Blackshot Sixshooter Collection

by Kurt Barker

  The horse! Where was Khamsin? Blackshot stepped out onto the porch and scanned the street for a sign of the magnificent animal. Suddenly he spied it, and his blood ran cold; Khamsin was prancing fretfully, no rider astride his back, in the courtyard of Lady Alejandra's villa!

  Chapter 8

  Blackshot raced down the street toward the gate; he could see the front door of the villa beyond the great black horse, and it was closed. He doubted that even had the gunfire behind the houses been right outside the villa door, it would have roused the old deaf butler, but he knew that wouldn't deter a man like Skinner Carson, either.

  As Blackshot reached the gate at a run, on instinct he ducked forward and made a rolling dive through the opening. The glittering blade of the Bowie knife whistled right above his head, slicing through the outer brim of his hat. Carson had been flattened against the wall just inside the gate, and now he pounced forward at Blackshot, the big knife raised in his hand.

  “You fell right into my trap, mate!” he snarled.

  “I think you've got that backwards,” Blackshot growled.

  His hand stabbed out and closed around Carson's hand just before the long blade could reach its target. Planting a foot on the outlaw's belt buckle, he heaved him off of his feet and sent him flipping onto his back, raising a cloud of red dust as he hit the ground. Now the big knife was in Blackshot's hand, and as Carson jumped to his feet, he plunged the broad blade into his gut, driving him back against the wall.

  “I haven't got the time to teach you this lesson nice and slow, so pay attention,” Blackshot hissed.

  Carson's hands gripped vainly at Blackshot's shirtfront, but Blackshot ignored them, forcing the blade into the other man's body up to the hilt until he could feel the tip biting into the plaster of the wall, and warm blood bathed his hand and forearm. Carson's hands fell away from Blackshot and hung limp at his sides; Blackshot released his pressure on the knife, and the body tumbled to the ground. It was the second time in as many days that he thought he had killed Rodney Carson, but at least this time he was sure it was the last. He bent down and rummaged through Carson's pockets until he found the money that had been taken from him. It was a good sum, but he'd make the Pasha and his double-crossing pals pay more when he caught up with them, and pay dearly!

  Blackshot was ready to jump on Khamsin and light off after “Abdul” to give him the skinning that Carson had promised him, but then he remembered Lady Alejandra. He was in no mood to wait for Fernando to open a door for him at this point, so he jogged around the side out the house toward the lawn where they had talked earlier. When he reached the rear of the house, he found the big bay doors closed, and a tug on the knob told him they were locked.

  Swearing viciously, Blackshot lifted a boot and slammed it against the doors with all the strength and anger inside him. They flew open with a loud crash that echoed across the quiet lawn. Alejandra von Offenburg was reclining on a plush chaise with a book in hand; she still wore the white blouse, but her breeches and boots lay on an expansive coffee table beside the chaise, and her long, firm legs were bare.

  The sight of the tall black-clad gunfighter standing in the doorway, his clothes marred with sweat and gunpowder, and bloody stains drying on his big hands and muscular arms, did not merit more that an amused glance from Lady Alejandra. The jaguar Ottmar which was lying at the woman's feet took considerably more interest; it sprang forward and bared its long teeth at the intruder, growling forbiddingly.

  “Unless you fancy a new cat skin rug, I'd keep a handle on that thing,” Blackshot scowled.

  Alejandra gave a lazy tug to the leash that lay beside her, inducing Ottmar to return sullenly to her side. “Did you lose your horse, Senor Blackshot, or did you get lost yourself?” she inquired, turning back to her book.

  “Thanks for your concern. I hope the sound of the gang of killers shooting at me did not disturb your reading too much.”

  “Oh, is that what all that noise was? They must not have been very good killers, since here you are alive.”

  “Perhaps if they'd thought to ask your opinion of their skills first, you could have saved them a lot of time and inconvenience. That's their bad luck,” Blackshot replied. “Still, there's plenty of bad luck to go around. No sultan's horse for you; the sultan's a fake and a con man that set me up for a fall, and I'm going to need the horse to hunt the bastard down and wring his neck.”

  Alejandra sighed heavily and shook her tawny head. “Oh, Senor Blackshot, you disappoint me again.”

  “Take that up with the fake sultan, if you want to try to beat me to him.”

  “You don't understand,” Alejandra murmured, stretching her sinuous body languidly. Her blouse rose to expose the round curve of her ass as its fabric strained against her heavy breasts. “I pass many a boring evening here daydreaming, and my favorite fantasy is that a strong, manly cowboy will suddenly break down my door and have his way with me right here on this table. Just my luck, it finally happens and what does the cowboy do? Nothing! All he wants is to bore me with talk of confidence men and swindles! Oh, Senor Blackshot, you disappoint me terribly!” She took up her book again and turned the page. “Do close the door on your way out. Poor Ottmar doesn't like drafts.”

  Blackshot turned and left without another word, leaving the door open behind him. Poor Ottmar could fuck off and catch pneumonia for all he cared!

  Chapter 9

  The flashing hooves of the Arabian stallion seemed to barely touch the ground that flew by beneath them. Even at this impressive speed Blackshot knew that there was more to be had at the touch of the spurs; to Khamsin this was little more than a pleasant canter. The mighty horse would not be feeling the spurs now, however; in spite of his anger Blackshot knew that the return trip to Mehmet Ali Pasha's camp was not an urgent one.

  When they reached their destination, Blackshot found exactly what he had expected to find; nothing. Not a tent, not a horse, not even that damn little bell; nothing but the bare earth. He dismounted and surveyed the site; they had taken the time to obscure their tracks, so they had not been in a hurry when they left. He supposed they must have packed up almost as soon as he was out of sight on his way to Camino Placido.

  Blackshot returned to Khamsin and swung up into the saddle. The sun was just touching the jagged peaks of the distant mountains, but there was still adequate light to follow the trail. He wasn't sure if the swindlers had counted on being hunted by him or by Skinner Carson, but if the job they'd done disguising their tracks was good enough to fool Carson, then that was their bad luck, for it wasn't good enough to fool Blackshot.

  The trail led at first toward the town nearby, but when it reached a rocky stream a mile or so out, the tracks did not continue on the other side. Blackshot had to hand it to the two-faced bastards, they new all the tricks. He turned to his left and rode down the bank of the stream for a few hundred yards, but found nothing so he returned and tried the opposite direction. After several minutes of searching he spied a deep rut left by a wagon wheel as it had lurched up out of the creek bed almost half a mile downstream for where it had entered.

  Blackshot found the tracks leading him away from town now, and across the plain. From what he could determine, there was one wagon, no doubt bearing the tents, and another horse besides. There would be Mehmet Ali and Mustafa on this journey, as well as Mehmet Ali's harem, which Blackshot reckoned was made up of exactly one girl, Amina. Now that the heat was on them, they'd be leaving the territory, but first they would stop somewhere to meet Abdul.

  The light was steadily waning all the while Blackshot rode, but by the time darkness prevented him from following the tracks, he no longer needed them, for the lights of a wayside inn flickered up ahead in the distance, and he knew were he would find his quarry. As he approached within a hundred yards or so of the inn, he dismounted and walked the rest of the way, leading Khamsin behind him lest the sound of a rider would alert anyone inside.

  The inn appeared to be a large building from a
distance, but as he got close Blackshot could see that it was merely a collection of shacks built onto the side of an older barn, which seemed to function now as a stable. A lantern hanging from a rafter in the barn cast a weak glow across the rutted ground outside, and Blackshot led his horse aside to stay out of the light. He tethered the stallion in the shadows on the side of the barn, and crept back to the door and sneaked a look inside.

  The barn was unoccupied by humans, but a pair of horses stood in stalls near the door, and a wagon rested by the far wall, laden with crates of goods and the brightly colored tents that had made up Mehmet Ali's camp. As he looked over the room, Blackshot spied another animal; the fat little mule was hunkered in a stall opposite the horses, munching contentedly on tufts of hay.

  So they were here, all of them. That was all Blackshot needed to know; he walked around the side of the barn toward the shacks that made up the inn. The building nearest the front of the barn was the largest and sturdiest of the lot, and appeared to house the innkeeper's quarters, so it there that Blackshot headed first. Inside he found that the cabin also boasted a modest barroom, consisting of a long wooden plank spanning a pair of barrels in the center of the sawdust floor with a couple of old wooden chairs and a table against the side wall.

  The room was empty but for the innkeeper, a grizzled old timer in wire-framed spectacles, with a corncob pipe extending from his nearly toothless mouth. He nodded at Blackshot as he entered and offered him a drink, which he accepted. Blackshot told the old man that he was supposed to meet a friend here, and described Mehmet Ali as well as he could, considering that he wasn't sure if he would still be in his Pasha getup or not. The innkeeper said he had never seen such a man around the inn, but that there was a town not far off, and perhaps his friend was there. He dropped his eyes from Blackshot's as he spoke, and fidgeted with the bottle in his hands.

  Blackshot thanked him and said he would try the town, and went back outside. It appeared that Mehmet Ali's money had not run out, but whatever amount he had paid the innkeeper would have to be written off as a loss.

  There was a light shining from an open window at the shack nearest the back of the building, so Blackshot started in that direction. He had walked no further than the door of the first room, however, when he heard the muffled moan of a familiar voice: Amina!

  Blackshot stepped up against the wall and tried the door; there was no lock and it swung open a few inches without a sound. Through the gap, he could see Amina's bare back; her olive skin illuminated by a flickering candle on a table against the wall. She was on the small bed in the center of the room, straddling a man who lay beneath her, rising and falling rhythmically on his cock. The man's dark hands gripped her hips, grinding her ample ass against his thighs. Gently pushing the door open wider and stepping quietly into the doorway, Blackshot saw that the man was none other than Abdul.

  He shoved the door open, letting it slam against the wall, and strode up to the foot of the bed. “Evening, folks,” he said. “It's good to see you're taking the news of my death so well.”

  Chapter 10

  At the sight of Blackshot, Abdul leaped up, throwing Amina off of him as he scrambled to reach a short-nosed revolver that lay atop his neatly folded clothes beside the bed. The heel of Blackshot's boot caught him just below his collarbone, slamming him back against the wall.

  “Aren't you going to say hello to your old riding partner, Abdul, or have you lost your command of the language again?” Blackshot glowered.

  His muscular arm closed around the smaller man's throat and dug into his windpipe. Adbul strained to get free, and Blackshot felt his hand fumble for the butt of the Colt on his hip. He would not reach it, though, for with a vicious jerk of the vise-like arms encircling his throat, his neck snapped and his hands fell to his sides.

  As Adbul slumped to the floor, Amina gasped and rushed for the door of the shack. Blackshot sprang over the bed and snatched a handful of her raven hair, dragging her down onto her knees.

  “Not so fast. You and I have some catching up to do,” he growled, pulling her head back so that they were face to face. “I want some answers and you'd better spit them out.”

  Amina gestured helplessly and spoke a few breathless words in a foreign tongue. Blackshot slapped her hard across the mouth.

  “Don't play with me,” he warned. “You're about as Arabic as I am, and this is not the day to test my patience!”

  Amina looked bewildered and spoke rapidly and unintelligibly; again Blackshot's hand slashed across her mouth.

  “Stop it, you bastard!” she cried, tears welling in her eyes as she glared up at him. “I was nice to you!”

  “I know,” Blackshot replied. “That's why I broke his neck instead of yours. Now tell me why you sent me into a trap! That wasn't so nice, was it?”

  “The boss did that, not me! I didn't want anything to do with that!”

  “I've been hearing that a lot lately! You all share a script, do you?”

  “It's true! I just get paid to do my part!” the girl protested. “I don't give the orders!”

  “So you play harem girl for the fake Pasha to sell his con games; I figured out that much for myself. What's he got against me?”

  “It's not Carlos-- Mehmet Ali. He's not the boss. Carlos was hired just like me by Big Roy and Pepe.”

  “Big Roy- that would be 'Mustafa' I take it?”

  “Yes, and that's- that was Pepe,” the girl said, pointing a trembling hand at the crumpled body in the corner. “Pepe the Pincher, they called him. He was a pickpocket, I guess.”

  “I've never heard of either one of them,” Blackshot said. “Why did they rope me into this scheme?”

  “That wasn't how it was supposed to go! See, Carlos is part Lebanese; his grandparents came over to Mexico City from Lebanon, and he heard all of their stories about the old country and figured out that he could con free drinks at the saloons by pretending to be an Ottoman prince. Or sometimes he would be an Arabian mystic and make money telling fortunes.

  “That's how I met him; I was working in a brothel in Monterrey and Carlos would come in sometimes with the money he made from his schemes. He wasn't really a crook, you know; it was all so he could save up the money to buy his own little place, a tavern.” The girl's eyes looked away from Blackshot and she said softly, “We were gonna quit everything and run it together.”

  “Only you didn't,” Blackshot said. “Because here you are and here I am.”

  She glared at him. “I told you, it wasn't supposed to be like this! We were doing fine, but then Carlos met Big Roy and Pepe in a bar, and they saw his gimmick and how well he could talk people out of money. Big Roy said he was thinking too small, and there was a lot more money to be made with that sort of talent. They cooked up this whole idea, with the tents and the costumes and everything; Carlos introduced me to them and they hired my to play the harem girl to rope in the marks. They were paying me twice what I was making per client in that shitty whorehouse.”

  “And Carlos taught you all to speak some Arabic and play your parts.”

  “Oh, he doesn't really know how to speak Arabic; he only knows some folk songs his grandfather used to sing, so he taught us the words to the songs. He said nobody would know the difference and once they saw the horse they wouldn't care.”

  “Yeah, it's a pretty damn good horse,” Blackshot said. “Where did you get your hands on a beast like that?”

  “Big Roy and Pepe already had Khamsin when we met them. Big Roy said he took it from a fella in a card game, but that the fella wouldn't need it anymore anyway. I guess that's why they were south of the border, 'cause the Rangers were looking for Roy.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy to go into business with.”

  “No one was going to get hurt!” the girl bristled. “Carlos made them promise that there wouldn't be any strong-arm stuff, and no killing!”

  “So I was a special case! How flattering!”

  “No! We made a mistake! You see, we had set u
p a new mark, an old miser named Rodney Carson. He was rich but tight with his money; never spent a dime on anything and lived like a hermit. You saw his farm, I guess.”

  “I saw it,” Blackshot replied, “but I saw Rodney Carson, too, and he wasn't any old miser!”

  “That was the mistake! Carlos talked the old man into buying a fine horse for his son, because they had quarreled long ago and hadn't spoken to each other in years, and now he wanted to make up with his son before he died. But then the old Rodney Carson did die, and his son Rodney Junior comes home to settle the old man's estate, and it turns out Rodney Carson Junior is Skinner Carson, the train robber that cut up that sheriff and his posse down by the border....”

  Blackshot laughed dryly. “So that's it. You needed a patsy for Carson to blame for everything so that you could squirm out from under his hand. Enter Tom Blackshot, gun for hire and fall guy.”

  “I told you, it was Big Roy's idea!” the girl cried. “Carlos and I tried to talk him out of it, but he said he'd throw us to Carson if we didn't go along with it! It was us or you, and Carlos said you seemed like the sort of fella that could take care of yourself and maybe it would be okay.”

  “That's nice. He's all heart, this Carlos. I'll have to thank him personally.”

  The girl clutched suddenly onto Blackshot's leg. “Promise you won't kill him, Blackshot!” she pleaded. “Please! I love him! We only wanted to get out of this mess! Please!”

  “You love him, eh?” Blackshot jerked his head toward the body of Pepe. “You seemed fond of him, too.”