by Kurt Barker
Blackshot: The Widowmaker War
by Kurt Barker
Blackshot: The Widowmaker War
copyright 2018 by Kurt Barker
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Gunslinger. Mercenary. Killer. Lover.
They called him all this and much more, but like no other in the wild lawless West, the name Tom Blackshot struck fear in the black hearts of outlaws and renegades, and sparked desire in the bosoms of beautiful women. If you were lucky enough to hire the legendary mystery man, no danger was too great and no enemy so deadly that Blackshot could not overcome them. With a gun in his hand or a woman in his arms, Blackshot was without equal.
This is a tale of but one of his many harrowing adventures.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 1
Any illusions Tom Blackshot had about the job being an easy one were shattered when he heard the gunshot and the woman's scream echoing off the high walls of the canyon. The big black Arabian stallion beneath him had heard it too, and he felt a ripple of excitement course through its powerful body. Blackshot snapped the reins and urged the horse in the direction of the shot, letting one large hand hang down near the well-worn butt of the black Colt revolver at his side.
At the mouth of the canyon the rocky ground sloped gradually down into a dusty valley, half shrouded in the long shadows of the cliffs as the setting sun rested on their jagged brow. A pair of low, flat-roofed buildings squatted in the middle of the barren expanse, bracketing an old well. Several men and horses moved about the well and Blackshot could hear raised voices, angry and threatening. Far off beyond this scene the first lights of Jubilation were twinkling in the gloom.
Jubilation, the town where the “easy” job was waiting for Blackshot. He had been hired to hunt down Buster Groom, a petty robber who had escaped from a little block jail in a little dusty town which was run by a little blustery judge with a great big ego which demanded that he offer twice the going rate to the man who could catch Groom and bring him back to his domain. For his part, Groom was a middle-aged pickpocket whose skills had been eroded by drink, and he had broken out of jail to go see his woman in Jubilation. He hadn't carried a gun since he had accidentally shot himself in the foot some years back, and his limp from that injury meant that he couldn't even run fast. A job like this was almost a vacation for a man like Blackshot, at least it had looked like that up until now.
As he approached the well, he could better make out what was going on, and it was no friendly meeting. Five men were gathered around the well; one was on horseback and held the horses for the others, and the rest were on foot surrounding a young woman who was crumpled on her knees at their feet. She wore faded blue jeans and her torn blouse had been cast aside, leaving her naked from the waist up; her plump breasts shook as one of the men jerked her head back by a handful of her fiery red hair. Glistening crimson blood stained her full lips and trickled down her chin, and her eyes were teary but defiant.
One of the small buildings appeared to be a stable and the other was a house; at the door of the house was open and another woman, tall and shapely with long blonde braids, stood in the doorway with a rifle raised to her shoulder. She wore a gingham dress and her feet were bare; fear and anger burned in her big blue eyes as she faced the men at the well.
“Get out of here! I'll kill you!” Her voice was shrill and panicked.
“Calm down, sister! You want this bitch to get hurt?” The man who held the redhead by her hair was a burly, bearded man in a frayed bowler hat. In his other hand he held a pistol against the girl's bare back. Another of the men had his revolver drawn as well and held it pointed at the blonde.
Just then, from the corner of his eye Blackshot spied another man, standing among the rocky outcroppings that protruded into the valley from the feet of the cliffs. He seemed little more than another shadow in the deepening twilight, but Blackshot could make out long dark hair protruding from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and more notably, a silver hook in place of the man's right hand. He stood still, observing the scene but making no move to get involved. Blackshot couldn't tell if he was part of the gang in the valley, but he kept an eye on him as he rode toward the commotion at the well.
As he approached, the shouting stopped and all eyes turned to take in this intruder into the scene. They looked over the tall, broad-shouldered form clad all in black, looking no less impressive than the mighty black stallion he rode, and lingered on the pair of revolvers hung low from his hips, but none could hold the gaze of the hard steel gray eyes that looked out from beneath the flat-crowned black hat.
Blackshot stepped down from his horse and sauntered toward the well. “Evening, folks. If this is your idea of fun, I'd recommend you come up with a different one,” he said.
“Hey buddy, this ain't none of your business,” the bearded man snapped, re-gripping his pistol nervously. The others began to inch away from each other, their hands hovering by their gun butts as they spread out.
“It can stay that way if you let the girl go,” Blackshot replied.
The men cast sideways glances at each other, but said nothing.
“I sometimes ask nicely but I never ask twice.” Blackshot's voice was calm and low, but the strength behind it was evident.
“Let's go,” called the man on the horse. “It ain't no difference to us.”
The man in the bowler snorted angrily and glowered at Blackshot, but reluctantly he released his grip on the girl's hair. She jumped to her feet and stumbled through the line of men toward the door of the little house. The blonde took her by the arm with one hand without lowering the rifle in the other, and pushed her inside. Blackshot caught a fleeting glimpse of another woman in a black veil pulling the redhead through the door and then the blonde backed in after her. She swung the door to, but did not shut it entirely; a narrow gap was left and through it protruded the barrel of the rifle.
A couple of the men began to move slowly toward the horses, but one, a lanky, sour-faced man with stringy black hair stopped to face Blackshot. “We don't need to go nowhere,” he grunted. “This guy ain't the law or nobody special.”
His words seemed to embolden the bearded man, who squared his shoulders toward the interloper. “Yeah, you fuck off! We're staying right here,” he sneered. “We don't take water off no saddle bum like you!”
“Looks like you just did,” Blackshot replied.
With an angry oath the bearded man's pistol swung upward. Before it had raised half way level, Blackshot
's hand flashed to his side with inhuman speed and came up again with fire spitting from the mouth of his gun. A bullet punched through the heavy man's gut, doubling him over as his own gun fired into the dirt at his feet. The second slug tore through his throat, dropping him to the ground on his face with blood pooling around his head.
The black-haired man had grabbed for his gun the instant that his partner had raised his, but he had barely cleared the holster when Blackshot's bullet smacked into his chest, lifting him up onto his toes and sending him staggering back against the side of the well. At almost the same moment, Blackshot's left hand swept down and palmed his other Colt, and as the chambers of the first gun emptied into the bloody body of the lanky man, this one fired across its barrel.
The shot carried the hat from the head of one of the other men, taking part of his head with it and making the pistol that he had drawn fall from his lifeless fingers. As he pitched to the ground with blood and brains spilling down his shirtfront, the other two men turned and fled. They did not so much as look back as their horses streaked across the valley and disappeared into the shadows of the hills.
Even as the tattoo of the horses' hooves faded from his earshot, Blackshot turned to cast a glance at the man with the hook. He was nowhere to be seen; Blackshot scanned the rugged landscape for any sign of movement but found none. Whoever the man was, he either had no part of this business or no appetite for a fight.
“They're gone,” Blackshot called to the women in the house as he thumbed fresh shells into the chambers of the Colts.
“Go away!” cried a frightened voice.
“Are you all okay in there?” He took a step toward the house, but suddenly the rifle at the door barked out, sending sparks flying from the edge of the well as the slug glanced off it's face.
“Go away!” came the same reply.
Blackshot whistled and the black Arabian came to his side. As he swung up into the saddle and turned onto the trail toward Jubilation, he tipped his hat to the muzzle of the rifle that followed his every move.
“Nice meeting you, too,” he said.
Chapter 2
The sun had retreated below the rim of the cliffs and only its last faint glow in the purple sky served to illuminate the dark trail. The sleek Arabian stallion picked his way confidently through the rocky terrain toward the lights of Jubilation, but Blackshot's thoughts were still lingering on the conflict at the well. It may have been nothing more than a pack of lawless drifters happening across women living far from help, and taking what advantage of the situation that they could, but somehow it didn't sit right in his mind.
It seemed wrong somehow, the way the men had behaved, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was bothering him about it. And who was the man with the hook in place of a hand? Was he just a passing traveler that happened on the scene by chance, as Blackshot had been, or was he involved somehow? If he was part of the gang of thugs, he hadn't done much to help them.
The distant rumble of a locomotive wafted across the valley to Blackshot, pulling him from his musings. The train was too far away to be seen in the low light, but it would be pulling into Jubilation soon, just like he was. He shook the reins, quickening the stallion's pace.
“Let's go, Khamsin, old boy,” he said. “Some knots just aren't worth unraveling.”
The horse shook its jet black mane and snorted, as if to show his lack of interest in unraveling any sort of knot. As they crested the hill, Blackshot turned and took a last look into the valley; the house and the well were invisible in the darkness now. The sound of the train engine was no longer audible, but in its place he heard the thumping of horse hooves far off in the valley behind him. Were they heading for the well? He listened intently but could not tell, and soon they died away, too.
Dismissing it all once again from his mind, Blackshot was just about to turn once again toward Jubilation when a sudden flash of light burst from the darkness of the valley and the faint bark of a rifle shot came to his ears. Swearing under his breath, he turned Khamsin back down the hill and drove on a dead run.
“Forget what I said,” he muttered. “We're taking one more crack at this knot.”
As they plunged forward through the darkness of the valley, that darkness was suddenly broken by a blaze of flame. In its flickering light Blackshot could make out the fronts of the two squat buildings that flanked the old well; men were moving about the little courtyard, their shadows dancing uncannily in the fire light. The fire itself was coming from a little buckboard whose top was consumed in a raging inferno. Three men had gathered behind it and were pushing it slowly toward the low-roofed house.
The rifle sounded again from the front door, but the men pushing the buckboard did not stop. Just then Blackshot saw a flash from the back of the house and heard the report of a pistol shot; in the brief light of the muzzle flash, the silhouette of a man behind the building stumbled and fell.
The hooves of the Arabian flew across the arid expanse, closing the distance to the fight at the well in what seemed like mere seconds. Blackshot drew one of the Colts from his side as he rode, and fired two quick shots in the direction of the flaming wagon as he careened into the courtyard.
The gunshots and the crackling of the blaze had kept the men behind the buckboard from hearing his approach, and now they were caught off-guard; two of the men scattered frantically away while the third turned and grabbed for the pistol at his side. Before he had a chance to clear leather the hulking stallion smashed into him at full speed, crushing him beneath his powerful hooves. Blackshot pulled back on the reins, bringing Khamsin to a stop atop the man and trampling him to a bloody pulp.
A man in an army cap emerged from the shadows behind the little ramshackle stable with a shotgun in his hands, and Blackshot put a bullet through his throat, painting the wall behind him a deep red. The shotgun roared out with a blast of yellow light, peppering the ground at his feet with buckshot and sending clouds of dust into the acrid air.
The two remaining men who had fled from the burning wagon had now regrouped behind the relative safety of the well. A bullet sped by Blackshot's collar as he spurred Khamsin forward again; turning sharply, he rode behind the flaming buckboard, putting the blaze between him an the men at the well. The smoke was thick all around the courtyard, burning his throat and stinging his eyes. The fire was burning bright and he knew that the men did not dare look into it for long. They would be watching the sides of the buckboard, waiting to cut him down the moment he broke from its cover. A bullet kicked up dirt by the back wheel of the wagon, as if to emphasize the danger of coming into the open.
Blackshot climbed up to a crouching position on the stallion's back, drawing his other pistol as he did so. With an agility uncommon for such a large man, he sprang from the horse's back and into the bed of the wagon. Touching down on the brittle boards only for an instant, he propelled himself with a mighty thrust of his legs through the flickering tops of the flames, bursting suddenly from the blinding firelight and landing atop the edge of the well.
The two men crouching behind the stone wall of the well had only an instant to look up and realize what had happened before Blackshot's Colts were pouring fire down on them. One half-raised his gun before a slug tore it from his hand, taking a few fingers with it, and a second bullet laid him out with a hole between his eyes. The other crumpled to the ground beneath the withering hail of lead, his shirtfront soaked a dark crimson.
As the echoes of the shots died into the night, Blackshot jumped down from the well, covering every open space between the buildings with his guns. Nothing moved but the undulating shadows cast by the fire, though, and the crackling of the burning wood was the only sound. Holstering his pistols, he lowered the bucket which sat on the stone wall into the black depths of the well. When a hollow splash from below told him it had reached water, he cranked furiously to bring it back to the mouth of the well.
The first bucketful of water failed to subdue more than a small part of the fire, so B
lackshot repeated the process. As he was reeling in bucket for the second time, he caught another sound above the noise of the fire: the thumping footfalls of a running horse. It wasn't nearby and from what he could make out, it was galloping away from him. Still he ran out from the hazy smoke that hung around the courtyard with gun in hand.
At first he could see nothing in the darkness, but then a silhouette of a horse and rider appeared for a moment on a distant ridge before disappearing again behind the rocks. In that instant Blackshot made out the rider's wide-brimmed hat and the long hair twisting in the wind beneath it. It was the hook-handed man from before; he had come again, but once again had apparently done nothing but observe! Who the hell was he and what was his game?
As Blackshot pondered this, he heard the sudden splashing of water and the hissing of extinguished fire. He turned and saw the redhead with the bucket in her hand, lowering it again into the well. The blonde stood beside her, facing Blackshot with the rifle at her side.
“Planning on taking another pot shot at me?” he asked.
The blonde's lips curved into a hesitant smile. “Come inside,” she said softly. “I'll make you something to eat.”
Chapter 3
The interior of the little house was surprisingly tidy and homey. Hand-sewn pillows rested on the wooden chairs, and the table at which Blackshot sat was spread with a white table cloth with bluebells embroidered around its edges. In addition to the main room, which served as living room, kitchen and dining room, there were two small rooms at the back of the house with bright tapestries hanging over the doorways to serve as doors.
The blonde was at the fireplace with her back to Blackshot, her golden braid falling across her shoulder as she leaned over the fire and stirred something in a charred cauldron which was beginning to smell mighty good to him. In addition to the pleasant aroma, Blackshot did not mind taking in the view of the girl's thin skirt stretching against her broad, fleshy rump and long legs. She turned and flashed a friendly smile at him, wiping the sweat from her brow. This view did not disappoint either, for she had unfastened her blouse half way down her prodigious bosom as she dabbed at the beads of sweat on her chest.