Bandit Gold

by J. R. Roberts

  “Thanks, Jenny,” the Gunsmith told her. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all this.”

  “Nonsense,” the woman replied. “You saved my life, didn’t you?”

  Jenny took the checkered shirt and headed back into the house. Clint decided he’d soaked long enough and climbed out of the tub to towel himself dry. The water in the tub looked as if it had been scooped out of a swamp with all the filth he’d scrubbed off his body. Clint was grateful he had a clean pair of trousers to climb into after finally ridding himself of all that dirt and mud. The pants were a bit loose at the waist and the cuffs were an inch too short, but otherwise they fit pretty well.

  Bare-chested and barefooted, he padded back inside the house with the S&W in hand. He entered the kitchen, surprised that Jenny wasn’t seated at the table.

  “I’m in here, Clint,” the woman’s voice called from the bedroom.

  The Gunsmith followed it and found Jenny seated on the bed. Even in the shadows of the unlit bedroom, Clint saw the pale flesh displayed by her open housecoat.

  “Come in,” she said softly.

  Clint placed his cup on the kitchen table before heading for the bedroom. As he approached, Jenny rose from the bed and shrugged off her robe. Clint found a nightstand by the bed and put the S&W revolver on it.

  “Do you think you’ll need a gun in here?” Jenny inquired, amusement in her tone.

  “Not unless we get interrupted,” Clint answered.

  He turned to face her. Jenny’s arms snaked around his neck and Clint leaned forward to place his lips against her’s. His arms encircled her waist, hands stroking the smooth, soft flesh. They kissed and embraced tenderly, savoring the feel of flesh on flesh and warm lips pressed together. Tongues probed gently and their hands gradually caressed bare skin.

  Clint would have guessed he’d been too worn out to respond to such an invitation. He’d endured a lot of physical abuse and had little rest over the last twenty-four hours. Carla’s visit in the bandido prison cell must have drained him of any sexual stamina he could possibly have had left after his grueling ordeal—or so Clint would have guessed.

  Jenny stroked his erection slowly, unbuttoning his trousers to free his member. Her hands gently played with his penis, using only the fingertips, stimulating his throbbing manhood with her touch. Many women will merely take a man in their fists and pound away until his teeth are clenched and he’s wondering what he’d said or done to deserve such torment. Jenny, however, treated Clint to gradual, loving strokes that soon had his organ jutting out, hard and ready.

  The Gunsmith cupped Jenny’s firm, round breasts in his hands. He’d never been one to manhandle a woman and he gently caressed her, kissing each breast slowly and tracing his tongue around the nipples until he felt them stiffen between his lips. Clint sucked her breasts, teasing the hard pink nipples with his teeth.

  Clint released Jenny and slid down his trousers. Totally nude, he stepped out of them and prepared to steer Jenny toward the bed. However, the girl closed a hand around his erect member and pulled gently. She guided him to the bed, clearly a silent request for him to lie down first.

  Clint obliged, stretching out on the mattress, the back of his head sinking into a soft, feather-filled pillow. Jenny climbed onto the bed, her hands stroking Clint’s chest and belly. Then her mouth worked its way along his bare flesh, kissing and licking his freshly washed skin, her long blond hair sliding over him like a velvet sash.

  Jenny’s mouth found his crotch, but she didn’t linger there. She once again applied her gentle, magic touch, stroking his erection and tenderly fondling his testicles. Then she slid a leg over his loins and eased herself into position.

  Clint felt himself enter the woman. Jenny felt like a warm, wet towel surrounded by muscle. She clung firmly to his manhood, engulfing it in her love cave. Her knees and thighs pressed against his hips as she slowly began to raise and lower herself upon his member.

  Jenny slid up and down Clint’s manhood as his hands found her breasts and again began to fondle the soft mounds. He felt them bounce in his grasp as Jenny increased the momentum of her body. She moaned with pleasure as she continued to ride. Clint’s heels pressed into the mattress as he arched his back to thrust deeply into Jenny. The bed creaked and seemed about to rise from the floor as Jenny and Clint continued in their vigorous lovemaking.

  The girl gasped and thrashed her head from side to side as an orgasm swept through her. Clint could no longer deny his own sensual release and came seconds later. Jenny raked his chest with her nails and hummed with pleasure, feeling his throbbing shaft within her.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered breathlessly. “You are good.”

  “So are you,” Clint assured her.

  “I hope you don’t think I’d do this sort of thing with just any stranger who happened by,” Jenny remarked, slowly dismounting from his crotch to sprawl beside him.

  Although exhausted, Clint took her in his arms and kissed her, holding Jenny tenderly. He had never been a selfish lover and the fulfillment of his partner was as important to Clint as his own satisfaction. The Gunsmith understood women better than most men and he knew they like to be cuddled and held after making love.

  “Of course I don’t,” Clint assured her, aware that women are afraid a man will consider them whorish for simply having a normal sex drive.

  “Who are you, Clint Adams?” she asked, trying to read his face in the darkness. “You handle a gun well enough to take four Mexican bandits, yet you’re polite and well-bred and you surely know how to treat a woman.”

  “I’m just Clint Adams,” the Gunsmith told her. “And I’m going to have to move on in the morning. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Why do you think I wanted to do this tonight?” she replied softly, taking his soft member in her magical hands.

  He was about to protest, but was surprised to find himself growing hard again. Soon it felt too good to want her to stop.

  “You never did tell me that story of yours,” Jenny remarked.

  “Are you sure you want to hear it now?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” she stated, still stroking him as she spoke.

  The Gunsmith told her about being hired in Brownsville and briefly explained the events on the train and how he fell in with El Lobo’s gang. He didn’t bother to mention any of his sexual exploits with any of the women involved.

  He frequently halted in his narrative to kiss her neck or nibble on an ear lobe or nipple and his hands caressed her flesh throughout the story. By the time he’d finished his tale, they were both ready to make love a second time.

  Clint mounted her and Jenny eagerly took him in. He began to grind his hips, hearing her moan in sensual approval. Jenny’s long, strong legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer, encouraging Clint to ram himself home. Naturally, he responded and brought the woman to another gasping, trembling orgasm. Clint rode her to paradise a third time before he blasted his seed inside Jenny’s beautiful, lusty body.

  “You sure know how to please a lady,” she commented in a sleepy voice.

  Clint kissed her in response and soon they were sound asleep, still holding each other in a lovers’ embrace.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The smell of coffee brewing and eggs and bacon frying in skillets greeted the Gunsmith when he awoke. Jenny Parker was busy in the kitchen, singing softly as she prepared breakfast. Clint forced himself to rise from the comfort of the nice warm bed.

  He slowly stretched and discovered most of the soreness in his muscles had disappeared. Clint pulled on the Levis and located the checkered shirt. As he slipped into the shirt and buttoned it Clint smiled, recalling the night before. He shuffled from the bedroom to find Jenny setting the table.

  “Figured you’d be up when you got a whiff of breakfast,” Jenny said brightly. “How do you feel today, Clint?”

  “A lot better than I have for quite a while,” he replied. “Any idea what time it is?”

 
“Sun came up about an hour ago,” Jenny answered. “You’ve got time for breakfast. Just sit down and eat before you go riding off after those badmen.”

  “Ride,” Clint said. “I’d better see to those horses the bandits left outside.”

  “They’ll keep,” Jenny told him.

  Clint shook his head. “Those animals ought to be fed and watered. Not their fault they belonged to El Lobo’s men. Besides, I’ll have to look them over and pick the best mount of the lot.”

  Jenny sighed, but didn’t argue. Clint found his boots sitting by the door. Jenny had brushed off most of the mud and given them a coat of saddle soap. He smiled with appreciation and pulled on the footgear.

  Clint found the horses where the bandidos had left them. The animals were accustomed to the rough treatment of their bandit owners and appeared no worse for wear after spending several hours hobbled outside. The Gunsmith led them by the reins to the barn and tended to the beasts. Tomas’s mount, a big Appaloosa stallion, was easily the best horse of the lot.

  He then selected the best saddle, checking the straps for signs of wear and the leather for cracks. Then he returned to the house and had breakfast with Jenny. Clint complimented her on the meal, which indeed deserved his praise. Then he excused himself from the table.

  Clint rose from his chair and moved to the pile of firearms he’d taken from the bandits. The Gunsmith examined each pistol carefully and soon narrowed his selection down to two .45 Colt models. He opened the loading gate of one revolver and shook out the shells one by one.

  “What are you doing, Clint?” Jenny asked, confused by his actions.

  “Trying to decide which gun to carry until I get my own back,” he replied. “That Smith & Wesson I used last night is a good enough gun, but I’m not used to the model. I had trouble getting shots off fast enough. I need something similar to the revolver I’m familiar with.” He didn’t bother to explain his problem in detail. Only a fellow shootist could understand how serious his situation was.

  For a man to be good with a gun, really good, he had to have a feel for the weapon. He needed to be familiar with it. Whether or not the barrel tended to pull to any particular direction when it fired a round, the shape of the grips, trigger pull, width of the hammer—all were crucial. In Clint’s case, this presented an even worse obstacle since he was accustomed to a one-of-a-kind gun.

  For the first time, his skill with the modified Colt had become a liability. He now understood why he’d had the shakes after the gun battle with the bandidos—because he could no longer be confident in his own ability. He’d nearly been killed because he’d tried to use a single-action revolver as he would his double-action Colt.

  Clint disassembled the bandido pistols and checked the condition of the guns. One revolver had a worn trigger lever and a pitted barrel. The other was in excellent condition. He wondered which bandit had owned the gun, but it was really a moot point now.

  Then he checked the confiscated gunbelts, ignoring Tomas’s rig with its twin holsters. Clint settled for a single holster gunbelt which would suit his build. The bandido gunbelt wasn’t a quick-draw rig, but it wouldn’t make any difference if Clint came up against a man like Stansfield Lloyd.

  The Gunsmith would be killed.

  However, Clint had a plan to help compensate for the loss of his converted Colt. It would require the modification of a firearm, but a much less complex job than turning a single-action revolver into a double-action weapon.

  “Did your husband have any tools in the barn, Jenny?” he inquired, reaching for the Stevens shotgun that had formerly belonged to Francisco.

  “Uh ... yes,” she replied awkwardly.

  “Mind if I use them to do a little work on this shotgun?”

  “Help yourself,” Jenny replied with a curious stare.

  Clint carried the Stevens to the barn and, to his delight, found a small blacksmith forge with an assortment of tools for working with metal as well as wood. He was surprised to discover the tools had recently been oiled and cleaned, but he didn’t question good fortune.

  A work bench with a large vice provided a solid clamp for the shotgun. He tightened the vice around the barrels at the forestock and applied a hacksaw to the Stevens. One item that wasn’t available was a piece of chalk to mark the barrel for a clean cut, but Clint kept the saw steady and didn’t rush the job. Slowly, he hacked through the thick barrels, slicing roughly two inches above the forestock.

  When Clint had sawed off most of the Stevens’ barrels, he used a heavy metal file to scrape down the rough edges at the muzzles of the abbreviated shotgun. A perfectionist when it came to firearms, horses and making love, the Gunsmith took his time with the file until the barrels met with his approval.

  Adjusting the vice to clamp the butt stock, Clint then took a wood saw to the Stevens, cutting the hard walnut just behind the pistol grips of the shotgun. When the bulk of the butt stock had been removed, Clint found some sandpaper and carefully smoothed down the back of the pistol grips.

  “You’re gonna be just fine,” he assured the shotgun as he fussed over it some more.

  He oiled the metal, cleaned the barrels and applied a light coat of varnish to the shortened stock. Then, at last, it was complete.

  A scattergun.

  The short barrels would reduce the range drastically. Maximum practical range would be less than a dozen feet, preferably about half that distance. But at close quarters, the scattergun would be unbeatable against two opponents or more if they bunched together. The pattern of buckshot from a scattergun spreads like a hand-thrown net.

  Due to the short barrels and abbreviated stock, the gun would kick like a deranged jackass and there’d be no real accuracy, but there didn’t have to be. Just point it and squeeze the trigger. The buckshot would do the rest. The weapon only had two real drawbacks. It would only hold two shells at a time and it was an indiscriminate weapon that couldn’t be used if innocent bystanders were close at hand.

  The first problem was compensated for by the devastating potential of a buckshot blast and the fact that the shotgun could be reloaded rapidly. Clint would simply have to use good judgment to deal with the latter problem, but he always exercised care and proper safety with any type of firearm. No gun ever harmed anyone without human assistance, either by intentional action or by mishandling the weapon. Clint had never shot anyone by accident and if he took a gun out of leather, he fully intended to use it.

  Leather. Clint hunted about the barn workshop until he located a large piece of tanned leather, knives, needles and catgut. He wasn’t as familiar with working with leather as he was with guns, but he’d made functional holsters before and what he needed was simple enough. After cutting and sewing for less than half an hour, he’d accomplished the task.

  The shotgun holster was little more than a wide strip of leather attached to his gunbelt in a cross-draw position, but it would allow him to carry the Stevens on his person at all times. His work finished, Clint cleaned up the workshop and left the barn.

  Jenny stared at him in astonishment as he led the Appaloosa from the corral, her eyes locked on the modified Stevens in the crude holster at his waist. She whistled softly.

  “When you go after somebody, you don’t take any chances,” she remarked.

  “I’m only going after what’s rightfully mine,” the Gunsmith explained. “But I doubt that I’ll be able to get it back peaceably and that means I can’t afford to take any more chances than I have to.”

  “I guess you’re doing what you have to, Clint,” she nodded. “Better just say good-bye and have done with it.”

  “The bandit’s horses, guns and leather goods will be worth some money, Jenny,” Clint told her gently. “More than enough to pay for the damage to your house.”

  “Don’t fret about that,” she urged.

  “But I am concerned about you,” Clint insisted. “You shouldn’t be out here all alone. You can sell the farm and move into a town. Maybe Yuma—”

 
“Yuma is where you’re headed, Clint,” she stated. “It’s right that way to the west. Keep going the way I told you and I bet you’ll be there before those bandits arrive, even if they did leave at dawn....”

  “I have to bury those four dead men, Jenny,” he declared grimly.

  “Those bodies will keep,” Jenny said. “They aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Clint sighed. It was obvious she wanted him to leave quickly. Did she want to get the farewells over to lessen the pain of parting? Was she afraid if he stayed any longer she’d break down and beg him not to go?

  “Damn it, Clint!” Jenny snapped. “My husband will take care of burying those bodies when he gets home in about three hours.”

  The Gunsmith stared at her. “Your husband? But you said—”

  “He was dead,” she nodded. “Well, he isn’t. He’s in Yuma selling barley to a saloon that brews it into beer.”

  Clint shook his head as though trying to recover from a physical blow. “Why, Jenny?”

  “I lied to you so we could sleep together.” She shrugged. “A woman’s got needs, you know. Arnold is a good husband, but he hasn’t satisfied me much in bed these days.”

  The Gunsmith grinned, not in amusement, but irony. He’d been worried about Jenny, but she’d be all right ... providing her husband didn’t find out how she’d entertained her houseguest. He swung up into the saddle.

  “Thanks for everything,” he told her. “Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you, Clint,” Jenny replied. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll need it.”

  “Can’t argue with you about that,” he admitted.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Clint Adams arrived in Yuma later that afternoon. Due to its proximity to Fort Yuma, the city had attracted a fairly large population since many people preferred to be close to the cavalry in the Arizona Territory. The Chiricahua Apaches under Cochise had made a truce with the army, but everyone suspected it was just a matter of time before someone—white or red—with a chip on his shoulder would start the whole mess up again. Besides, the truce only applied to the Chiricahua. The dozen or so smaller Apache tribes hadn’t seen fit to make peace with the white eyes.