “When we’re done, you’ll leave town, and I won’t have to deal with you.”

  “That sounds like something a man would say,” he commented.

  “Men aren’t so wrong about everything,” she told him. “Just most things. Ooh.”

  She said “ooh” when he dropped his pants and underwear and she saw his cock, already coming to life.

  She came to him on strong legs, her thighs as juicy and rounded as her breasts, and took hold of him, stroking him. He reached behind to grab her buttocks, found them as full as the rest of her. The woman was perfectly built for bouncing around on a bed. He just wished they had a better bed to bounce around on.

  And a better town to do it in.

  But before they got to the bed, she fell to her knees before him and took him into her mouth, sucking him avidly, wetly.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, as if actually speaking to his cock. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She took him in, wet him fully, and then slid him out, stroking him with her hand.

  Clint had backed them toward the bed, meaning to put her on it, but also so he’d be closer to his gun.

  Just in case…

  The bartender and the desk clerk were brothers, Mike and Mark McCall. They had three men each following them up the stairs, so the staircase was a little crowded, and objecting in the form of loud creaking.

  “Easy,” Mike hissed at the men. “Go single file, for Chrissake!”

  The men had been trying to get up the stairs at the same time. Now they backed off and went single file behind the two brothers.

  “I want that black marshal,” Mike the bartender said. “He’s mine.”

  “Okay,” his brother said, “we’ll take Adams.”