The Two-Gun Kid

by J. R. Roberts

“You did all the work last night,” she reminded him. Did he? “Just lie back and relax.”

  She began to ride him. He relaxed and enjoyed it for a while, but eventually he had to take a more active part. He reached for her firm breasts, popped the nipples between his fingers, then pulled her down onto him so he could lick and bite them. Her breath began to come more harshly. She pressed her hands to his chest, leaned all her weight there while continuing to bounce up and down on him. Suddenly, he felt her tremble, and then she was overcome by an orgasm. But that didn’t stop her. She continued to hop and ride and corkscrew on him, enjoying climax after climax until finally she collapsed onto him, exhausted.

  But he wasn’t done.

  He rolled her off of him onto her back, straddled her, and drove himself into her. She wrapped her legs around him as he drove himself into her again and again, faster and faster, until finally he found his own climax and exploded into her . . .

  Clint had breakfast in the hotel dining room while Laurie continued to sleep upstairs. He told her to use the bed as long as she wanted.

  After breakfast he walked through town until he reached the house Roscoe Bookbinder had described to him. It was run-down, shutters falling off the sides, a few windows broken. If he hadn’t been told different, he would have assumed it had been abandoned.

  He approached the front door and knocked. It was opened almost immediately.

  “It’s about time,” Roscoe said. “I was startin’ to worry that . . .”

  “That what? I’d left town? I told you I wouldn’t do that.”

  “No offense,” he said, “but lots of people have told me things they didn’t mean.”

  “Like who?” Clint asked. “Your parents?”

  “I don’t want to talk about them,” Roscoe said. “You wanna come in?”

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Fine.”

  Roscoe came out, left the door ajar.

  “You want to lock your house?”

  “There ain’t nothin’ in there to steal,” the boy said. “Everythin’ that means anythin’ to me is right here.” He touched his two guns.

  “You’re still wearing those, huh?”

  “I just didn’t want to leave them behind,” he said. “But look, I changed my clothes.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  The clothing was toned down, but it was still anything but plain. Fancy stitching, too many shiny buttons—still clothes that would cause him to be made fun of.

  “You don’t like ’em?”

  “They’re very pretty,” Clint said, “but why do you want to be teased?”

  “Anybody teases me has to deal with these,” Roscoe said, again touching his guns.

  “Where do you get the money for these clothes?” Clint asked.

  “I got money.”

  “Why don’t you use it to fix your house?”

  “That’s not my house,” he said. “It was my father’s, and I don’t care if it falls down around my ears. I ain’t gonna stay there anyway.”

  “No? Where are you going?”

  “I’m gonna hit the trail,” Roscoe said, “travel around the country.”

  “If you don’t get yourself killed,” Clint said. They were walking toward town. “You got money on you?”

  “Some. Why?”

  “We’re going to buy you some new clothes . . .”

  EIGHT

  When they came out of the general store, Roscoe was wearing his new clothes—simple trail clothes. No fancy stitching, no shiny buttons. The only thing shiny he had on was the twin pearl-handled Peacemakers in his hand-tooled double-rig holster.

  “These clothes itch,” he complained.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t stand out in these.”

  “You’ll get used to that, too.” Clint looked at his feet. “We’ll have to get you some new boots, too, but that can wait.”

  Roscoe looked down at his expensive boots, also hand-tooled and elaborately stitched.

  “Not my boots.”

  “The boots and the clothes are the easy things to replace.”

  “And what’re the hard things?”

  “Those.” Clint pointed at Roscoe’s guns.

  “Now, wait,” Roscoe said. “I thought you said I should carry one, not two. I just thought—”

  “No, no,” Clint said. “If we’re going to do this, you need a new gun—a plain one. One that simply . . . shoots.”

  “Like that one?” Roscoe indicated Clint’s weapon.

  “Yes, like this one.”

  “But I know these guns.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “So does all this mean you are gonna teach me?”

  “Are you willing to learn?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then come on.”

  Clint decided to start from scratch with Roscoe, and to teach him his first lesson at the same time.

  They walked together to the gunsmith shop, the kid still grumbling, wondering why he couldn’t use his own guns.

  “Do you want to learn?” Clint asked.

  “Sure, I do, but—”

  “Then you have to do things my way.”

  “But you said you wanted to see if I can shoot.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I can, but with my own gun.”

  “If you can shoot,” Clint said, “you should be able to do it with any gun.”

  “Well,” Roscoe said, “as long as it’s a decent gun . . .”

  “That one?” Roscoe asked, appalled.

  “Yes, that one,” Clint said.

  “That’s a good weapon,” the gunsmith said, taking it out of the display case and handing it to Clint.

  “Yes, it is,” Clint agreed. It was a .36-caliber Colt Navy.

  “It’s ancient,” Roscoe complained.

  “It’s broken in,” Clint said. “Here, try it.”

  He handed the gun to Roscoe, after checking to be sure it wasn’t loaded. Roscoe immediately tried to pull the trigger.

  “It’s broken,” he complained.

  “It’s single-action,” the man behind the counter told him.

  “What?”

  “You have to cock the hammer back with your thumb before you can pull the trigger,” Clint told him.

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  Roscoe cocked the hammer back, then pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a dry click.

  “How does it feel?” Clint asked.

  “Heavy,” Roscoe complained, “and uncomfortable.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Clint said. He looked at the gunsmith. “How much is it?”

  The man told him.

  “What? For this old—” Roscoe started to complain, but Clint cut him off.

  “We’ll take it,” he said. “Pay the man.” Then he looked at the storekeeper again. “Do you have a holster?”

  “Why’d we have to leave my guns with that guy?” Roscoe complained as they left the gunsmith’s shop.

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “He’ll take good care of them.”

  “He wants to buy them,” Roscoe said. “You heard him.”

  “He made you a good offer.”

  “I ain’t sellin ’em!”

  “Okay, I’m not telling you to sell them. I just didn’t want to carry them around with us.”

  Roscoe was fiddling with the worn holster around his waist.

  “Leave that alone,” Clint said.

  “It don’t fit right.”

  “It fits fine,” Clint said. “In fact, wear it lower. You have it too high.”

  “This is how I wear my gun.”

  “Not anymore. I don’t want your elbow bent when you grab your gun. It keeps you from having a fluid motion.”

  While they were walking, Roscoe continued to struggle with the holster, trying to wear it lower, testing it out.

  “There, doesn’t that feel better when you draw it?” Clint asked.

&
nbsp; “Well, yeah, kinda,” Roscoe said reluctantly. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to your house.”

  “What for?”

  “It looked like you have a lot of room behind it,” Clint said.

  “There is a lot of room.”

  “Then that’s where you’re going to show me how you can shoot.”

  “With this?”

  “With that.”

  NINE

  The yard behind Roscoe’s house was a mess, but it was what Clint wanted. There was a falling-down fence and bottles and cans littered all over. It was perfect.

  “Stand there,” Clint instructed Roscoe. “And leave the holster alone.”

  He walked around collecting bottles and cans, then set them all up on the part of the fence that was still standing—barely.

  He returned to Roscoe’s side and said, “Go ahead, hit something.”

  “What?” Roscoe asked. “Which one?”

  “Right now I just want you to hit something,” Clint said. “Anything.”

  “Draw and fire, or just fire—”

  “Oh Christ, Bookbinder,” Clint said, “shoot something!”

  Roscoe drew his new “old” gun, rushed his shot, and didn’t hit anything.

  “Damn!” he shouted. “I need my guns. This gun ain’t no good.”

  “Give it to me,” Clint said. He took his own gun out of his holster, stuck it into his belt, then put the Colt Navy in its place. It was only there for a split second, though, because he immediately drew and fired. A tin can flew into the air as a result, and then he fired two more times, hitting the can with both shots, making it dance in the air before falling to the ground.

  “This gun is fine,” Clint said, handing it back. “Reload it.”

  “That was amazing,” Roscoe said. “How did you fire that fast and have to cock it each time?”

  “My gun used to be single-action until I modified it,” Clint said, placing his own gun back into his holster.

  “But . . . you hit it while it was in the air.”

  “All you have to do is hit it once while it’s still on the fence.”

  Roscoe finished reloading the gun and holstered it.

  “Okay, Bookbinder,” Clint said. “This time just ease the gun out and shoot a tin can.”

  Roscoe nodded, wiped his hands on his thighs.

  “I just want you to hit it once,” Clint said. “Don’t try to do what I did.”

  “Right.”

  He shook his hand out, then drew the Colt Navy, cocked it, aimed, and fired. A tin can flew off the fence.

  “I hit it!” Roscoe exclaimed.

  “You hit the fence just under it,” Clint said. “I thought you said you could shoot. Why would you go looking for trouble if you can’t?”

  “I got a fast draw,” the kid insisted. “What the hell does it matter if I can hit a tin can or not? I can get my gun out fast and get off the first shot.”

  “What good is the first shot if it misses?” Clint asked.

  “I need my guns, Adams.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Okay, we’re going to go get your guns, but if you can’t do any better with them, you’re going to have to do it my way, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Let’s go.”

  It didn’t take long to walk back to the gunsmith’s shop, pick up his guns and rig, and return to the house.

  “Okay, big shot,” Clint said, “show me what you’ve got.”

  Roscoe turned to face the tin cans and bottles on the fence.

  “No,” Clint said, “face me.”

  “What?”

  “Face me and unload your guns.”

  “Unload them? Why?”

  “I don’t want you shooting me by accident.”

  “What the hell—”

  “Come on, Roscoe,” Clint said. “I’m giving you the chance you wanted. Just unload one of them.”

  Roscoe took the gun from his right holster and unloaded it, then put it back.

  “Okay, stand in front of me. I’m going to go first. I want you to clap your hands. Don’t tell me when you’re going to do it.”

  “Clap?”

  “Yeah.” Clint clapped his hands once. “Like that.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Roscoe asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Roscoe stared at Clint, then clapped his hands—or tried to. Before his hands came together, Clint drew and placed his gun there. Roscoe stared at him; Clint holstered his gun.

  “Try it again,” he said, “faster this time.”

  Roscoe stared at Clint, and his eyes gave him away. Before he could clap his hands, Clint’s gun was between them.

  “Damn it!”

  “Want to try again?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Roscoe said, “this time you clap. I’ll show you.”

  “That’s what I had in mind.”

  Roscoe readied himself in front of Clint, who quickly clapped his hands. As flesh smacked flesh, Roscoe flinched.

  “I wasn’t ready,” he complained.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “You call it.”

  Clint put his hands at his sides and waited.

  “Now!”

  Clint clapped.

  “I can’t call it,” Roscoe complained. “That warns you.”

  “Do it any way you want.”

  They tried several more times, and each time Clint clapped his hands before Roscoe could clear leather.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “reload.”

  Roscoe did.

  “Any way you want,” Clint said, indicating the targets.

  Roscoe faced the fence, then drew with both hands and fired.

  TEN

  Clint had to admit the boy had some speed, but speed wasn’t enough. When he slowed down, he was actually able to hit something, but only using his own guns.

  Clint and Roscoe went to a small café in town and had supper.

  “I tell you what,” he said to Roscoe. “I’ll let you hang on to your own guns, but you’ve got to take off those pearl grips.”

  “Okay,” Roscoe said, “okay, I can do that. Then you’ll teach me?”

  “Then I’ll teach you.”

  “Why? Because I remind you of you when you were my age?” Roscoe asked.

  Clint laughed.

  “Bookbinder,” he said, “you’re nothing like me when I was your age. No, the only thing I like about you is that you were smart enough to ask for help.”

  “I just wanted some help, ya know, gettin’ faster,” Roscoe said.

  “Bookbinder, you need help to stay alive,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Roscoe said, “my attitude.”

  Clint cut into his steak, speared a chunk with his fork, and paused with it halfway to his mouth.

  “Where did that attitude come from anyway?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” Roscoe said. “I guess I just ain’t never been worried about dyin’.”

  “Did you get that attitude before or after your parents died?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Roscoe said. “They been dead a long time, and I been on my own for most of it.”

  With no male influence, it was no wonder he’d turned out the way he had.

  “So when do my lessons start?”

  “They started.”

  “The clapping stuff? Where did you come up with that?” Roscoe asked.

  “Learned it from a fellow named Chris.”

  “Chris what?”

  “Just Chris. That’s all I ever knew.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He specialized in forming small groups to take on larger ones,” Clint said.

  “And you worked with him?”

  “Once,” Clint said.

  “Why only once?”

  “Believe me,” Clint said, “once was enough. Men who worked with him had a habit of not coming back.”

  “So what’re we gonna do?”

  “I have a couple of ideas,” Clint said. �
�I just have to decide which one I like best.”

  “What ideas?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Clint said.

  “So we’re done for the day?”

  “We’re done,” Clint said, “except you’re going to go back to that gunsmith and have him replace the grips on your guns. Right?”

  “Yeah, right. And what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to get me a chair, sit in it,” Clint said, “and think.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Don’t sound like much,” Roscoe said.

  “Bookbinder,” Clint said, “your first lesson is an easy one. Listen, don’t talk.”

  “But?”

  “What’d I just say?”

  “Listen, don’t talk.”

  “Very good. Remember that.”

  After they ate, they left the café and stopped outside.

  “I want you to move into the hotel,” Clint said.

  “Why?”

  “Because that house is bound to fall down around your ears,” Clint said. “I’ll pay for the hotel.”

  “I got money,” Roscoe said. “I can pay for my own hotel.”

  Clint liked that the boy wanted to remain independent.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Pay for it yourself.”

  “How long do I take the room for?”

  “Start with one night,” Clint said. “I’ll know more about what we’re going to do tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” Roscoe said, “then I’ll just leave most of my gear at the house.”

  “Whatever you say,” Clint said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “I’ll probably be in the saloon tonight,” Clint told him.

  “Well, I’ll be there, too.”

  “I don’t want you to go into the saloon if you’re going to look for trouble, Bookbinder,” Clint said. “I don’t want you getting killed before I can teach you anything.”

  “I ain’t.”

  “And don’t change your clothes, or switch to your pearl handles.”

  “How can I?” Roscoe asked. “You’re havin’ that gunsmith replace the grips, and we didn’t even pick them up yet. I gotta wear this Colt Navy until tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “then you won’t be in such a hurry to use it.”

  “Well,” Roscoe said, “nobody better push me, is all. I mean, I ain’t gonna look for trouble, but I ain’t gonna back down either.”