Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

  by Kurt Barker

  Blackshot: The Deed to Hell

  Blackshot: The Revenge Master

  Blackshot: Blood Money

  Blackshot: The Devil's Dancer

  Blackshot: The Hellcat Hunters

  Blackshot: The Horsethief and the Harem

  copyright 2017 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

  The Deed to Hell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  The Revenge Master

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Blood Money

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  The Devil's Dancer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Hellcat Hunters

  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

  The Horsethief and the Harem

  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

  The Deed to Hell

  Chapter 1

  The sound of a gunshot was very familiar to Tom Blackshot, and even distorted by the echoing walls of the canyon, it was unmistakable. Blackshot touched the spurs to the flanks of his horse and quickened his descent into the valley. A wispy tail of dust hung like a ghostly finger tracing the path of the gray stallion that carried Blackshot forward through the sultry air of the canyon.

  Shimmering figures appeared from the haze ahead, and Blackshot's eye caught the glint of sunlight on steel. There was a stagecoach sitting stationary, tilted at an awkward angle, two of its wheels on the sandy trail and the other two resting in the ruts among the gray scrub brush the lined the roadside. Two horses stood in the road beside the coach; a man with a drooping mustache and a wide brimmed sombrero sat astride one of them, a double barreled shotgun in his hands. Beside the other horse stood a burly, unshaven man in a slouch hat; he was brandishing a silver revolver in the direction of a man standing against the stagecoach. Behind them Blackshot made out the huddled form of another man kneeling on the ground, bent over in apparent pain.

  Blackshot rode up to the scene without slowing his pace, and all the players turned to look at him as he pulled the gray to a stop. The man doubled over on the ground was clutching his forearm, and blood was running from between his fingers and staining his pants leg. The burly gunman took a step toward Blackshot, taking the measure of him through squinted eyes. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with a flat-crowned black hat that cast a shadow over a pair of steely gray eyes, and a pair of black Colts slung low from his lean waist.

  “Keep ridin', buddy! This ain't your business!” the gunman snapped with a jerk of his head.

  “You're blocking the road,” came Blackshot's steady quiet voice.

  The man in the sombrero gently tugged the reins to turn his horse toward Blackshot. The other man raised his pistol. “You don't know what you're getting' into, buddy! Now ride around!”

  “If I ride through the brush, my horse might stumble,” Blackshot replied. “That would be dangerous. I could get hurt.”

  The outlaws stared at him in disbelief. Even the man standing against the stagecoach, a short, dapper-looking old gent with a white mustache and a faded green bowler, gaped at him incredulously.

  The burly gunman threw a quick glance at his partner. “This guy thinks he's funny or something,” he said.

  That glance meant that he did not see the almost inhuman speed with which Blackshot's hand had darted to the butt of his Colt and brought it streaking from its holster, already bursting into action. The first slug slammed into the outlaw's chest, sending him reeling backward into the other man's horse. He tried to raise his gun, but it fired harmlessly into the dirt at his feet as another bullet bored through his gut, sending a spray of blood across the horse's legs.

  The horse reared excitedly and leaped backward as the man crumpled to the ground at its feet, and the other outlaw could do nothing to stop it, for a bullet from Blackshot had knocked off his sombrero and sent it tumbling into the underbrush with some of his brains and skull still inside it. The man slid off the saddle as the horse burst into a run, dragging his limp body by a foot caught in the stirrup, trailing a long red streak in its wake.

  The faint echoes of the gunshots died in the thick, still air of the valley, and there was only silence as the wounded man and the man by the stagecoach stared wide-eyed at Blackshot. Behind the old gentleman there was a faint movement, and the white, frightened face of a pretty young woman looked out through the stagecoach door at the tall, muscular man with the smoking Colt. Blackshot swung down from his horse and returned the gun to its holster.

  “How bad are you?” he asked as he approached the man kneeling on the ground.

  The man, thick-set and red faced with a grizzled salt and pepper beard, squinted up at Blackshot. “I'll live,” he grunted. “That was some pretty fancy shootin', sir.”

  The young woman gently pushed past the old man that had stood barring the door of the stagecoach to the bandits, and slipped down to the ground, carrying a small handbag. She wore a green printed dress that hugged tight to her buxom curves, and a shock of red h
air spilled from her hat. She knelt beside the wounded man and drew out a handkerchief and a little vial, and began to treat his wounded arm as best she could with her meager supplies.

  The old gentleman strode over to Blackshot, doffing his bowler and pumping Blackshot's hand with grateful vigor. “Sir, you've saved our lives!” he said. His face was still ashen and his hand trembled in Blackshot's palm. “I hate to think about what those men had in store for me-- or for my daughter!” He shook his head at the thought. “Arnold J. Buckley's the name, and I'm ever so pleased to meet you; who might you be, sir?”

  “Blackshot. Tom Blackshot.”

  The wounded man looked up suddenly. “I heard of you,” he rasped. “I heard stories about you.”

  “Folks like to tell stories,” Blackshot replied.

  The girl shot a glance at him, and when his eyes met hers, she turned quickly away and resumed tending to the wound. The old gentleman smiled at Blackshot, wiping his still-shaking hands on the lapels of his coat. “We aren't far from the town of Larsonville,” he said. “In fact, we'd be there already if not for this... unpleasantness. Won't you accompany us into town? I owe you my life as well as my daughter's, but if you'll settle for a cold drink and a nice stake of grub, I'll even the accounts as best as I can.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Blackshot said with a grin. He went to the side of the wounded man and gently raised him to his feet, and with the redhead's help he arranged him in a relatively comfortable position inside the stagecoach. The girl followed him in and sat beside him to keep his wounded arm at ease.

  The wounded man had been the driver of the coach, and the old man didn't look capable of handling the driving duties, so Blackshot volunteered. He tied his own horse to the team in the harness and after easing the stagecoach back onto the sandy strip of the trail, he guided it toward town at a slow and gentle pace.

  Larsonville was not a large town, the whole of the community consisting of a row of false fronted buildings lining the stretch of rutted dirt that was the main (and only) street, but it did boast a decent, well stocked saloon. It was here that Old Buckley brought Blackshot to make good on his promise of good food and drink.

  Their first stop in town, however, was at the office of the sheriff, who found them a doctor to attend to the wounded driver (that is, he found a man who had done the job of a doctor in the war after the death of the real doctor, but in such a small town it was as good as could be expected). Once the driver was installed in a room at the little clapboard hotel beside the saloon, it was time to eat.

  Buckley's daughter, who Blackshot learned was named Tara, did not join them in the saloon, but went instead to rest in her room and her father paid the barman's sister, who waited the tables, to take some supper to Tara's room.

  Buckley made good on his word to Blackshot, and together they had a fine meal and emptied a good bottle of whiskey which had not been watered down too much. The old man looked a little ill at ease to Blackshot, and even though he kept up his end of a pleasant conversation, there was something in his eyes that told the tale of a man that had been bearing a worrisome burden for a long time.

  Now that they were sitting close together, Blackshot could also see that the old gentleman's suit was frayed around the cuffs and collar, and the neat green bowler that hung from a peg above his head looked pretty worn. Any light inquiries Blackshot made into Buckley's well-being were passed off by the old man, who kept the conversation turned to small talk and humorous stories. Whatever troubles might be dogging the old fellow, he intended to keep them to himself, so Blackshot didn't press him, and they parted company on the saloon porch, trading handshakes and thank-you's.

  Night had fallen, and a light breeze offered Blackshot a welcome respite from the day's stifling heat as he made his way to the hotel. He found his room at the top of the narrow staircase and went inside. To his surprise, the room was not dark; a candle was burning on the table by the bed, and in a chair by the window sat Tara Buckley.

  “Lovely night, don't you think?” she inquired, her green eyes sparkling in the candle light. She wore the same tight green dress, but her head was bare and her hair fell in long auburn waves across her shoulders.

  “Lovely,” Blackshot replied. “Is there something I can do for you, ma'am?”

  “First, call me Tara. I hate being called 'ma'am'. It makes me feel like an old woman. Second, I am here to thank you for rescuing me and my father from those bandits, since it has not been done properly.”

  “Actually, your pa thanked me already.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Tara replied impatiently. She stood up from the chair and her hands moved behind her back. The tight dress loosened around her body, then fell in a crumpled heap at her feet. The candle light danced on her creamy naked skin; the plump round breasts, the taut, slender waist curving out to wide hips with the patch of fiery red hair between them. “But I do it much better.”

  Chapter 2

  Tara stepped out of her fallen dress and walked close to Blackshot, running her small hands across his broad, thickly-muscled chest. “I could tell the first time I laid eyes on you,” she said in a smooth, seductive voice, “that you're the kind of man who likes to have himself some fun.”

  Blackshot grinned. “I'd say you enjoy a bit of fun yourself.”

  Tara thrust out her lip in a mocking pout. “But I haven't had any fun at all this whole trip!” she whined. Her fingers were steadily disposing of the buttons on Blackshot's shirt. “Not one little bit!”

  “Now that is a crime and an outrage that cannot be allowed to continue,” Blackshot replied. He ran his hands around Tara's hips and sunk his fingers into her soft voluptuous ass cheeks. He lifted her off the ground and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

  Tara tugged at his belt and once she had discarded it, she moved right on to his trousers with quick, deft fingers. She slid her fingers into his belt loops and yanked, letting Blackshot's long, thick cock swing free from his pants and surge out toward her. Tara let out a low whistle as she ran her fingers along its rigid length.

  “Now this looks like the sort of thing a girl could have some fun with,” she purred with a mischievous arch of her eyebrow.

  “We strive to please,” Blackshot said.

  She leaned toward him with her lips parted, gliding her tongue across the thick head of his cock. Then her lips closed around it and she bent forward, her eyes meeting with his as she guided his shaft further into her mouth. Blackshot let out a grunt as Tara's head moved back and forth, her lips applying increasing suction. She slid down onto her knees before him and ran her hands across his chiseled midsection, pressing her head forward to take his length further into her mouth. Then she pulled back, sliding his shaft from her mouth, and glanced up at him, licking her lips.

  “Don't stop now!” Blackshot groaned.

  “Or what? You wouldn't shoot a girl with your big ol' gun, would you?” Tara retorted with an impish smile.

  “Only if she really deserved it,” Blackshot grunted. He grabbed a big handful of her lush red hair close at the back of her head and pulled her toward him, an excited giggle escaping her lips. His other hand parted those lips and he fed his length into her mouth. Tara's lips sucked hungrily as he pulled her head toward him, and thrust his hips against her. He could feel his head slide down the wet warmth of her throat, surging deeper as she twisted her neck to draw his length as far into her as possible.

  Blackshot held her head against him; he could feel Tara's tongue slide out along his balls and her big tits were slapping against his legs with each thrust. The fire was building fast inside him and soon it was too much. His hand lost its grip on her hair as his release exploded into her mouth and across her cheeks and chin as he slid out of her.

  Tara gasped as cum spilled from her lips and dropped onto her jiggling breasts. Her fingers caught his juices that were dripping from her chin and swept them back into her grinning mouth. “Now wasn't that a better way to say thank you?” she asked in a
lilting tone, licking her fingers.

  Blackshot bent over and looped an arm around Tara's waist, lifting her up onto the bed. “I ain't finished with the pleasantries yet,” he said. “After all, we've gotta make up for all the fun you haven't had on this trip.”

  Blackshot laid Tara down on the bed on her stomach and ran a hand across the luscious curve of her ass, sliding his fingers down across the wet lips of her entrance. She looked over her shoulder at him, desire burning in her big green eyes. “I could tell the first time I laid eyes on you,” she said, a wicked smile playing on her lips.

  Blackshot pressed his fingers into her pussy, eliciting a moan from her as her body undulated on the sheets. His other hand worked under Tara's body to her firm belly and moved upward across her ribs to the swell of her breast. His strong hand kneaded the bulging mound until he felt her nipple harden against his palm. Tara was panting and moaning as he worked her over, straining her lithe body against his hands.

  “Take me,” she gasped. “I want you.”

  Blackshot drew his fingers out of her and pushed her legs apart. Her bush was already soaking wet and when his hard shaft pressed against her thigh, she let out an anguished groan of anticipation. He did not make her anticipate for long.

  Blackshot slid his cock between the lips of Tara's pussy and bent his hips against her ass, driving his whole length into her. Tara cried out as his girth stretched her, and Blackshot could feel her heels dig into the back of his thighs as she wrapped her legs around him and urged him into her. He took a firm grip on her broad hips with each hand, and thrust hard into her. Again and again he slammed his body against hers; she cried out and clutched the sheets tightly as her ample ass cheeks quivered and shook with each impact.

  Blackshot felt Tara's taut body convulse in his hands as an orgasm rushed through her. He could also feel the fire in his belly growing with each thrust he made into her hot, wet core. With a groan he drew his shaft out of her, and rolled her onto her back and lay his rigid cock against the soft flesh of her loins. Tara's hands slid down and closed around his pulsing girth, pressing it to her body. That was all Blackshot could take. His hips jerked and streams of hot cum shot across Tara's torso, covering her stomach and tits in thick white streaks.