The Two-Gun Kid

by J. R. Roberts

  “Yeah? What type is that?” Lee asked.

  “The type who will face a green kid two-to-one, but will back down from somebody with experience.”

  “You takin’ his part?” Lee asked, licking his lips.

  “That’s right, I’m taking his part.”

  “I don’t need no help, mister!” Roscoe snapped.

  “Just stand quiet, kid,” Clint said. “We got a lot to talk about.”

  “Hey—”

  “What about it?” Clint asked, squaring up and facing the two men. “You want to give me a try?”

  Now it was Zack who licked his lips and risked a look at Lee, who was staring wide-eyed at Clint.

  “We-we don’t have no beef with you, mister,” Zack said.

  “Naw, naw,” Lee said, “that’s right.”

  “What was your beef with this kid, then?”

  “Nothin’,” Zack said, “nothin’. We was just . . . kiddin’, is all.”

  “Well, I don’t think he found it funny,” Clint said. He considered making the two men apologize, but that might have been pushing them too far. Instead he said, “Time for you to go, then.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Zack said, backing away. “We can drink someplace else.”

  “I don’t think so,” a voice said.

  They all looked to the door, where a man had entered quietly and watched the proceedings. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a badge on his chest.

  “I think you boys should just leave town,” the sheriff said.

  “We didn’t do noth—” Lee started, but Zack put his hand on his friend’s arm to stop him.

  “Sure, Sheriff,” he said. “We’ll move on. We don’t want no trouble.”

  “Funny,” the sheriff said, “looked to me like that’s just what you were lookin’ for.”

  Zack grabbed Lee’s arm and tugged him toward the doors.

  “Come on, Lee,” he said. “Let’s get outta here.”

  They made their way past the sheriff and out the batwing doors. At that point it seemed as if a collective breath was let loose by the crowd, who had been anticipating some action.

  “You two,” the sheriff said, pointing at Clint and Roscoe, “come with me.”

  FOUR

  “Siddown, both of you,” the sheriff said as they entered his office.

  He went around and sat behind his desk.

  “Guns on the table, please.”

  “Them two was askin’ for it, Sheriff,” Roscoe said.

  “Shut up, boy, and put your guns on the desk . . . now!”

  “Do what he tells you,” Clint said, setting his modified Colt on the desk.

  “I don’t need you to tell me,” Roscoe snapped. He removed both guns from his twin holsters and set them on the desk, then sat down heavily. He took off his hat and blond bangs fell over his forehead. Clint sat down and waited for the inevitable questions.

  “What’s you name?” the lawman asked.

  “Clint Adams.”

  Recognition in the man’s eyes.

  “What’s the Gunsmith doin’ in Evolution?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “And already in trouble?”

  “I was trying to stop trouble,” Clint said. “I asked the bartender to send for you, but apparently he wanted to see what would happen.”

  “What woulda happened is I woulda killed them two,” Roscoe said.

  “Roscoe, shut the hell up,” the lawman said. “Do you even know who this man is? Did you hear me say he’s the Gunsmith?”

  Apparently, Roscoe had not heard that the first time—or it simply had not registered. Now he turned his head and looked at Clint, eyes wide.

  “Is that who you are?”

  Before Clint could reply, the sheriff answered.

  “Yeah, that’s who he is, and he probably saved your life.” The sheriff indicated the pearl-handled revolvers on his desk. “Come on, Roscoe, tell the truth. Have you ever even fired these weapons?”

  “Sure I have,” Roscoe said, looking back at the sheriff. “Plenty of times.”

  “I’m gonna give these back to you now, Roscoe,” the sheriff said, pushing the guns across the desk, “but it’s against my better judgment. Take ’em and go home. If you use them tonight, I’ll throw your ass in a cell and lose the key. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said, “yeah, I got it.

  “Take ’em!”

  Roscoe stood up, took the guns, and returned them to his holsters.

  “Adams—” he started, but the sheriff interrupted him before he could get any further.

  “Get out, Roscoe, before I change my mind and decide to keep you overnight. You’d hate breakfast.”

  Roscoe turned, walked to the door, and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Clint looked around the small, cramped office, wondering why the town hadn’t yet built the lawman a new one.

  “What about me?” he asked. “When can I go?”

  “How long were you plannin’ to stay in town, Mr. Adams?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I just rode in today, didn’t have any definite plans.”

  “Looks like you got here just in time,” the lawman said. “That boy’s been spoilin’ for a fight for months. Thinks he’s Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “He any good with those guns?”

  “Oh, I guess he can hit what he aims at,” Sheriff Greenwood said. “That don’t mean he can stand against one man, let alone two. Those two probably woulda killed him if you hadn’t stepped in. Go on, take your gun back.”

  Clint leaned forward, retrieved the gun, and slid it into his holster, but he didn’t get up.

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Bookbinder,” the sheriff said, “Roscoe Bookbinder. Not exactly a gunfighter’s name.”

  “I know a gunman named Books,” Clint said, “but never one named Bookbinder.”

  “Well,” Greenwood said, “at the rate he’s goin’, he’ll get himself killed before anyone knows who he is. Do me a favor?”

  “I don’t have time to look after some snot-nosed kid with illusions about being a gunfighter, Sheriff.”

  “I didn’t think you had,” Greenwood said. “That ain’t what I was gonna ask you.”

  “Oh,” Clint said. “Okay, then what were you going to ask me?”

  “Just a small favor,” the lawman said.

  “How small?” Clint asked, getting to his feet.

  “However long you decide to stay in town?” the man asked. “Try not to kill anybody, huh?”

  FIVE

  Clint was not surprised to find Roscoe Bookbinder waiting for him outside.

  “Mr. Adams, I gotta talk to you.”

  “About what?” Clint asked. “The best way to get yourself killed?”

  “No,” Roscoe said, “the best way for me not to get killed.”

  “That’s easy,” Clint said. “Take off those ridiculous guns, stop wearing those ridiculous clothes, and, oh yeah, take it easy on the lilac water.”

  Roscoe looked down at his guns, then back at Clint.

  “What’s ridiculous about them?”

  “Well, the pearl handles, for one.”

  “B-but . . . they’re expensive.”

  “What’s that got to do with how a gun performs?” Clint asked.

  “Well, if they’re expensive, they work better . . . don’t they?”

  “Boy,” Clint said, “the first thing you’ve got to learn is that a gun performs only as good as the man who’s holding it.”

  With that, Clint stepped down off the boardwalk and started over to the other side of the street. Roscoe hurriedly followed.

  “See? I do got a lot to learn, and you can teach me,” he said, moving alongside Clint.

  “I’m not a teacher,” Clint said.

  “You’re the Gunsmith,” Roscoe said. “I can learn just by bein’ around ya.”

  Clint stopped dead in his tracks, practically in the middle of the street.<
br />
  “Forget that,” he said. “It’s not going to happen. I can’t have you following me around wherever I go.”

  “Why not?” Roscoe asked. “Lots of men ride together, like partners.”

  “I ride alone,” Clint said. “I don’t need a partner. Now, stop following me.”

  Clint started walking again, heading for the saloon. He wanted a beer, and there was still time to get in a little poker before the night was over.

  Behind him Roscoe Bookbinder just stood in the middle of the street, looking forlorn.

  As Clint approached the bar, Charlie met him with a beer.

  “Figured you could use this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened to the kid?”

  “He’s out there, somewhere.”

  “Sheriff give ya a hard time?”

  “No. He was just doing his job, wanted to know how long I was going to stay in town.”

  “You somebody famous?”

  Clint didn’t answer. Charlie shrugged and moved down the bar to serve others.

  Clint was working on his beer when Roscoe sidled up alongside him.

  “Are you back?” Clint asked. “Looking for more trouble?”

  “I was lookin’ for you.”

  “All I can do is buy you a beer, kid,” Clint said. “You want one?”

  “Sure.”

  Clint signaled to Charlie to bring another beer. The bartender did it without comment, setting a mug in front of Roscoe.

  “Look,” Roscoe said to Clint, “you’re right. I look silly.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “I’ll change,” Roscoe said. “I’ll change my clothes, and my guns—”

  “One gun,” Clint said. “You don’t need two guns. If you can’t do the job with one, the other one isn’t going to help you.”

  “Okay, fine, one gun,” Roscoe said, “and new clothes, but there’s one thing I can’t change.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My attitude.”

  Clint looked at him.

  “Well, that’s most likely what’s going to get you killed.”

  “I know it,” Roscoe said, “but I know me. I can’t change who I am. I need you to teach me so’s I can keep myself alive.”

  Clint took a long look at the kid.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said, “dead serious. Without you, I’m a dead man.”

  Clint studied the kid a little longer, then looked into his beer mug.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  SIX

  Clint found a poker game and settled in. Roscoe remained at the bar and tried to keep a low profile, which was difficult considering his brand-new duds and his pearl handles. But he kept his mouth shut, and his swagger was toned down.

  Clint couldn’t help himself. He liked the kid. He liked that Roscoe Bookbinder knew who he was, knew what he could change and what he could not change. A lot of people much older than he was never found that out—never came to terms with it.

  He tried to concentrate on playing poker, and even though the stakes were low, he was losing hands he should have been winning. He could feel the kid’s eyes on his back the whole time.

  “That’s it for me, gents,” he said, standing up. He’d lost about fifty dollars.

  “Come on back anytime,” said a man named Pike—the big winner at the table, which wasn’t saying much.

  “Right.”

  He walked to the bar and stood next to Roscoe.

  “You just cost me fifty dollars.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “You’re staring a hole in my back.”

  “I was just—”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On the edge of town, in a small house my pa left me when he—”

  “Go home,” Clint said.

  “But why—”

  “Go on home and I’ll come by tomorrow morning to see you.”

  “You mean, you’ll—”

  “I mean I’ll come by and we’ll talk about it,” Clint said. “That’s all I’m promising for now, kid.”

  “Okay, okay,” Roscoe said, excitedly, “but what time—”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “Just stay home and wait for me tomorrow. I’ll be by.”

  Suddenly, Roscoe looked suspicious.

  “You ain’t funnin’ me, are ya?” he asked. “You ain’t gonna leave town tomorrow?”

  “Kid,” Clint said patiently, “if I say we’ll talk, we’ll talk. Count on it.”

  “Okay,” Roscoe said, excited again. “Okay, Mr. Adams, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Roscoe ran out of the saloon so fast Charlie came over to see what was up.

  “What’d you say to him?” he asked. “I ain’t never seen him move that fast.”

  “I just told him to go home,” Clint said. “Give me one last beer before I turn in, Charlie.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  While he was waiting for the beer, the sheriff came through the batwing doors before they even had time to stop swinging after Roscoe’s exit.

  “Saw Roscoe runnin’ out of here like his ass was on fire,” Greenwood said to Clint, joining him at the bar. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “He’s fine. He’s just going home.”

  The sheriff waved to Charlie, who came over with two beers.

  “Make the sheriff’s beer on me, Charlie,” Clint said.

  “Much obliged, Adams.”

  They both drank down half of their beer.

  “You decide what you’re gonna do?” the sheriff asked.

  “I might stay around a few days,” Clint said. “This looks like a growing town.”

  “We like to think so.”

  “When are they going to build you a better office, and a bigger jail?”

  “Believe me,” Greenwood said. “I been askin’ the same thing. They tell me it’ll happen soon.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I hope it does.”

  “So,” Greenwood asked, “what did you tell him?”

  “What did I tell who?”

  “Roscoe,” the sheriff said. “Come on, I know the boy. He was probably waiting for you outside my office to ask you to help him. Am I right?”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “Yeah, you are.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “He says without me he’ll get himself killed.”

  “He’s probably right,” Greenwood said. “He just naturally rubs people the wrong way. He needs somebody to show him the way.”

  “The way?” Clint asked. “What the hell do I know about his way? He wants me to teach him how to be a gunfighter.”

  “And will you?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I like that the boy knows he needs help, but I don’t like what he thinks he needs help for.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “If I do anything, I’ll teach him how to stay alive,” Clint said. “It’ll be up to him for the lesson to stick.”

  “Well, see what you can do about those pearl-handled revolvers, will ya?”

  Clint grinned and said, “That would be first on my list.”

  SEVEN

  Clint woke the next morning with a warm, naked hip pressed to his. He didn’t move. Whoever she was, he didn’t want to wake her until he could remember her name and how she’d gotten there.

  After the sheriff had left the saloon, Clint didn’t go back to the poker game. He remembered that much. He thought he remembered having another beer—yeah, he did, he had another beer, and then a girl came over to him. One of the saloon girls.

  “You coulda beat those jaspers out of all their money easy,” she’d said.

  “I could have?”

  “Sure.”

  He’d turned and looked at her. Blond, tall, long legs, small breasts, but hard and round. The way her dress cupped them made that obvious.

  “How do you know?” />
  “I know poker.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then why didn’t I win?”

  “You were . . . distracted.”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  “I watch people,” she said. “It’s what I do to keep from going crazy here.”

  The conversation was coming back to him now. He kept replaying it in his head, hoping to come to her name.

  “How do you decide who to watch?”

  “I watch people I think are interesting,” she said. “I noticed you as soon as I came downstairs.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because other people were watching you,” she said. “They recognized you as . . . someone.”

  “You tell me your name,” he’d said to her, “and I’ll tell you mine . . .”

  “Laurie,” he said, out loud.

  She stirred next to him, pressed her hip more tightly against his. Then she rolled so that it was her taut ass that was pressing against him.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  The smell of her, and feel of her, had his cock hardening already as he turned to face her. He pressed the length of himself along the cleft between her butt cheeks and grew harder still.

  “Oh!” she said brightly, rubbing her butt against him. “I can see it is going to be a good morning.”

  He remembered now that they had rushed back to his room when she got off work and the saloon closed. Hurriedly, they had removed each other’s clothes and dived onto the bed together.

  But he had no time to play that encounter back. Laurie parted her legs now so he could slide his penis up between her thighs and into her vagina, which was wet and waiting. She sighed and leaned back against him as he started to move inside of her. He reached around to caress her breasts and nipples at the same time.

  “Oh, yeah,” she moaned, “this is the way to wake up in the morning.”

  He nuzzled her neck and said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “And you remember my name,” she said, tossing her head back and laughing. He cut her off by kissing her, her tongue darting avidly into his mouth.

  After several minutes she began to breathe harder. She pulled away from him, so that he slid from her wetly; then she quickly turned around, pushed him on his back, and mounted him.