Showdown in Desperation
Page 6
“Hey, Patch,” somebody yelled. “Another one.”
“Comin’ right up!” Patch said, leaving Clint alone to drink his beer.
SEVENTEEN
Clint was finishing his beer when the telegraph clerk came in, waving his telegrams.
“Came in almost back-to-back,” he said, handing them over.
“Thanks.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint had already paid, so he turned back to the bar to read the telegrams.
“That what you were waitin’ for?” Patch asked.
“Right now I’m waiting for another beer,” Clint said.
“Right away.”
Rick Hartman had nothing on Jimmy Creed—nothing current anyway. Last he heard, he was down by the Rio Grande, but that was months ago.
On the other hand, Talbot Roper said he’d heard something about Jimmy Creed doing a job in Nevada, somewhere around Mesquite.
Now Clint had a decision to make. Keep following Johnny Creed’s trail, or move ahead, go to Mesquite, find Jimmy, and wait for Johnny there?
Patch brought him his second beer. As he set it down, he looked past Clint, then froze.
“Law?” Clint asked.
Patch nodded.
“Move away,” Clint said.
He started to turn, but a man’s voice said, “Don’t turn around, Mr. Adams.”
“Sheriff?”
“That’s right,” the voice said. “Sheriff Dawson. We got a telegram about you.”
“I was afraid of that,” Clint said. “I didn’t do what they say I did. I’m tracking the man who did it.”
“And the sheriff of El Legado is trackin’ you, I’m afraid,” Sheriff Dawson said. “I’m gonna have to make you a guest in one of my cells until he gets here.”
“Have you notified him yet?”
“No,” Dawson said, “I wanted to make sure it was really you.”
“And now you’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I’m going to turn around, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’m keeping my hand away from my gun.”
“I’d rather you put your gun on the bar first.”
The three or four patrons in the place suddenly caught on. They got out of their chairs and sought cover.
“I can’t do that, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I think you know why.”
“I’m not gonna let anythin’ happen to you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m always worried about that.”
“Mr. Adams—”
“I’m turning, Sheriff.”
“Don’t!”
Clint turned, though, holding his beer in his left hand. Sheriff Dawson was a tall, rangy man in his forties, standing alone just inside the batwings. Oddly, he did not yet have his gun in his hand.
“No deputies?”
“One,” Dawson said. “He’s off on another matter.”
“So you came to take me in alone?”
“That’s my job. Now, I’ll ask you again for your gun.”
“No.”
Dawson’s hand hovered near his gun. He was hesitant to pull it. Clint could see it in his posture, and his eyes.
“What now?” Clint asked.
“I gotta take you in.”
“All you’ve got to do is live another day, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Turn and walk out the door.”
“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I did that.”
“But you’d be alive to do it.”
“You won’t kill me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Dawson licked his lips. His face was pale, but Clint didn’t know if that was normal or not.
“I never heard anything about you shootin’ lawmen.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I don’t like to do it, but you might leave me no choice. See, I can’t go to jail. I’ve got to be out and about to catch the real killer.”
“And who would that be?” Dawson asked.
“A young man named Johnny Creed.”
“Creed?” Dawson asked. “I know a Jimmy Creed.”
“This is his son.”
“And you’re trackin’ him?”
“I am.”
“Does that mean you tracked him to here?”
“No,” Clint said. “I came here to send a couple of telegrams. The clerk must have told you.”
“He did.”
Clint was impressed. The clerk had recognized him, and had shown no sign of nerves.
“You ought to stick a tin star on that young man’s shirt,” Clint said.
“Look, Adams,” Dawson said, “come to my office and we’ll talk about this.”
“I can’t,” Clint said. “I’m already behind.”
“Did you get some information from your telegrams?”
“I’m sure the clerk will tell you that, too.” Clint sipped his beer, noticed that the sheriff watched that hand instead of his gun hand. He could have shot him then and there if he’d wanted to.
“Adams—”
“Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’ve got to go.”
“I can’t let you.”
“Then go for your gun.”
Dawson firmed his jaw. Clint saw that he was going to draw it. He dropped his beer mug.
It shattered when it hit the floor, drawing the sheriff’s attention. Clint drew and fired.
EIGHTEEN
Everybody in the placed was shocked.
One bullet, and the sheriff’s gun and holster went flying off his hip. He was left with just the belt. He was even in the act of drawing, and when his hand got there, the gun was gone.
“What the—” He looked down, saw that the gun was completely gone. “Jesus!”
“I could’ve killed you,” Clint said, “but I don’t want to. I just want to walk out that door, mount up, and walk out.”
Dawson looked around for his gun, saw it on the floor about ten feet behind him. It was still in the holster, which had been separated from his gun belt.
“Don’t,” Clint said.
Dawson looked at him.
“I’m going out,” Clint said. “You wanna pick the gun up, then be my guest. Just be ready for whatever comes when you step outside.” He figured that would make the man hesitate long enough.
Clint moved toward the door, keeping his gun out. Nobody else in the place moved to stop him.
• • •
As Clint Adams went out the door, the sheriff turned and reached for his gun. He picked up the holster from the floor, drew the gun from it.
“Sheriff, don’t!” the bartender yelled.
Sheriff Dawson turned to look at the man.
“He’ll kill you.”
“He could’ve killed me right here,” Dawson said. “I don’t think he will.”
“You willin’ to bet your life on it?”
Dawson shrugged and said, “It’s my job,” and ran through the batwing doors.
• • •
When Clint went through the batwings, he remembered that he’d left Eclipse across the street.
“Damn it!” he said, and took off running. The sheriff might actually make it out of the saloon before he got away. What then? Shoot him?
He got to Eclipse and holstered his gun before mounting up. He turned the horse and started down the street at a gallop.
• • •
Sheriff Dawson came outside, saw Clint Adams riding down the street on his huge horse. He raised his gun to fire, but there were too many people on the street to risk a shot.
The Gunsmith was gone.
Dawson shook his head, turned, and headed for the telegraph office.
NINETEEN
Johnny Creed rode into the town of Manos de Piedras. He’d gotten word that
his father might be there. He didn’t know if anyone from El Legado was on his trail or not, but it didn’t matter. Once he found his father, between the two of them they could handle anybody—even the Gunsmith.
He rode past the sheriff’s office, knowing that was the one place he couldn’t go to ask about his father. Saloons were likelier, as well as the livery.
He reined in his horse in front of a saloon, needing a cold beer to cut the dust from his throat. Looking up and down the street, he secured his horse’s reins to the hitching post and went through the batwing doors.
It wasn’t a particularly large saloon—though larger than any in El Legado. A quick look around the room told him his father wasn’t there. He hadn’t seen the man in over ten years, but he’d know him when he saw him.
Several of the patrons turned to look at him, found him unremarkable, and went back to their drinks.
Creed walked to the bar and signaled the bartender.
“Cold beer,” he said.
“You old enough?” the man asked.
“Just gimme a beer, will ya?”
The bartender shrugged and drew him a beer.
“There ya go.”
Creed put his money on the bar.
“Passin’ through?”
Creed eyed the man a moment, then said, “Lookin’ for a man.”
“What man?”
“Jimmy Creed,” Johnny said. “Seen him?”
“Heard of him,” the bartender said. “But I don’t know him.”
“I didn’t ask you if you know him,” Creed said. “Have you seen him in town? Or heard that he’s around?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Then go away and let me drink my beer.”
“You need to learn some manners, son.”
“You gonna teach me, old man?”
The bartender was in his fifties, not exactly an “old man,” but no match for a young buck like Johnny Creed.
He turned and walked away.
“That’s what I thought,” Creed said.
He turned, beer in hand, and leaned against the bar. Nobody was looking at him. There was a time he would have just yelled out, “Has anybody seen Jimmy Creed?” But he didn’t think it was a good idea.
Maybe he was maturing.
• • •
Creed left the saloon. Somebody had told him the livery was right down the street, so he walked his horse there.
“Stayin’ long?” the liveryman asked.
“Overnight,” Creed said. “I’m looking for Jimmy Creed. You know him?”
“Know of ’im,” the man said. “Ain’t never seen him.”
“Anyplace else folks might leave their horses when they come to town?”
“Nope, I’m it. Less’n they just wanna leave their horse in front of the hotel.”
“Yeah, okay,” Creed said. “Have him ready for me tomorrow mornin’. I want to leave after I have an early breakfast.”
“I’ll be here,” the old man said. “I don’t sleep so good no more, so I open real early.”
Creed nodded, took his saddlebags and rifle, and left the livery.
He stopped at the first hotel he came to and got a room, also telling the clerk he’d be leaving early.
In the room he tossed his saddlebags onto a rickety chair and set the rifle down in a corner of the room. He tried the mattress, found it only slightly better than the ground he’d slept on the night before.
He walked to the window and looked down at the street. Just because his father hadn’t left his horse in the livery didn’t mean he hadn’t been in town. He might have stopped in a saloon for a drink and then continued on. He still had to check the saloons, and probably the local cathouse.
He left his room to do just that before having something to eat.
• • •
Creed checked three other saloons without finding any sign that his father had been there. Before finding a café, he decided to check the cathouse.
A bartender in the last saloon he went to gave him directions to a two-story house that needed a paint job and a new roof.
He mounted the rickety front steps and knocked on the peeling front door. He wondered if the whores were as old and rundown as the building.
The door was opened by a cute girl with a pixie face but a woman’s body. The filmy nightgown she wore let him see round, firm breasts with big pink nipples. His dick immediately got hard.
She blinked big blue eyes at him and said, “Can I help you, handsome?”
“Um, I was just, um, lookin’ for—”
“Aw, are you shy, honey?” she asked, taking his hand. “You wanna come in?”
“Well—” He gulped as she placed his palm right on one of her hard nipples.
“You know,” she said, “all we usually get here is fat, sweaty cowboys, but you’re kinda cute. If you wanna poke me, I’ll give you a discount for bein’ so handsome. Whataya say?”
“Well . . . sure . . .”
“Good!” She grabbed his hand in both of hers and yanked him inside.
• • •
Her name—she said—was Angel, and he thought she looked like one.
She introduced him to a madam named Maisie. He told her he wanted a half an hour—he couldn’t afford an hour—and she let him go up to the second floor with Angel. He watched her ass twitch as she walked up the stairs ahead of him.
She took him down a hallway with a worn carpet and opened the door to Room 5. The room was hot, the bed big, with messy sheets.
“Those sheets, that was just me sleepin’, honey,” she said. “I ain’t made the bed yet.”
“Okay.”
“You all right?”
“It’s hot.”
“I’ll open a window.”
She walked to the window, opened it wide, and turned to face him.
“There!” she said. “Better?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well,” she said, “have a seat on the bed and I’ll wash you.”
“Wash me?”
“Your tallywacker and balls, honey,” she said. “I got to make sure you’re clean.”
“Oh.”
“Take off your boots and your trousers.”
He did as she asked while she poured water into a basin. When she turned, he was seated on the bed still wearing his underwear.
“Oh baby,” she said, “you gotta take those off, too.”
“Oh.”
“Here, let me help.”
He swallowed as she knelt in front of him. His dick was so hard he was afraid he’d explode if she looked at it. She reached for his shorts and pulled. He lifted himself off the bed so she could slide them down his legs, and then he was naked, his hard shaft standing straight up.
“Wow,” she said, “you really are happy to see me, ain’t ya?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just sit back and relax.”
He leaned back on his hands and tried to relax, but he couldn’t. He was trembling as she took the wet cloth to his shaft and started to wash him. As soon as she touched him, he moaned and shot what seemed like gallons of semen into the air. Some landed on the floor, some on the washcloth, and some on the girl. He immediately felt ashamed.
“Aw, honey boy,” she said, “that happens a lot. I ain’t gonna charge you for that. Just relax and let me finished cleanin’ you.”
“I ain’t—I don’t think I can—”
“Oh yeah,” she said, washing him, “you can. You’re young, you’ll be hard again in no—oops, look there, it’s gettin’ hard already.”
She was right. As she washed his dick and balls, he grew hard again in her hands.
“There,” she said, “all clean. Now I gotta clean me.”
She washed his semen off her hand
s, then removed the nightie so that she was totally naked. He felt heat coming off her pale body. She stood in front him, hands on hips, sticking her tits out at him proudly.
“So whataya want, handsome?”
“Um, I don’t know—”
“How about some French?”
“I don’t—I never—”
“I’ll show you,” she said, getting on her knees in front of him. She placed her hands on his thighs, leaned forward, and took his dick into her mouth.
“Oh God!” he said.
She sucked him a bit, then released his cock, which was glistening with her saliva, and asked, “Is that okay? You want me to keep goin’?”
“Oh yeah,” he said desperately, “please!”
TWENTY
Jimmy Creed was crazy.
He knew it. He had accepted that about himself a long time ago. It was why he was good at killing.
It was also, he told himself, why women liked him. They sensed that dangerous part of him, and it drew them to him.
Like the woman he was with at that moment, in the town of Reseda, New Mexico. She wasn’t a whore or a saloon girl; she was a bank teller. A pretty girl buttoned up to the neck by day, but at night when the clothes came off, a tiger in bed.
Long and lean, with hair that was brown and piled on her head in the bank, but auburn and down to her back when she was with him.
They met when he went into the bank to make a deposit. He saw in her eyes that he appealed to her, and he was able to look past the teller to the woman. He waited for her outside, and they were in bed fifteen minutes later.
• • •
Jimmy was crazy enough to let a woman affect his decisions. He’d only intended to be in this town for a few days, but Theresa Masters was keeping him there longer. Her energy was pent up all day long at the bank, and it burst out of her at night in bed.
“Jesus,” he said, rolling over in bed. “Honey, one of these nights you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
She laughed and rolled over on top of him.
“Don’t tell me my big strong man is tired?” she said, rubbing her crotch against him. Her pubic hair was dense and wiry, and scratched his skin in a most delightful way. His cock began to harden.
“I guess not,” he said.
She laughed, raised her hips, reached down to hold him, and slid him inside her wet pussy. She sat up straight on him and started riding.