Showdown in Desperation

by J. R. Roberts

  Jimmy took hold of her hips, tried to keep up with her tempo, but he was starting to feel his age. She was twenty years younger than he was.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, “you’re so hard inside me, so long, mmmm, yes . . .”

  His breath started coming in hard gasps. He needed a breather without telling her that, so he flipped her over onto her back. She landed with a little scream. He drew his cock out of her and dove into her pubic hair with his mouth and tongue. In moments he had her thrashing about on the bed in a frenzy, only he found himself holding his breath while doing it. Now he started to feel dizzy. Damn it, this bitch was going to kill him.

  He came up for air, but continued to stroke her with his fingers while he caught his breath. When the light-headedness passed, he mounted her, rammed his cock into her, and fucked her until she screamed and he exploded inside her.

  He rolled over onto his back again, catching his breath. This time, she did the same next to him. But he knew he was going to have to leave town.

  Goddamn, getting old was the worst!

  • • •

  Johnny Creed felt like a bull.

  There was something about this girl, this angel, this whore, that brought out the animal in him. He spent half an hour with her, then paid for an hour more. During that time they did everything to each other that a man and a woman could do. She taught him things he never knew he could do—he never knew a man and a woman could do together.

  It was an education.

  “Wow,” he said, rolling over.

  “I know,” she said. “You’re like a stud stallion. I think you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

  “A young girl like you?” he asked.

  She laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You, honey boy,” she said. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “I’m thirty-four.”

  “No, you ain’t.”

  “Yeah, I am,” she said.

  “You look . . . sixteen.”

  “I know,” she said. “I make a lot of money looking sixteen.”

  He sat up in bed and looked down at her, sprawled out next to him. Her skin was so clear, unlined and unblemished. Her face was the face of a sixteen-year-old. It was only her eyes that gave her away, the amount of knowing that was in her eyes. That was when he saw that she was telling the truth.

  “Sonofabitch,” he said.

  She reached up and stroked his face.

  “So now you don’t like me?”

  “I think you’re wonderful,” he said.

  “You’re sweet,” she said, “but you have to go now.”

  “But—”

  “I have to work.”

  “More fat cowboys?” he asked.

  She laughed and said, “Yeah, more fat cowboys.”

  He got up and dressed while she watched.

  “Are you comin’?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I have to clean myself up.”

  He nodded, went to the door.

  “Come back and see me again?” she asked.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’ll be leavin’ town tomorrow.”

  “Well,” she said, “in case you don’t, come see me again. I’ll give you another discount.”

  “Why?”

  “I like you.”

  He nodded and said, “I like you, too, Angel.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. He was outside before he realized he hadn’t asked about his father.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jimmy Creed left his hotel and headed for the livery. Before he reached it, though, two men stepped out into the street, blocking his path.

  “Jimmy Creed?”

  “That’s right,” Creed said. “What can I do for you fellas?”

  “We got paper on you, Creed,” one of them said.

  “Yer comin’ with us.”

  “Bounty hunters, huh?” Creed asked.

  “Two of the best,” one of them said. “I’m Glip Trotter and this here is my partner, Zack Doyle.”

  Trotter was a mess, in his thirties, with straggly hair and a shirt and jeans that looked like he’d been dragged behind a horse. Doyle was in his twenties, tall and gangly. His clothes looked like hand-me-downs from an older, smaller brother.

  “Glip?” Creed asked.

  “Thass right,” Trotter said. “Now, jest put yer gun down and let me slap some irons on you, boy.”

  “What makes you think I’ll just do that, Glip?”

  “Well,” Glip said, “’cause our backs ain’t turnt, and you got a rep as a backshooter.”

  “That’s true,” Creed said, “I do . . . and funny thing, I don’t know how I got that reputation.”

  “Probally ’cause you done shot so many jaspers in the back,” Zack said.

  “Well, see now,” Creed said, “that’s what’s odd. I just ain’t shot that many men in the back.”

  “That ain’t what peoples is sayin’,” Zack said.

  “Well, peoples is wrong, Zack,” Creed said. “If I was you boys, I’d turn right around and walk away.”

  “Come on, boy,” Trotter said, “you ain’t about to talk us outta this. And I know you ain’t about to skin that hogleg with us lookn’ at ya.”

  “You might be wrong about that . . . boy,” Creed said.

  “Don’t push it, Creed,” Trotter said. “Now we’re ready to shoot ya where ya stand and take you in dead. It don’t make no never mind to us.”

  “I gotta tell you, fellas,” Jimmy Creed said, “it really don’t make no never mind to me either.”

  “Then skin that—” Trotter started, going for his gun. His partner went right along with him.

  Jimmy Creed drew and fired before either man could clear leather. They both keeled over with shocked looks on their faces.

  Creed walked over to the fallen bounty hunters. Doyle was dead but there was still a glimmer of light in Glip Trotter’s eyes as he looked up at Jimmy Creed.

  “Boy, I don’t know how that reputation got started,” Creed said, ejecting the spent shells and replacing them. He holstered the gun. “But it just ain’t so, you see? Oh, wait, you can’t see, can you?”

  Trotter died and Creed continued on to the livery stable.

  • • •

  Johnny Creed left the whorehouse and started walking toward his hotel. Before he got very far, though, a man stepped out into his path.

  “Who are you?” Creed asked. “Whataya want?”

  “Boy,” the man said, “I heard you just spent about an hour with my girl.”

  “Your girl?” Creed asked.

  “Angel,” the man said. “I go see her every day, but today they told me she couldn’t see me because she was with you. Why, you’re still wet behind the ears, boy. How old are you?”

  “Old enough,” Creed said. “Now step aside.”

  “Nope,” the man said, “afraid I can’t do that.”

  “What’s your name?” Johnny Creed asked.

  “Billy Holloway.”

  “Well, Billy, you look about twenty-five to me,” Johnny Creed said. “You wanna make it to twenty-six, you better stand aside.”

  Holloway regarded Johnny with disdain and said, “I don’t know what my girl could see in a kid like you.”

  “Well,” Johnny said, “I’m done with her so why don’t you just go and ask her.”

  Johnny started to walk around Holloway, but the man moved to block him again. He was wearing a worn Colt on his hip, and Johnny doubted he could use it.

  “You’re makin’ a mistake, Billy,” Johnny Creed said. “Stand aside.”

  “I think I’m gonna pound you into the ground.”

  “Look, you’re bigger and older than me,” Johnny said. “You probably can pou
nd me into the ground, but I ain’t just gonna stand here and let you do it.”

  “Get ready for a whuppin’,” Holloway said, advancing on Johnny.

  “No,” Johnny said, stepping back, “get ready to die.”

  Both men kept moving, Holloway forward, and Johnny Creed backward.

  “Stand still and fight,” Holloway said.

  “Stand still and draw your gun.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Real men fight with their fists,” Holloway said.

  “Not when they’re outmatched,” Johnny said. “I ain’t lettin’ you lay a hand on me. I’ll kill you first.”

  Holloway stared at Johnny Creed for a long moment, then frowned.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That might be right,” Johnny said. “Right now I think I really want to kill you, so come on. Try to pound me into the ground. I dare you.”

  Holloway backed away immediately, said, “The hell with you,” and walked away . . . quickly.

  Johnny Creed let out a breath and continued to walk to the livery stable.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sheriff Tom Cox studied the tracks on the ground, but couldn’t make hide nor hair of it.

  “Ballard!”

  Ed Ballard came trotting over.

  “Yeah, Sheriff?”

  “You’re my tracker,” the lawman said. “What’s going on here?”

  They had come to a crossroads, and needed the tracks in the ground to tell them which way to go, only there were a lot of tracks—wagon and horse—to choose from.

  Ballard got down on one knee.

  “This ain’t easy, Sheriff,” he said.

  “Well, do the best you can.”

  Cox walked back to the rest of the posse, left Ballard to do what he did best.

  “What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?” Deputy Will Teller asked.

  “We got a mess of tracks,” Cox said.

  “Ballard’ll pick him out,” Dan Davis said. “He’s a helluva tracker.”

  Davis was a storekeeper who’d volunteered for the posse. Two other members of the ten-man posse were also storekeepers.

  “What if he don’t?” Deputy Hal Toarke asked. “We gonna split up?”

  “No, we’re not going to split up,” Cox said. He didn’t trust either of his deputies to lead a posse. Teller was in his twenties, too young. Toarke was in his thirties, but was too dumb.

  Cox looked over at Ballard, who was walking the roads, first one, then the other.

  “Sheriff!”

  Cox trotted over.

  “You find him?”

  “This way,” Ballard said, pointing.

  “You sure?”

  “Look at it.” Ballard went down on one knee and pointed.

  “I see it,” Cox said. “It’s a track.”

  “It’s huge,” Ballard said, standing up. “The biggest one here. That’s got to be him.”

  “Okay, then,” Cox said. “We follow this road.”

  “Where does it lead?” Ballard asked.

  “I was hoping you’d know,” Cox said. “I don’t get out this far from town very often.”

  “Neither do I.”

  They walked back to the posse to ask the rest of them the same question. It was then Cox realized that none of these men had ever been this far from town.

  Some posse.

  “Mount up, Ballard,” Cox said, “and take the lead.”

  “Yessir.”

  The tracker rode off and the others followed behind.

  • • •

  Clint rode into the town of Las Vegas, New Mexico. He’d been there a few times before, visited with a friend of his who had a ranch outside of town. But he wasn’t there to see a friend. He didn’t have time for that. Not with a posse behind him, and a probable killer in front of him. He hoped his friend John Locke would forgive him for not riding out to see him.

  He’d tracked Johnny Creed through several small towns, where bartenders and hostlers recognized Clint’s description of the young man. Somehow, Creed had managed to stay out of trouble in these towns, which surprised Clint, given what he knew about Creed’s abrasive personality.

  Maybe this town would be different . . .

  • • •

  Normally, riding into a town like this, Clint would stop at the sheriff’s office, but he couldn’t take that chance. As he had been doing in other small towns, he tried the saloons and the livery stables. In one saloon, he ran into somebody who recognized the description.

  He had just finished asking the bartender in the Red Garter Saloon about Creed when a large young man at the bar said, “I think I seen him.”

  Clint turned to face him.

  “You think?”

  “Crazy kid, right?” the man said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy Holloway.”

  “What makes you say he was crazy?”

  “All I wanted to do was fight, you know?” the man asked.

  “And he didn’t want to fight?”

  “He wanted to kill me,” the big man said.

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No,” Holloway said.

  “Why not?”

  “I backed off,” he said. “I wasn’t about to die over some whore.”

  “This was an argument over a whore?”

  “Yeah,” Holloway said. “Little whore over at the cathouse name of Angel.”

  “Angel,” Clint repeated. “So she spent some time with him?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “my time. I just wanted to teach the little bastard a lesson, and he threatened to gun me! I ain’t no gunhand.”

  “Guess you’re lucky to be alive,” Clint said.

  “Why?” the bartender asked. “Is the kid a gunhand?”

  “Reputed to be,” Clint said. “I’ve never seen his move, though.”

  “What about you, friend?” Holloway asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you a hand with a gun?”

  “You fellas are stupid,” another voice said.

  They all looked over at a man seated alone at a table. He was in his fifties, sitting with his hand wrapped around a bottle.

  “Watch your mouth, Hank,” Holloway said.

  “Don’t threaten me, ya little pissant!” Hank Calhoun said. “That fella yer talkin’ to ain’t just a hand with a gun. That’s the Gunsmith.”

  “What are ya talkin’ about?” Holloway said to Hank. “Yer crazy!”

  “That right?” the bartender asked Clint. “You Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why are you lookin’ for this young fella?” the bartender asked. “You gonna try him out?”

  Hank laughed at that question.

  “What are you laughin’ at?” Holloway asked.

  “He ain’t got nothin’ ta prove,” Hank said. “If anythin’, the kid is probably gonna try him. Or his old man.”

  Clint took a better look at Hank. The level of the whiskey bottle was less than one finger.

  “So you recognized this kid?” Clint asked.

  “I may have.”

  “He don’t know nothin’,” Holloway said. “He’s just a loudmouthed drunk.”

  Hank laughed again, a phlegm-filled sound.

  “I know more than you’ll ever know,” he said.

  Clint looked at the bartender and said, “Give me a fresh beer, and another bottle of what Hank’s drinking.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Holloway asked.

  “I’m going to have a drink with Hank,” Clint said. “And you should have more respect for your elders.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint sat down opposite Hank Calhoun, pushed the bo
ttle over to him.

  “You need a glass?” he asked.

  “I been drinkin’ a long time, Adams,” Hank said. “I know how to do it without a glass.”

  “I’ll bet,” Clint said, “but don’t get too drunk to talk to me.”

  “I’m never too drunk to talk.” He tipped the bottle and drank down several swallows. “Whataya wanna know?”

  “How’d you recognize the kid I’m following?”

  “I know his old man,” Hank said. “Saw the kid about ten years ago. He looks about the same.”

  “And who are we talking about?” Clint asked.

  “The Creeds,” Hank said. “Jimmy and his boy, Johnny.”

  “How much do you know about Johnny?”

  “Nothin’,” Hank said. “I saw him here, recognized him. That’s all.”

  “You didn’t approach him?” Clint asked. “Talk to him?”

  “Naw,” Hank said, “I got nothin’ to say to him.”

  “Okay, when was he here?”

  “Couple of days ago,” Hank said. “If you’re trackin’ him, he’s two days ahead of you.”

  “Would you know where he’s going?” Clint asked.

  “Naw,” Hank said.

  “What about his old man?” Clint asked. “Know where he is?”

  “Not a clue.” Hank took a long pull off his bottle.

  “Did you ride with Jimmy?” Clint asked. “Is that how you know him?”

  “Years ago,” Hank said. “I ain’t gone down that road in a long time.”

  Clint sipped his beer.

  “What about the whorehouse this fella was telling me about?” he asked. “The girl, Angel.”

  “Just a whore,” Hank said. “Looks real young, so she’s popular with men of all ages.”

  “But she’s not young?”

  “Younger than you and me,” Hank said.

  “I see. Well, thanks, Hank.”

  “You gonna go and see ’er?” Hank asked. “Angel, I mean?”

  “I guess I’ll have to.”

  Hank cackled and said, “You’ll like her. She’s real popular.”

  “I’ll just be talking to her.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, “sure. Wait till you see her.”

  “Thanks, Hank,” Clint said. He had another sip of beer, and then left the saloon.