The Widowmaker War

by Kurt Barker

  “Why don't move into town? Jubilation isn't that far away.”

  “Jubilation ain't my kind of town,” the girl grumbled, sweeping a lock of red hair back from her sweaty brow. “I'd rather stay here than go to that shit hole.”

  “It might be safer,” Blackshot suggested.

  “Don't worry about us. That trouble last night was a different sorta thing; we can take care of ourselves most times. Ingrid's got her rifle, and I'm thinking to fetch a gun from one of those bastards so we'll have two, and that'll be enough to see us right.”

  Blackshot pulled off his shirt and draped it across the wooden rail. “That's all you've got; just the one rifle?” He turned and saw that Molly had done the same; she was bare from the waist up, sweat glistening on her plump breasts and the ridges of her ribs.

  She smiled impishly at him with an arched eyebrow. “One big gun is usually plenty, but the way Ingrid hogs it all to herself don't seem fair, wouldn't you say?”

  “I can't argue with you.” Blackshot recalled how he had seen the man cut down by pistol fire from the back window of the house the previous night, but he said nothing. He didn't need to stick his nose into a problem he wasn't getting paid for, and besides, the way Molly's ample tits jiggled on her chest as she shifted the hay were giving his mind other things to think about.

  After a few moments, Molly stood up and leaned the pitchfork against the wall. Wiping off her hands on her thighs, she declared, “Good. That's done.”

  “Done? We're not half way through the pile.”

  “It's plenty enough for our purposes.” Molly hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and slid them down her hips. She kicked them off into the hay as she sauntered up to Blackshot and ran her hands down his tightly-muscled abdomen. “Besides, I got better ways for us to work up a sweat.”

  Chapter 7

  “Your sister warned me about your manners,” Blackshot grinned.

  Molly blew a strand of fiery hair from her face. “Her and her manners! She ain't the boss of me. Is she the boss of you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I ain't had a man inside me for a long time and I ain't letting you out of here until you fuck me good and hard.”

  “It would be quite a shame to let all of our hard work moving that hay go to waste,” Blackshot agreed. He circled his arms around her and cupped her luscious ass cheeks in his hands, pulling her body against his own. Her flesh was warm and soft and wet against his skin, and her mouth was open, waiting for his.

  Their lips crushed together with an intensity like two locomotives crashing together, and they fell into the hay, their limbs entwined in a passionate clinch. Molly's hands slid down Blackshot's stomach and into the front of his trousers while her hungry kisses continued unrelentingly. Blackshot's cock was already threatening to bust right out of his jeans even before her fingers closed around its girth and began pumping it vigorously against his stomach; he practically tore his fly open and let it leap out, stiff and long.

  Molly was wasting no time; she rolled up onto her knees, straddling Blackshot while she continued to chafe his manhood between her palms. Her supple breasts dangled against him with her movement, and she guided his shaft between them and pressed her flesh against his. The generous mounds swelled hot and silky soft against him as she rubbed them up and down his pulsing shaft. Strands of scarlet hair fell across his stomach as she brought her tongue to his head with each undulation of her body. Her lips drew him into the fiery heat of her mouth and then released him again, moistening his shaft and her breasts that surrounded it with her saliva.

  Blackshot groaned as Molly slid up his body, letting his rigid cock run slowly down her belly and press into her navel. Sparks were coursing through his veins and stoking the fires of his desire; he lifted her up, his big hands almost meeting as they encircled the girl's slender waist, positioning her so that the tip of his shaft was brushing through the patch of damp red hair between her thighs. She was breathing hard and let out a little squeal as he slowly parted her lips.

  “Don't tease me,” she panted. “Don't tease-”

  Molly's words were cut off in a sudden cry as Blackshot jerked her down against his hips, impaling her fully on his rigid length. Then she was rising up again, riding him for all she was worth; her heavy breasts jumped and compressed against her ribs and her hair flew about her head like a blazing fire as she bounced up and down on his cock with wild abandon.

  She was as hot and sticky-wet on the inside as she was on the outside, and the sultry warmth of her body surrounding him drove Blackshot into an almost manic vigor. He surged upward with mighty thrusts to meet her each time she descended, grinding as deep into her belly as he could with every impact of her heavy ass against his hips.

  Sweat was streaming down Molly's chest and stomach, and flew in flecks from her dancing breasts. With an animal scream, she threw back her head and stiffened atop him as a powerful orgasm gripped her body. Blackshot rose up as she strained against him, hefting her into the hay on her back. Her legs wrapped around him as he bent over her, and tightened like a snake constricting its prey.

  Grunting hungrily, Blackshot bowed against her with all his might, bending her almost in half as he plunged into her once more. Molly wailed plaintively as he pounded his pulsing girth deep into her gut with furious strokes. His hands sought her wobbling breasts and kneaded the swollen mounds against his palms, letting her glistening flesh bulge out between his fingers. Her eyes were masked in a tangled network of scarlet hair, and her mouth was open wide in a silent moan.

  Blackshot continued ramming into the girl's loins with unabated ferocity, but when she climaxed again, writhing in ecstatic throes against him, he knew that he was at the limit of his control as well. With a final thrust he let go, erupting into her in hot, streaming jets.

  At last they collapsed together in the hay and lay motionless in the silence of the little barn; movement seemed impossible, as if every last once of energy had been drained from their bodies and from the world itself. Blackshot watched the rising and falling of Molly's sweat-drenched chest, and felt her little fingers winnow gently through his dripping hair. Finally he mustered the strength to sit up and then get to his feet.

  As he pulled on his clothes, Molly lay still in the scattered pile of hay, watching him with thoughtful eyes. “When you're done with whatever you're doin' where you're goin', will you pass by this way again?”

  “I don't know. Maybe.”

  “Try.”

  “Then I'll try.”

  She was still lying there when he rode away, and Blackshot had a feeling that he would indeed be passing by that way again.

  Chapter 8

  The noonday sun beat down on the bleached rooftops of Jubilation, seeming to suck the very air out of the streets and leaving only dust to breathe. The town appeared to have surrendered to this suffocating malaise and let itself be lulled into a listless sleep; nothing moved between the weather-beaten false fronts of the shops that bracketed the main street, and the clumps of houses and shacks that strung out along the railroad track were as silent as a tomb.

  However, as Blackshot reached the edge of town, it seemed to awaken out of its lethargy. A ripple of excitement washed through the shaded storefronts and billowed out into the houses beyond. Jubilation was not a place that normally took note of a stranger riding through its streets, but a stranger leading a train of horses with dead men on their backs was another matter!

  Blackshot was aware of faces scrutinizing him out of windows, and dim figures stepping into doorways to take in the sight as he rode past. He scanned the buildings along the main street, looking for a sheriff's office, but just then a tall, angular man with a silver badge on his vest front stepped stepped out into the sunlight and held up his hand for Blackshot to stop. The sheriff's face was lined and drawn and his close-cropped brown hair was turning to gray around his temples; he didn't look like the sort of man that was ever happy to see anyone, and he certainl
y didn't look happy to see Blackshot.

  “What the hell is all this about?!” he snapped as Blackshot pulled up in front of him.

  “Some bandits,” Blackshot replied. “They were making trouble out by the well in the valley, and it turned out to be more trouble than they could handle.”

  The sheriff squinted up at him in an appraising sort of way. “You killed 'em?”

  “Most of them.”

  “You some kind of gunfighter?”

  “When I have to shoot, I can shoot pretty well.”

  “What's your business in Jubilation, huh?”

  “Once I get these gents to boot hill, I'm going to look up a fella that lives here in town,” Blackshot said. “His name's Groom; do you know where I can find him?”

  “Do I look like a damn city directory to you?” the sheriff snarled. “You be outta here by sundown, you hear?”

  “Friendly sort of town, eh?”

  “This isn't the kind of town for a gunslinger. You'd best be on your way, and fast!”

  “Well then, I'd better not sit here jawing with you,” Blackshot grinned. He touched the brim of his hat as he started Khamsin trotting past the sheriff. “You have a nice day, sheriff.”

  The sheriff only scowled and stood watching him as he led the train of horses down the street. Once he had disposed of the bodies, Blackshot started the search for Buster Groom. The saloon seemed the most likely place to find him, or at least find people who knew him, so he made his way back onto the main street where he had recalled seeing one on his way into town. Now that the minor excitement of Blackshot's arrival had passed, Jubilation had largely lapsed into siesta once more, and there were few people moving along the street. One of those few was a short, red-faced man with neatly-combed gray hair, who was standing on the corner and waved to Blackshot as he approached.

  “Hello there, sir! Have you got a moment?” the man called.

  Blackshot pulled up beside him. “What can I do for you, friend?”

  “You can start by coming in out of the sun and having a cool drink with me.” The man gestured to an open door behind him, which stood at the front of a small house built onto the side of the general store. A wooden sign hung above the door reading “The Jubilation Herald”.

  “Newspaper man, huh?”

  “That's right. Sam Marvin, editor of the Jubilation Herald, first newspaper in the territory.”

  “Don't tell me I've become newsworthy already!”

  Marvin laughed. “I get the sense that you're the sort of man that has had his name show up in the paper more than once.”

  “I'll have that drink,” Blackshot said.

  Chapter 9

  The office of the Jubilation Herald was a long narrow room, so cramped with rows of shelves and paper-covered desks that there was only enough room to walk single file toward the big printing press that sat against the back wall. It was scarcely cooler than the street, and Marvin left the front door open behind them as they entered. The back door stood open as well, and a skinny boy of maybe fifteen wearing a smudged apron lingered in the opening.

  “You need me, Pop?” he called.

  “No, we're just going to sit and talk for a spell, Russ,” the little man replied. “You can go out if you want.”

  The youngster disappeared out the back door and Sam Marvin motioned Blackshot to a chair beside a cluttered table as he retrieved a bottle of gin and a couple of glasses from a shelf. “So it looks like you had a bit of an exciting night last night, eh?” he said.

  “There was a bit of a to-do, but if you want to know the whys and wherefores, I can't help you much there,” Blackshot replied. “I just happened by the well when it was all kicking off, and I only did what I could to put a stop to it.”

  “The well down in the canyon, you mean?” Marvin questioned. “Where the two widow women live?”

  “Yes, but there are three widows living out there. They're sisters, they told me.”

  Marvin regarded Blackshot thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “Hmm.... three.... I suppose. And I think I counted eight men dead when you rode into town, correct?”

  “Probably. I didn't take a roll call before I left. Whatever number it was, it seemed like the sheriff would have been happier if it was one more.”

  “Ah yes, I saw Sheriff Preston stop you in the street. He told you to get out of town, I take it?”

  “He was in a generous mood so he gave me until sunset.”

  Marvin smiled. “That's our Sheriff Preston! Takes his job mighty seriously, he does, but he's good at it. Jubilation is a pretty quiet town, even with the railroad coming through. I expect his reputation has gotten around too, so bad folks know to stay away.”

  “Famous, is he?” Blackshot asked with a grin. “If I'd known I was being kicked out of town by a celebrity, I'd have felt more honored.”

  “You've never heard of Calvin Preston? The man who gunned down the notorious train robber El Potro Alvaron and his whole gang single-handed?”

  “No, I didn't hear about that. So he took them down all by himself?”

  Marvin waved a dismissive hand. “No, that's all lies.” Blackshot eyed the little man quizzically. Seeing his expression, Marvin laughed and continued, “Not all lies, of course. That's the problem with being a newspaper man, you see; I've got to print the truth and nobody tells it. Sheriff Preston was part of a posse that formed to hunt down El Potro after the Jubilation Train Heist about a year ago. Eventually they caught up to him by the Fergus ranch not far from town and shot it out with the gang. El Potro and his gang were killed and that was the end of the train robberies. Now, when I talk to the men in the posse, I get stories about Preston whipping the whole gang by himself, and stories where El Potro had 'em trapped in a canyon and tried to roll boulders down on them, and stories about Old Clete Fergus throwing a snake on El Potro and it biting him and killing him before the first bullet was even fired.”

  “Folks do like to tell tall tales,” Blackshot agreed.

  “Yes, especially when it came to El Potro! Folks made him out to be some kind of blasted folk hero when he was nothing but a common bandit. His gang was pretty famous around these parts; I'm surprised you haven't heard of him.”

  “I wasn't around these parts last year. I guess I heard the name El Potro once or twice but I can't say I knew much about him.”

  “Not the others either? Viking Mike or Silent Eagle or the gunfighter Gancho Chavez? Everybody knew their names around here; everyone who read the Herald, anyway,” Marvin chucked. “They sold a lot of newspapers for me!”

  “Gancho-- doesn't that mean hook?” Blackshot asked.

  “That's right. They called him that on account of him losing his right hand on a cattle drive when he was a youngster, and after that he wore a hook in its place.”

  Chapter 10

  “I saw a man with a hook for his right hand last night,” Blackshot said. “He was out by the well when the fighting started.”

  “Couldn't have been Gancho Chavez,” Marvin said, shaking his head. “He was killed by the posse at the Fergus ranch.”

  “Unless it was a lie.”

  Marvin laughed. “Now you're thinking like a newspaper man! But no, you can be sure of that one! They brought a couple of the bodies back to town and buried them here.”

  “A couple of the bodies?”

  “A few of the gang including El Potro himself got shot down trying to cross the river to escape, and the bodies were lost to the current, but I don't think Gancho was one of them.” The little man tossed off his drink and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “I can tell you for certain, though; let's see now....”

  He sifted through some stacks of paper on a nearby desk, and after a few minutes he produced a yellowed and wrinkled copy of the Jubilation Herald. He held it out to Blackshot, indicating the top story with a stubby forefinger.

  “Yep, there you go, down at the bottom. It's all in black and white: 'The bodies of Ernesto “Gancho” Chavez and Maurits Pederson,
AKA Viking Mike Pedersen were recovered by the posse,' etc., etc.”

  A portrait of each member of the gang, small and blurred, accompanied the article, and Blackshot studied the picture of Gancho Chavez. The mustache and long hair were the same, and in the picture he wore the same wide-brimmed hat.

  “That looks a lot like the man I saw,” Blackshot said.

  “Believe me, son, if Gancho Chavez had clawed his way out of the grave, I would have covered it in the Herald. You saw one thing and now that you're seeing something similar, your mind is filling in the gaps. We all do it.”

  “So I'm lying to myself, is that it?”

  “Like I say, we all do it.” The little man refilled his glass, the third time he had done so if Blackshot's count was accurate, and offered the bottle to Blackshot, who declined as he was still working on his first. “Wait a minute, I've got something else to show you that I think you'll find interesting,” Marvin said, getting to his feet again. “Yes, I think you'll find it very interesting....”

  He searched through the messy desk once more, and eventually drew out a large sepia photograph. He placed it on the table in front of Blackshot and stood back, smiling. “The El Potro gang. What do you think of that, eh?”

  At the center of the picture was El Potro Alvaron, sitting on a wooden chair. He was burly and thick-set, his hair and beard a mass of black curls, and his dark eyes suggesting a mind that was daring and arrogant. More notably, though, on his lap sat a stunning woman with an unruly chocolate mane and large, haughty eyes. She wore a faded slouch hat and black boots, a gun belt slung from her broad hips, and nothing else. Marvin noticed Blackshot's gaze lingering on the impressive curves of the beauty's naked body, and chuckled.

  “Mariposa they called her!” he offered. “She was El Potro's girl and he took her with him like one the gang. They say that she rode buck naked just like that when they held up the trains, too.”

  “Is that so?”