The Two-Gun Kid

by J. R. Roberts

  He walked a few blocks and then heard shots. Following the sound, he found himself walking behind another man who seemed to be heading that way. Finally, they turned a corner and Heston saw Adams and the kid standing in an empty lot. He held back and watched as the other man crossed over to them. When the man turned in profile, just for a second, Darby Heston caught the glint of sun reflecting off his badge.

  “You fellas mind if I ask what you’re doin’?” the lawman asked Clint and Roscoe.

  “Hello, Sheriff Carter,” Clint said. “We’re target shooting.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to stay sharp.”

  “And are you expecting trouble?” the man asked. “Is that why you want to stay sharp?”

  Clint and Roscoe exchanged a look.

  “You never know when trouble’s going to come, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “And this has somethin’ to do with the Mexican in my jail?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You were supposed to come back and fill me in on that,” Carter reminded him.

  “We were going to come as soon as we finished here,” Clint said.

  “Let’s do it now rather than later, Mr. Adams, shall we?” Carter asked. “Care to follow me?”

  “Lead the way,” Clint said.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “So you don’t know who is comin’ for you?” Sheriff Carter asked.

  “Not by name, no,” Clint said. “We know of at least one man who’s coming. We had a set-to with him in a saloon in Evolution.”

  “Any reason to think he won’t come after you alone?” Carter asked.

  “One very big reason,” Clint said. “He doesn’t have the nerve.”

  “But you don’t know the man.”

  “He didn’t have the nerve in the saloon when he had another man with him to back his play,” Clint said. “My guess is he’s gone and found someone he can be confident with.”

  “Or more than one,” Carter said.

  “Yes.”

  “What about you, son?” Carter asked Roscoe. “You ready to back this man’s play?”

  “I’m the reason he’s got somebody after him, Sheriff,” Roscoe explained. “He stepped in to help me in that saloon.”

  “So you’ll back him?”

  “I’ll back him.”

  Carter looked at Clint.

  “That’s why you were target shooting in the lot?” he asked. “To keep him sharp?”

  “Yes.”

  Carter looked at Roscoe again. “Son, have you ever killed anyone?”

  Roscoe hesitated and looked at Clint, who nodded.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It’s not an easy thing to do, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Well,” Carter said, “I’ll just tell you that I’ve got three deputies and I’m not about to let you shoot up my streets, and my citizens.”

  “Fair enough,” Clint said. “I’m not about to trade shots with anyone wearing a badge.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “That’s about all I can promise you, though,” Clint said. “If anyone else shoots at me, I’m going to shoot back.”

  Carter regarded him for a moment, then said. “Fair enough.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As Clint Adams and Roscoe Bookbinder left the sheriff’s office, Darby Heston once again backed into a doorway. He watched the two men cross the street and enter the Hickory Branch Saloon.

  He waited.

  Clint and Roscoe ordered a beer each and took them to a back table. The saloon was not large, and was not crowded. Finding a table was not hard.

  “Back of the room,” Roscoe said, “always.”

  “I don’t have a choice in the matter, Bookbinder,” Clint said. “Neither will you, if—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Roscoe said, “if I decide to live by the gun.”

  Clint studied the young man. He wondered what the act of killing a man would do to Roscoe Bookbinder. Would he feel sick, regretful, and put his guns down? Or would he like it, and have a taste for blood after that?

  “So what do we do?” Roscoe asked. “Just wait?”

  “That’s right, we just wait.”

  “How about a whorehouse?” the kid asked. “Why don’t we go to a whorehouse?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “You mean it?” Roscoe asked

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “I’m not interested, but you go ahead. You need money?”

  “No, I got money,” Roscoe said. “It ain’t gonna be too much, is it?”

  “More than before,” Clint said, “but not too much.”

  “Okay.” He stood up. “You sure you don’t wanna come?”

  “Have a good time,” Clint said, “and keep your eyes open on the street.”

  “I will,” Roscoe said. “I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  Clint had second thoughts about letting Roscoe walk the streets alone, but he felt sure that their pursuers were after him, not Roscoe Bookbinder.

  Clint decided to walk the street himself. Maybe without Roscoe he could get this all taken care of. Maybe if he showed himself, they’d try for him while the kid was in the arms of a warm, willing prostitute.

  He paid his bill and went out on the street.

  Roscoe found a whorehouse with no problem. All he had to do was ask the bartender on the way out.

  “Ask for Mandy, and tell ’er Joe sent ya, from the Branch. She’ll know.”

  “Thanks.”

  He followed the bartender’s directions—two blocks south, then west for two blocks—and found the house, a two-story wood-frame with three steps leading up to the front door. He mounted the steps and knocked. When the door opened, he was looking at a huge, bald black man.

  “What you wan’?” the man asked.

  “Uh, Joe sent me, from the Branch. Told me to ask for Mandy.”

  “Huh,” the black man grunted, but he opened the door. “Come on in.”

  Roscoe entered and the man closed the door behind him, then looked at him.

  “You old enough to be here?” he asked.

  “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Dat’s old enough, I guesses,” the black man said. “Go ahead, inta the parlor.”

  Roscoe found the parlor very familiar. It was like the one in Evolution, only bigger, with more girls. He made his choice very quickly. A young girl, about his own age, slender and pretty. She didn’t have the same charms Lola had, didn’t have the big breasts, but he was attracted to her from the beginning.

  “Have you made your choice?” an older woman asked him. She had big breasts like Lola, only they were starting to sag under their own weight. She had to be at least fifty.

  “Are you Mandy?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Joe sent me over.”

  “Joe’s a good friend,” she said.

  Roscoe was staring at the young girl. Mandy followed his gaze.

  “Ah, I see you’ve spotted Betsy.”

  “Betsy?”

  “She’s new here,” Mandy said, “but she’s very good. She’s about your age, too.”

  “Um, okay, yeah.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Roscoe.”

  Mandy waved at Betsy, who came sashaying over. Close up, she was even prettier, and Roscoe found himself holding his breath.

  “Betsy, this is Roscoe.”

  “Hello, Roscoe,” Betsy said, extending her hand. He hesitated before shaking it.

  “This is Roscoe’s first time here,” Mandy said.

  “But not my first time,” Roscoe hurriedly added.

  “No,” Mandy said, “of course not. He’s very interested in going upstairs with you.”

  “Is that right, Roscoe?” Betsy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m very flattered,” she said, sliding her arm through his. “Come on, then. I have a very nice room, with a big bed.”

  She led him to the stairway just outside the
parlor and up to the second floor.

  “Will you do me a favor before we go to my room?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “I just put clean sheets on the bed,” she said, “and you obviously just came in off the trail.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you mind taking a bath first?”

  Roscoe hesitated.

  Then she added, “With me?”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Roscoe watched from the tub as Betsy dropped her robe to the ground and joined him, naked. Her breasts were small, pert, tipped with pink nipples. The hair between her legs was paler brown than the hair on her head, and sparse. Her skin was smooth and very white. As she sat in the tub, her legs rubbed against him, and they felt impossibly smooth.

  “Come here,” she said. “Scootch down.”

  He slid toward her. She grabbed a washcloth and a bar of soap and began to wash his chest and shoulders and neck. Eventually, she moved down to his belly, and then concentrated on his crotch.

  “Wow,” she said, as his erection broke the surface of the water and kept going. “That’s a long one.”

  “Is that okay?” he asked.

  She took him in her hands, stroked him up and down, and said, “It’s fine, Roscoe.” She squinted at him. “Is this really not your first time?”

  “It really isn’t.”

  She studied him, her hands bringing his penis to even greater heights than Lola had been able to achieve.

  “Second time?”

  “Yeah,” he said, catching his breath, “second.”

  She moved her hands, with the cloth, down beneath the water and began to wash his testicles, then moved down his thighs and his legs, finally ending at his feet. All the time his erection bobbed above the water.

  “There,” she said, “now all we have to do is wash your hair, and then you and I can go to bed.”

  “M-my hair?”

  “Could use a cut, too,” she said, “but I don’t do that here. Come on, lean down.”

  Clint returned to the Hickory Branch and had another beer at the bar. He now knew there was somebody outside watching him. Whoever it was had been following him and Roscoe for a while, and had followed him when he left the bar earlier. And whoever it was he was very good, because although Clint could feel him, he hadn’t spotted him yet. And he probably wouldn’t. It was more likely the man would approach him at some point, so he’d decided to stand at the bar and make it easy.

  Darby Heston stood across the street from the Hickory Branch Saloon. He had seen the kid, Bookbinder, leave and had let him go. It wasn’t him he was interested in, just the Gunsmith. He’d followed him earlier, outside and then back here.

  He could see through the window that Adams was standing at the bar, and suddenly he knew that the Gunsmith was waiting for him. He probably knew he was being followed, but Heston knew he was good at it: Adams hadn’t seen him, so he was waiting for him.

  So now the question was, should he go ahead into the Hickory Branch and face the man? Not with his gun, but just for a talk?

  Why not? It would be totally in keeping with his know-your-enemy philosophy. And it would show Adams that he wasn’t afraid of his reputation. After all, Darby had a reputation of his own.

  He quit the doorway he was standing in, stepped into the street, and walked across to the Hickory Branch Saloon.

  As Heston entered the saloon, Clint called the bartender over and said, “A beer for my friend.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Thanks,” Heston said, picking up the beer.

  “Following somebody, waiting in doorways,” Clint said, “it can be thirsty work.”

  “It sure can.”

  “You obviously know who I am,” Clint said. “Do I get to know who you are?”

  “Heston, Darby Heston.”

  “Heston,” Clint said, frowning, “I know that name.”

  Heston didn’t speak, but he felt kind of proud that the Gunsmith had heard of him.

  “I don’t know where from, but I’ve heard it,” Clint said.

  “I have a . . . reputation,” Heston said, seething now because he thought Clint was disrespecting him.

  “Really?” Clint asked. “As what?”

  “With a gun, like you.”

  “Lots of men think they have a rep with a gun, Heston,” Clint said.

  “Well, I do.”

  “So now you’re after me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “One of those idiots you faced down in Evolution was my cousin.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Around.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “There are some more idiots on the way,” Heston said, “but I thought I could handle this by myself.”

  “Really?” Clint said. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yeah, it’s a fact.”

  “Are you going to try the kid first?” Clint asked. “You know, he just might kill you himself and save me the trouble.”

  “That’s a laugh,” Heston said. “No, I ain’t interested in the kid, Adams. Just you.”

  “Do you want to do this now?”

  “No,” Heston said. “It can wait.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until I’m ready,” Heston said. He’d regained his composure, having realized that Clint was baiting him. He finished the beer and put the mug down. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Anytime.”

  Betsy took her time drying Roscoe with a big fluffy towel. She spent a lot of time on his balls and penis, almost driving the poor kid into a frenzy.

  “There,” she said finally, “now we’re both dry enough for the bed.”

  “Then let’s get in it!” he said impatiently.

  He grabbed her and hauled her to the bed. She was very light, and she squealed as he picked her up.

  On the bed, he tried to stuff his eager penis into her, but she closed her thighs and said, “Wait, wait. Take your time, darling.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “You been teasin’ me since I got here and I can’t wait no more.”

  “Well,” she said, opening her thighs with a smile, “in that case . . .”

  He drove his long, rigid cock into her, and she squealed again . . .

  The bartender came over and asked Clint, “Another one?”

  “Sure.”

  The bartender placed a full mug in front of him and asked, “Problems?”

  “Aren’t there always?”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the man said. “Ya want my advice?”

  Clint looked at the man, then picked up the beer and said, “Okay, sure. Let’s have it.”

  “Either he’s gonna kill you, or you’re gonna have ta kill him.”

  “That’s advice?”

  “That’s an observation,” the man said. “Here comes the advice.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Kill him first.”

  “First?”

  “Yup,” the bartender said. “Any way ya can. Just get to him first. I mean, he looks like a pretty mean hombre, to me.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “you’re probably right. He is probably a mean hombre.” He raised the mug and said, “Thanks.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  When Heston got back to the rooming house, his cousin Zack practically attacked him.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I been goin’ crazy here.”

  “I’ve been around.”

  “Around? Doin’ what?”

  “Well,” Heston said, “I followed Adams and the kid for a while, and then I had a talk with Clint Adams.”

  “A talk? Are you crazy? He . . . he talked to you? Without goin’ for his gun?”

  “Of course he talked,” Heston said. “We’re both pros. We had a beer together and got to know each other a little.”

  “Got to know each other?” Zack looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

  “You got to kn
ow a man before you kill him, Zack,” Heston said. “You don’t just walk up to a man and shoot him.”

  “Hell ya don’t,” Zack said. “You do when it’s the Gunsmith. Jeez, why give him a chance to kill you first, Darb?”

  “That’s not gonna happen, Zack,” Heston said. “Now, stop yelling at me before I put a bullet in you!”

  “Okay,” Zack said, regaining his breath and his composure, “okay, ya don’t have ta put a bullet in me, Darb.”

  “Did the old lady feed you?”

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “I had some beef stew. It was real good, too.”

  “That’s good. She gonna make us breakfast, too?”

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “Eggs, potatoes, biscuits . . . everythin’.”

  “Okay, good,” Heston said. “Tomorrow’s gonna be the day I kill Clint Adams, and I want to do it on a full stomach.”

  “Tomorrow? Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Heston said. “Tomorrow we’ll take care of both of them, and make a name for ourselves.”

  “Darb . . . you sure you don’t wanna wait for the others?”

  “The others are idiots, Zack,” Heston said, and added to himself, like you. “We don’t need them. We can take care of this ourselves. I’m going to my room now. Don’t bother me until breakfast tomorrow. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “And don’t you leave here,” Heston added. “I don’t want you going into town and getting yourself shot. You got that?”

  “I got it, Darb,” Zack said, “I got it.”

  “You want me to do what?” Roscoe asked Betsy.

  “Put it in me from behind.” She got on her hands and knees and looked at him over her shoulder. “Like this.”

  “But . . . ain’t that dirty?”

  “No, it ain’t dirty,” she said. “Besides, I ain’t askin’ you to put it in my ass. I want you to put it into my pussy from behind.”