Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  Abdul hurried in front of Blackshot and bowed obsequiously to the man on the couch, speaking quickly in a hushed tone. The man responded in the same foreign tongue, then turned and flashed a toothy smile at Blackshot.

  “You are no doubt Mr. Blackshot,” he said pleasantly. “I am pleased to meet you at last.”

  “You are no doubt Mehmet Ali Pasha,” Blackshot replied. “I'm not sure yet if I'm pleased to meet you or not.”

  “I understand,” Mehmet Ali said. “Abdul said that Mr. Carson and his friends did not let Khamsin go willingly.”

  “He didn't look like a farmer to me, and he certainly didn't act like a gentleman, so perhaps you'd like to tell me what that was all about?”

  “I was foolish to have done business with a man like that,” the Pasha sighed, shaking his head. “I treated him like a friend and thought that he would respond in kind. I am not usually such a poor judge of character, I assure you.”

  He picked up a small bell from the arm of the couch and jingled it lightly before returning it to its place. A moment later, the muscular bald-headed man entered the tent, bearing a small jeweled box. Mehmet Ali motioned him toward Blackshot, and the man opened the box and held it out, revealing a hefty bag of money.

  “Mustafa, give Mr. Blackshot the rest of the money that we owe him for his services,” Mehmet Ali said.

  It was considerably more than Blackshot's usual fee, but under the circumstances he decided to take it anyway. “Thanks. See you around,” he said with a touch of his hat brim.

  “Wait! I hoped you would be my guest tonight. It's late, and the town is not close.”

  “I can find my way.”

  “Please, Mr. Blackshot, I hope you will reconsider. There is a business matter that I must attend to tomorrow, and I had hoped that I might retain your services again; it is a simpler affair this time.”

  Blackshot hesitated; he still had a feeling that he had not been told the truth about Rodney Carson and the horse, but there was no doubt that the Pasha paid well, and Blackshot had no particular aversion to money. Still, his gut told him to walk away and leave well enough alone.

  Mehmet Ali sensed his internal struggle and smiled broadly at him as his rang the little bell again. “But let us deal with tomorrow's problems tomorrow,” he said. “Please indulge me tonight, and you can make your decision about any further business tomorrow.”

  Through the door of the tent came a stunning olive-skinned young woman with long black hair. Her pendulous breasts bulged from a short embroidered vest, and her slender stomach was bare; translucent harem pants hung low across her broad hips. The woman bowed to Mehmet Ali, who spoke to her in Arabic. Her large dark eyes ran across Blackshot, then she turned and bowed to him as well.

  “Amina will show you to your tent and make sure you are comfortable,” the Pasha said. “We shall speak again in the morning.”

  Blackshot nodded and followed Amina from the tent. His gut was still telling him to jump on his horse and get as far away from there as its legs would take him, but other parts were telling his gut to mind its own business. He silently cussed his deplorable weakness for women as he trailed Amina through the dark corridor between the tent walls, watching the swaying of her thick ass through the filmy fabric.

  Chapter 3

  The tent to which the girl led Blackshot was small compared to the Pasha's pavilion, but no less lushly appointed. A thick rug made the floor of the interior, and in the center of the rug were piled soft sheets and pillows in abundance. He was ushered onto the bed, and found it considerably more agreeable than the thin bedrolls he had been sleeping on of late.

  Amina knelt at Blackshot's feet and tugged his boots off one at a time and sat them at the end of the bed. Then she stood up and turned toward him; her little hands moved deftly at the clasps of her vest, which slipped from her shoulders, letting her firm, plump breasts free. A moment later the thin harem pants lay crumpled at her feet and she stood naked before him, the dim sliver of light from the tent door playing across her taut belly and firm brown thighs.

  Blackshot took the girl's hand and brought her down astride him. He pressed his lips to her jaw and then let them work their way down her throat as her warm, supple breasts swelled in his hands. She let out a quiet gasp as her supple flesh reacted to his strong fingers, her teats stiffening against his palms. His mouth trailed further downward until it reached one of the quivering mounds and teased the hard peak with his tongue, drawing another soft moan from her.

  As Blackshot suckled hungrily on her luscious tit, Amina's hands were tugging at the fly of his jeans, which were growing tighter by the second. Soon she had torn them open and his long, thick cock stood out tall and hard against her stomach. Blackshot groaned as her probing fingers stroked his pulsing shaft and fondled his balls.

  Amina dropped her head and brought his rod to her mouth, running her tongue slowly down his full length and then returning just as slowly to the tip. Her lips closed around his thick head and she descended again, pulling him into her sultry mouth. Up and down the girl's head bobbed, her loose raven locks bouncing as she sucked vigorously, plunging his shaft deeper into her hot wet throat each time.

  With a grunt Amina drew Blackshot's cock from her mouth and slid the rigid beam into the hollow between her generous breasts. Pressing her breasts together around it, she enveloped his girth in her warm flesh and began to undulate her body steadily, caressing his head with her tongue as it rose and fell against her chest. To Blackshot the motion of her voluptuous tits around his manhood was like a flint striking repeatedly, sending sparks through his body with each move.

  Amina placed her hands on Blackshot's broad, muscular shoulders and lifted herself up, letting his rock hard cock slide down the hollow of her stomach until it rested in the wet black hair at the apex of her thighs. With a gasping cry, she impaled herself on his thick shaft, driving him hard into her pussy. Then she began to ride him, rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, her ample ass compressing against his hips with each thrust. Her swollen breasts jumped and danced on her chest, beads of sweat glistening on her ribs and stomach.

  Blackshot gripped Amina's broad hips and ground his girth deep into her torrid core. The room seemed to spin around him as he brought her body crashing into his again and again, pounding her with ferocious intensity. She let out a raspy moan and he felt her lithe body tighten around him, then suddenly convulse in orgasm.

  “Oh! Efendim!” she wailed as the climax rushed through her.

  In other circumstances, Blackshot might have pondered whether that was the most unusual thing any woman had cried out during sex with him, but at this moment the only thing on his mind was the firestorm churning inside him that he could no longer control. His fingers whitened as they dug into Amina's fleshy ass and his hips jerked as his release exploded into her in hot torrents.

  Amina groaned heavily as she collapsed atop him, her damp black hair tumbling across his wide chest. Blackshot stroked the back of her neck gently, and she snuggled closer to him, slipping an arm across his stomach, and that was the last he knew until morning.

  Chapter 4

  Blackshot awoke with the sun's rays twinkling through the gaps in the curtains, and felt the brief disorientation of waking in a strange bed. As this passed, he became aware of a more familiar and welcome sensation. He looked down to find Amina, her hair falling in unruly tangles across her face, sucking his stiffening cock with admirable gusto.

  “If this is the way folks say good morning where you come from, you must do a booming tourist trade!” he grunted.

  Amina was too busy saying good morning to answer; her breath was fiery against his skin, and he could feel the suction of her lips moving steadily down his hard length, drawing it deep into the sweet warmth of her mouth. Blackshot groaned as her tongue sought the base of his shaft, and ran his fingers through her tousled hair, urging her on until his head was pressed to the back of her throat.

  The furnace of the girl's throat was kindling
a fire inside of Blackshot, and it was flaring now uncontrollably hot. With a violent shudder, he erupted into her mouth in ragged jets; cum bubbled from her lips and ran down her chin in white streaks as she drew his cock from her throat with a gasp.

  “How many girls does the head honcho have like you?” Blackshot panted. “If that's the sort of treatment he gets every night, I'm surprised he can still walk without a limp!”

  Amina stared at him uncertainly, then ventured a few hesitant words in another language. Blackshot grinned and waved a hand dismissively. “Don't pay it any mind,” he laughed, “Effendi is talking nonsense!”

  The gist of this message seemed to reach her, for she smiled and rose to her feet. She put on her clothes and bowed to Blackshot before slipping silently through the door of the tent and leaving him alone.

  Getting up from the bed, Blackshot found his clothes neatly folded beside his boots with his hat sitting atop them. He dressed rapidly and walked out into the already-hot morning, only to find Abdul lounging idly at the door of his tent. At the sight of Blackshot the little man snapped to attention, bowing repeatedly in dramatic fashion.

  “Blackshot Effendi!” he puffed, and motioned Blackshot to follow him. They returned to the little courtyard and found Mehmet Ali seated at a small table in front of his tent. The table was filled with food, consisting mostly of tinned beans and hardtack, but presented as genteelly as possible. The hulking Mustafa emerged from the Pasha's tent bearing a wooden chair, and set it down at the table across from Mehmet Ali as Blackshot approached.

  “Good morning to you, sir!” Mehmet Ali beamed, motioning Blackshot to the chair. “My supplies afford me no such repast as I would hope to set before a guest, but please to join me in any case. You slept well, I hope?”

  “At times,” Blackshot replied, digging into the beans in front of him. “Tell me about this 'simple matter' you spoke of last night.”

  “Of course, of course; it's a trivial matter compared to that nasty business with the late Rodney Carson, but related to that affair in a way. You see, on my journeys through your country I caught the attention of a lady named Alejandra von Offenburg; you've heard of her?”

  “No.”

  “She comes from a noble and wealthy old family of Argentina. She resides now in a splendid villa in Camino Placido, a small town just south of here, near the border. Apparently during my brief sojourn in that place, Lady Alejandra learned of my reputation as a breeder of fine horses; I am told she is an avid rider and connoisseur of horse stock, and she took a special liking to Khamsin.”

  “That's not surprising.”

  Mehmet Ali grinned widely. “No, indeed! Khamsin is extraordinary even among my refined stock! Well, I received a letter from Lady Alejandra shortly after I arrived here, stating her desire to purchase Khamsin. Unfortunately letters do not travel quickly to their destinations here, and by the time I received her missive Khamsin was already in the hands of the foul Mr. Carson.”

  “Seems like everything has worked out well for you then,” Blackshot said. “You have your horse and you have a buyer. What do you need me for?”

  Embarrassment showed in Mehmet Ali's face as he drew a folded paper from a pocket in his robe and offered it to Blackshot. “This is the lady's letter. Have a look, if you please.”

  Blackshot unfolded the paper and found a note written in Spanish by a precise and graceful hand. He scanned the brief message then looked up at the Pasha again. “Well? It says just what you said it did.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately I could only learn that after taking it into town and finding someone to translate it for me. You see, Lady Alejandra speaks no English, and sadly neither I nor my servants know even a word of Spanish.”

  “You want me to come along as a translator?”

  “As a go-between; I need a trustworthy man to handle the negotiations on my behalf. Your reputation is faultless, and after seeing your work firsthand I am convinced that there is no better man anywhere to trust in such a matter.” As he spoke, he picked up the little bell which sat beside his plate, and shook it lightly. The impassive Mustafa reappeared with the jeweled box from the night before in his hands, freshly stocked with money. The toothy grin returned to Mehmet Ali's face. “Of course you would be compensated fully for your trouble on my behalf.”

  Blackshot took another spoon of beans into his mouth to give himself a moment to think before answering. It seemed like a simple and lucrative job, as easy as picking daisies in the park; but the uneasy feeling in his gut was back, reminding him that there was no such thing as easy money.

  “You must be careful in your dealings, though,” Mehmet Ali continued, “While there is no risk of violence like with Rodney Carson, Lady Alejandra is an eccentric woman and will require judicious handling.”

  Blackshot had made up his mind. “Fine. You can depend on me,” he replied, standing up and shaking the Pasha's hand. Another hefty bag of money in his pocket would not go amiss, and besides, now he was looking forward to meeting a woman that even a man like Mehmet Ali Pasha would consider eccentric.

  Chapter 5

  Camino Placido lived up to its name quite well, to the point that it could have been named Camino Dormido. It was little more than a dusty street baking in the pitiless sun, lined with uneven rows of low-roofed buildings. There was no sign of man or beast, and nothing stirred but the prancing hooves of the black Arabian beneath Blackshot, and those of Abdul's mule which waddled along gamely in the wake of red dust kicked up by the larger beast.

  Half way down the street a subtle movement caught Blackshot's eye; a door was opening slowly and soundlessly. A man appeared in the doorway and lounged casually against the post; he held a stick in one hand which he whittled carelessly with a polished Bowie knife in his other hand. He was tall and lean, with long, lank black hair that hung to the shoulders of his faded blue cavalry jacket, and the eyes set deep in his pockmarked face stayed downcast on the work in his broad hands, never once looking up to take in the riders in the street.

  A feeling of unease began to creep across Blackshot's mind. In a sleepy town like this, the sight of strangers would be rare, and if one of the strangers was riding a fat little mule and wearing a bright blue fez, it would be a sight no more common than a flying pig. No one had come out to see the spectacle other than the man in the doorway who was deliberately avoiding looking at them as if to appear uninterested, which to Blackshot meant that he was definitely interested.

  Mehmet Ali had said there would be no risk of violence, but Blackshot was not yet inclined to trust the words of the genial Pasha wholeheartedly. He ran his fingers through the wet hair at the back of his neck; perhaps the incident at Rodney Carson's farm was making him read too much into everything. The man might have a perfectly innocuous reason to behave as he did; but the uneasy feeling stayed with Blackshot as he reached the van Offenburg villa.

  The broad sun-whitened wall of the villa jutted out at the end of the street to meet the buildings on either side, forming a dead end. There was just a gap in the wall where a gate should have stood, with only rusted hinges crumbling from its sides to indicate that one had once occupied that space. They rode through the opening into a dusty courtyard, and found a wide stucco-walled hacienda with an elaborately carved wooden door.

  Blackshot dismounted from Khamsin and gave the heavy wooden knocker on the door a couple of raps. There was no reply or sign of movement from inside.

  “Effendi!” Adbul called, trotting up to the door. He pointed to it, saying a few unintelligible words.

  Blackshot threw up his hands. “Sure, I'm open to suggestions, even if I can't understand them.”

  Adbul gripped the door knocker in both hands and slammed it into the door repeatedly with all the strength he could muster. After half a dozen sharp strikes which echoed out into the empty street like gunshots, he stood back, hands on hips.

  “Don't stop now. It hasn't half fallen down yet,” Blackshot said.

  There was a soft sound of
shuffling footsteps from inside, and a moment later they heard the clank of the lock turning. The door opened slowly, and an ancient stoop-shouldered Spaniard with a drooping white mustache blinked out at them.

  “Buenas dias,” Blackshot said, tipping his hat. “We're here on behalf of Mehmet Ali Pasha to see Lady von Offenburg.”

  The old man stared dumbfounded at him, then lifted a wrinkled hand to cup his ear. Blackshot sighed, seeing now why he hadn't answered the door earlier.

  “Lady von Offenburg!” he shouted. “We've come to see her! About a horse!”

  The words seemed to make no impression on the old timer. Blackshot drew in a great breath for another attempt, but just then a woman's musical laughter rang out from inside the house.

  Her voice was smooth and complacent, and she spoke in Spanish with a pronounced German accent. “Oh, do come in! Just turn dear Fernando around! He'll understand!”

  Bemused, Blackshot took the old retainer gently by the arm and motioned that he should return inside. Sure enough, Fernando understood and wobbled wearily across the expansive foyer to a hallway with a vaulted ceiling, beckoning them to follow. Abdul made excited gestures indicating that he would remain outside with the horses, so Blackshot went on alone.

  The hallway opened onto a grand room resplendent with luxurious old world furniture and large framed portraits adorning the walls. The wall opposite the hallway was not a wall at all, but a pair of large wooden bay doors which stood open to meet an immense lawn that stretched out almost to the red foothills beyond the town, and was bracketed by rows of stables. Baskets of fresh flowers hung from the overhang that shaded a pavement where the house met the lawn, and on the pavement stood a woman who looked no less breathtaking than her surroundings.