Miss Jean thought it was odd that such a small man would always choose a big woman.
“You sure you want Elspeth?” she asked Minnesota.
“I’m sure.”
Elspeth was almost fat. She stood five foot nine and had mountainous breasts and buttocks. Miss Jean kept her around for big men who liked big girls, but even she looked down on this fellow.
“Okay,” Miss Jean said. “Go on up to room five.”
“Thanks.”
She watched as he went up the stairs. She rarely talked with the girls about their clients, but Minnesota had been there several times now, and always chose a woman taller and larger than himself. She thought that this time she was going to ask Ellie what he had in that small package . . .
Minnesota knocked on the door, opened it, and stepped in. Elspeth was on the bed, already naked. He drank in the acres of flesh before him. Her huge breasts were tipped with large, pink nipples, and between her meaty, pale thighs was a forest of black hair.
“Minnesota,” she said, “you cute thing. You came back to your Ellie? Last time you were with Diane.”
“I like to spread it around, Ellie,” he said, unstrapping his gun belt.
“Well, come on over here and spread it all over me, honey,” she said.
Minnesota liked that Ellie was a big girl, but what he also liked was that she was young—younger than him. She had a beautiful face and the prettiest smooth skin. And she always smelled so good.
He got himself naked, and already his cock was rigid. Ellie—and the other girls—had been shocked to see what Minnesota was packing. He may have been small of stature, but there was nothing small about his penis.
He climbed on the bed with Ellie and let her enfold him in her arms, his face pressed between her breasts. He nursed on one big nipple, then the other, holding each breast in turn in both hands.
“You lie back, honey,” she said, pushing him down. “Your Ellie wants to enjoy that big tallywacker of yours. Mmm.” She slid down his body, kissing his chest, his belly, poking her tongue into his belly button. Finally, she was down between his legs, his big penis in both hands. She licked the head, wetting it, then smiled at him before taking him into her mouth.
“Oh, shit, girl!” he said as she took him all the way in.
Her head began to bob up and down as she sucked him, making wet noises, occasionally gagging on the size of him, but not letting him get the better of her. She wanted to prove she could handle the entire length and width of him. She liked Minnesota because he was a young, unscarred, and usually smelled better than most of the men who came to Miss Jean’s.
With Minnesota, she could take as well as give pleasure . . .
Later, Minnesota was on his knees between her chunky legs, driving his cock into her while holding those legs open. Each time he slammed into her, ripples went through her breasts and belly.
“Oooh, baby, yeah, like that,” she cooed to him. “Give it to me.”
He didn’t even care if she was just giving him whore talk. He knew he was giving it to her good, and that she liked it.
“Oh, baby, I like it just like that,” she said, “but when you gonna flip me over, baby? I like when you do it to me from behind.”
“Then flip on over, girl!” he told her.
He withdrew from her, his cock glistening with her juices. She rolled over and got to her knees, presenting her majestic butt to him. The cleavage between her cheeks was deep enough for him to fuck, and he did that for a while, like he had done earlier with her big tits. Finally, though, he spread those fleshy cheeks, pressed the head of his cock to her little brown anus, and pushed. She had taught him this, and said she didn’t do it with any of her other clients.
He didn’t care, as long as she did it with him.
When Minnesota came down the stairs, his legs were shaking. He had given it to Ellie good this time, but she had given as good as she got.
At the foot of the stairs Miss Ellie was waiting.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “I’m real satisfied. Now I need to get me a drink.”
The odd thing about Minnesota—the other odd thing—was that after he was with one of the girls, he always seemed to be drunk. And yet she knew he wasn’t because she didn’t allow any liquor in her house. She had seen too many cowboys get liquored up in the past and hurt one of the girls. One time a girl even got her face cut up, which made her good for nothing but cleaning the house after that.
Minnesota gave Miss Jean a lopsided grin and said, “That gal, she’s somethin’ special.”
“She sure is,” Miss Jean. “One of my best.”
“I’ll be back.”
I know you will, she thought as he went out the door. Then she went upstairs to ask Elspeth the question she’d been wondering about.
SEVENTEEN
“Is that him?”
Buck turned to look. The batwings had opened and a man entered. He was short—about five-five—and young. Clint figured him to be about twenty-five, probably two or three years younger than Buck Wilby.
“That’s him,” Buck said. “That’s Minnesota.”
“Beer, Jimmy!” Minnesota yelled, approaching the bar.
“Minnesota,” Buck said.
The smaller man turned to look at him while the bartender set a beer in front of him.
“Hey, Deputy Buck,” Minnesota said. “How’re ya doin’?”
“Good, Minnesota. I want you to meet the new sheriff,” Buck said. “This is Clint Adams.”
“New sheriff?” Minnesota said. “What new sheriff? Where’s Sheriff Harper?”
“The sheriff was shot when the Graves gang tried to rob the bank,” Clint said. “He’s gone to Kansas City to have surgery.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
Minnesota was dressed in trail clothes that were rather worn, a denim jacket with frayed elbows, but the peace-maker in his holster was well cared for.
“Well, it’s good to meet ya,” Minnesota said. “Buck said your name was . . .”
“Clint Adams.”
“Adams,” Minnesota said. “Clint . . . Adams?”
“That’s right.”
The younger man drank some beer, then frowned at Clint and asked, “Clint Adams? The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right,” Buck said.
“And you’re the sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Minnesota exclaimed, “whataya know? Jimmy, beers all around. We’re celebratin’ the new sheriff.”
The bartender set up three beers.
“Minnesota,” Buck said, “the sheriff wants to talk to you.”
“He does? About what?”
“I guess I better let him tell you that,” Buck said.
“Let’s take our beers to that back table,” Clint said. “That okay with you, Minnesota?”
“It’s fine with me, Sheriff Adams,” Minnesota said. “Just fine!”
It became apparent to Clint that Minnesota had been drinking before he got to the Red Queen. But he seemed to be able to hold his liquor fairly well. Still, Clint wanted to talk to him before he had any more to drink.
“You didn’t hear about the bank robbery?” Clint asked. “About the sheriff shooting it out with the Graves boys?”
“No,” Minnesota said, “I was outta town. What’s the big deal? The sheriff stopped them and he’s gonna be all right, right?”
“Well,” Clint said, “we have to wait and see what happens after the surgery. He was shot twice in the back, and the bullets are close to his spine.”
“That’s too bad.”
“But the other thing, the reason he asked me to wear the badge, is that the Graves gang is going to be coming back, and with more men.”
“Really? When?”
“We’re not sure,” Clint said, “but I want to try and get some men together to face them with me and Buck.”
“Deputies?”
“Well, not
really deputies. Just men from town, who have an interest in protecting it.”
“So, like a posse, but in town.”
“Right.”
Minnesota sat back and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Buck asked.
“You’re gonna have a hard time with that,” the younger man said.
“Why?” Buck asked.
“The men in this town ain’t gonna want to face up to a gang like that,” Minnesota said. “Not these fine folks—storekeepers, politicians, and the like.”
“If they don’t,” Clint said, “the Graves gang might burn the town to the ground.”
“Well, that ain’t gonna happen either, is it?” Minnesota asked.
“Why not?” Clint asked.
“Because you’re gonna stop ’em,” Minnesota said. “You’re the Gunsmith, and you’re the law. You and Buck. It’s your job.”
“Well,” Clint said, “you may be right about that, but I think we’re going to need some help.”
“Wait a minute,” Minnesota said. “You’re gonna ask me?”
“You’re the first one we’re asking,” Clint said.
“Why?” Minnesota asked. “Why me?”
“I understand you know your way around a gun,” Clint said.
“Where’d you hear that?”
Minnesota suddenly seemed completely sober, and Clint now had second thoughts about him being drunk when he got there. The young man looked over at Buck accusingly.
“What?” Buck said. “I just told him what I saw that time.”
“Buck tells me you took two men in a fair fight,” Clint said.
“Maybe they weren’t so much,” Minnesota offered.
“And maybe you’re just pretty good with a gun,” Clint said. “Why would you deny that?”
“I didn’t deny nothin’,” Minnesota said. He took a moment to drink some beer.
“Well, see, here, I need men who can handle a gun,” Clint said.
Minnesota sat back and looked at Clint.
“Okay,” he said, “you payin’?”
“Probably regular posse rates.”
“A dollar a day?”
“It’s your town, too, Minnesota—”
“Actually, it ain’t,” Minnesota said. “I ain’t from here.”
“Well,” Buck said, “nobody’s really from here—”
“Me less than anybody,” Minnesota said.
“Where are you from?” Clint asked. “Minnesota?”
“That don’t matter,” the other man said. “Look, I got no stake in this fight, and a dollar a day just ain’t gonna do it. If you want me, you’re gonna have to pay.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if I’m going to pay, I’d like to see what I’m getting.”
“What, you want a demonstration?”
“I need something.”
“You want me to shoot a cigarette out of the bartender’s mouth?”
“I don’t need a trickshooter, Minnesota,” Clint said, “I need a man who can shoot at somebody while they’re shooting back. But that takes a special kind of man. Maybe I just ought to forget about it—”
“Not so fast, Sheriff. You already know what I can do . . .” Minnesota said. “Why don’t you let me think about this for a while, Sheriff?”
“Okay, Minnesota,” Clint said, pushing his chair back, “but don’t take too long, okay? This town might just get burned down around our ears.”
EIGHTEEN
Frank Graves sat at a table in the Silver Star Saloon, his left leg straight out to try and ease the pain from the bullet wound. The bullet had been put there by the sheriff of Guardian, Missouri, Jack Harper, when Harper broke up their bank job. But Graves and his brother, Dudley, had repaid Harper with two bullets in his back.
“Sammy!” he called.
Sammy Holt turned and looked at Graves. Holt was a young man, a new member of the gang, and as such he usually ended up running Frank Graves’s errands.
“Yeah, Frank?” Holt asked from the bar.
“Bring me another beer.”
“Comin’ up, boss,” Holt said.
The young man came running over with the beer and put it down in front of Graves.
“You know where Dudley is?” Graves asked.
“Whorehouse, I think.”
“Get ’im.”
“Interrupt him?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Um, he won’t like it, boss.”
“You tell him I sent you,” Graves said. “If he kills you, I’ll make sure he apologizes.”
“Um . . . sure.” Holt swallowed hard, then left the saloon to find Dudley Graves.
Dudley Graves was enjoying two women in the whorehouse when there was a timid knock on the door of the room.
“What the hell—” he said.
The two girls—a skinny redhead and an older, heavier brunette—rolled away from him. They knew what happened when Dudley got mad. He swung at whatever or whoever was closest to him.
Dudley got to his feet and lumbered to the door. He was naked, his sloppy belly hanging down so that it almost hid his rigid penis. He grabbed his gun from the foot of the bed on the way. When he opened the door, he pointed the gun.
“Jeez, Dudley!” Sammy Holt said.
“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off!” Dudley said.
“Frank sent me to get you.”
“He know where I am?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“Then he knows what I’m doin’.”
“Yes.”
“And he still sent you to interrupt me?”
“Um, y-yeah.”
Dudley lowered the gun.
“Must be important, then.”
He turned from the door, walked to the bed, and started getting dressed.
Standing in the doorway, Holt wanted to avert his eyes rather than look at Dudley’s sloppy nakedness. But there were also two naked women in the room. So he stared at them. They smiled and made faces at him.
Dressed, Dudley buckled his gun belt and holstered his gun, then looked at the girls on the bed.
“Sorry, gals, no Dudley today.”
The girls contrived to look disappointed, even though they were glad they weren’t going to have to service the big man.
“What about him?” the redhead asked, pointing at Sammy Holt.
“Him? He ain’t never had a woman before,” Dudley said. He looked at Holt. “You ever been with a woman, boy?”
“S-Sure.”
“You lie!” Dudley said. He looked at the girls again. “He’s a virgin. What would you want with him?”
“We could teach him a thing or two,” the brunette said.
“You paid for our time already,” the redhead said.
“Well, that’s true,” Dudley said. “And I wouldn’t want you to be totally disappointed.” He looked at Holt again. “Whataya say, boy? You want two girls?”
“Um . . .” Holt said nervously.
Dudley grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him into the room.
“He’s all yours, girls,” he said. “Do what you want with him.”
“Dud—” Holt started.
“My brother say he wanted to see you, or me?” Dudley asked.
“Well, you—”
“Be gentle with him, girls,” Dudley said. “Boy, you’re in for a treat, and it’s on me.”
Dudley left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Holt turned and looked at the two naked girls. The redhead had small breasts, but her nipples were very large. On the other hand, the brunette had chubby breasts with small, brown nipples. Staring at Holt, she spread her legs and ran her fingers through her dark pubic hair. When he looked at the redhead again, she was stroking herself, making herself wet. He could smell her.
“Um, I’m, uh, not like Dudley,” he told them.
“That’s good,” the redhead said.
“He’s awful,” the brunette said.
; “A brute.”
“And he smells,” the brunette added.
“And he’s no good in bed,” the redhead said. “He thinks he is, but he’s not. And he’s . . . small.”
“What? He’s a huge man.”
The girls laughed.
“Not where it counts,” the redhead said.
“Oooh, look at his pants,” the brunette said. “How about takin’ off your clothes, boy?”
“I ain’t a boy,” Holt said.
“What’s your name?” the redhead asked. She was closer to his age.
“Sammy.”
“I’m Belinda,” she said, “this is Mary. Take off your pants, Sammy. They’re gettin’ tight.”
“Look,” he said, “I never, I mean, I ain’t ever—”
“Don’t worry,” the brunette said, getting off the bed, “we’ll take care of it.”
“We’ll take care of everythin’,” Belinda said.
She got off the bed and together the two girls undressed Holt until he was standing there naked. He tried to cover his crotch with his hands, but they pushed his hands away.
“Don’t cover that up, Sammy,” Mary said.
“Oh, my,” Belinda said. “That’s impressive.”
“Really?” Holt stopped trying to cover his erection.
“It’s pretty,” Belinda said, touching him lightly. He jumped from her touch.
“Mmm, and he’s clean,” Belinda said, “and he has nice young skin.”
Mary kissed his belly, ran her hands around behind him to stroke his buttocks.
Belinda began to stoke his penis with one hand, then leaned forward and kissed the tip. Sammy Holt gasped.
“This is gonna be fun,” Belinda told Mary.
From behind Holt, her hands still on his ass, Mary peeked around at Belinda and said, “It sure is.”
She reached up between his legs and cupped his sack while Belinda suddenly took his penis into her mouth.
“Jesus!” Holt gasped.
NINETEEN
Dudley Graves entered the saloon, spotted his brother sitting with half a beer. He went to the bar, got two more, and carried them to the table.
“How’s the leg?” he asked, pushing a fresh beer across the table.
Anatomy of a Lawman Page 5
