“Go on,” Clint told her.
“Thanks, Mr.—” she said.
“Adams,” he told her. “Clint Adams.”
The three men stiffened when they heard the name.
“Thanks, Mr. Adams,” she said, and moved away.
Clint looked at the first man.
“Still want to kill me?”
“H-Hey, look,” the man said, “we was only h-havin’ some fun—”
“I like fun,” Clint said. “You mind if I get my beer and join you?”
“Uh, s-sure,” the man said, “w-why not?”
“Thanks.”
Clint collected his beer from his table, then pulled out the fourth chair and joined the three men, who were all now exhibiting signs of nervousness. One of them was blinking very rapidly.
“Now you fellas know my name,” Clint said. “What are yours?”
“Um, I’m Briggs,” the first man said.
“Turner,” the blinker said.
The third man was the one the girl had slapped.
“I’m Evans.”
“Well, what kind of fun were you boys having?” Clint asked.
“Ah, you know,” Briggs said. “Just talkin’ . . . braggin’ . . .”
“Braggin’, huh?” Clint asked. “You know, I heard there were some men in this saloon who were bragging about killing me. Was that you, boys?”
They all looked stricken and stared at each other, speechless.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“You boys don’t have to be nervous,” Clint said. “Lots of men plan to kill me. Some of them even try.”
“Mr. Adams,” Briggs said, “w-we never—”
“Oh, I know,” Clint said, “you boys were just talking . . . bragging . . .”
“Well, uh, yeah . . .” Briggs said.
“But I just want you all to know,” Clint said, “that if you did want to give it a try, I’d be happy to accommodate you out in the street.”
“Uh, nossir!” Evans said. “We, uh, wouldn’t wanna do that. Would we, boys?”
“Not at all!” Turner said, blinking rapidly. He looked as if he was about to cry.
“Well, that’s good, then,” Clint said. “I’ll just leave you fellas to continue having fun.”
He started to get up, then stopped.
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Yessir?” Briggs asked.
“If it should occur to you to try to shoot me in the back? I wouldn’t take too kindly to that.”
“Oh, nossir!” Turner said. “We wouldn’t try that.”
“In fact,” Evans said, “we was just talkin’ about leavin’ town.”
“Oh, really? When?”
“Right now!” Briggs said. “We wasn’t even gonna finish our drinks.”
“Oh, that’s silly,” Clint said. “Your horses might break their legs out there in the dark.” He slapped Briggs on the back, making the man jump. “Morning is soon enough. Just finish your drinks and turn in so you can get an early start.”
“Uh,” Evans said, “okay, we’ll do that.”
“’Night, boys.”
Clint walked away, went back to the bar. Just moments later he saw all three men hurry out the batwing doors.
“’Nother beer?” Blake asked.
“Yup.”
The bartender placed it in front of Clint.
“What’d you say to those boys?”
“I gave them some good advice,” Clint said.
“Musta been really good advice,” Blake said. “They about ran out of here.”
Aurora appeared at his elbow, smiling.
“Looks like you handled that quietly.”
“Luckily,” he said. “Is Colby still here?”
“No,” she said, “he lost some money, and left.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I know what he looks like.”
“You didn’t want to meet him?”
“Not tonight,” Clint said. “Just wanted to spot him.”
“So what are your plans for the rest of the night?” she asked.
“Why? What did you have in mind?”
“Just thought I might show you my rooms upstairs,” she said, sliding her arm through his.
He thought about Pike and Donnelly waiting for him in the flophouse hotel, but they were prepared to take care of themselves. Maybe he could find out what was really on Aurora Lane’s mind.
“Well,” he said, “lead the way.”
* * *
Aurora got a bottle of wine from Blake and then led Clint to the stairs. They went up to the second level, where she unlocked a door with a key. She tried to let him go in before her, but he said, “Ladies first.”
“Do you think there’s someone inside waiting to . . . what? Hit you over the head, or something?” she asked. “You’re a careful man.”
“A careful man who’s still alive,” he said, “despite all the odds.”
* * *
Tom Colby, while sitting at the blackjack table, heard the murmurs in the crowd that the Gunsmith was present in the saloon. This surprised him because he’d heard, earlier in the week, that Clint Adams was around, but the word he got was that the man was playing poker down by the docks, in the Blue Owl Saloon.
What was the Gunsmith doing in the Lulu Belle, then? The opposite of slumming?
Although he didn’t know that Clint Adams had been watching him earlier, he became aware of what was happening at a table of three loud men when Clint Adams interceded on behalf of one of the saloon girls. Adams sat with the three men—who seemed appropriately nervous—and Colby—who had lost his stake for the night—took the opportunity to leave the saloon at that point.
There was much too much going on in the life of Tom Colby for him to be comfortable with the presence of the Gunsmith, not only in Saint Louis, but in the Lulu Belle.
He was going to have to have somebody look into that for him.
TWENTY-NINE
Aurora opened the wine, but did not get around to pouring it.
Once Clint was sure no one was going to leap out of the closet or from beneath the bed with a gun, he moved in behind the beautiful woman and slid his arms around her while she worked on the bottle.
“Mmm,” she said as he pressed his crotch against her butt, “seems to me you’re interested in something other than wine.”
“I’m actually interested,” he said into her ear, “in why you really came to see me in my room, pretending to be a saloon girl.”
He kissed her neck, and she set the wine bottle down as his hands came up to cup her breasts.
“Ummm,” she said, “what makes you think I wanted anything more than I got?”
“Because you’re a smart woman,” he said. “A smart businesswoman. I don’t think you really ever have only one single reason for anything that you do.”
She turned in his arms then and pressed her mouth against his.
“Can we talk about this later?” she asked.
“Definitely.”
* * *
When Colby got home, his wife greeted him at the door with a drink.
“How did you do?”
“I lost my stake,” he said.
Colby was in his mid-forties. His wife, Ingrid, was ten years younger. They were a good fit because, while they had differing interests, they supported each other.
“I’m always impressed that you can lose your stake and come home,” she said. “Most men would lose their stake and stay for more. Or waste more money on a whore.”
“I gamble the way I run my business,” he told her. “You know that.”
She kissed him and said, “And I also know that I’m your whore, so you don’t need another.”
He snaked one hand around her to cup her firm butt, and kissed
her.
“You’re right about that, my love.”
Arm in arm, they took their drinks and walked to their bedroom.
* * *
Clint took his time with Aurora.
He undressed her slowly, kissing each inch of skin that he exposed. By the time he had her naked, she was quivering, and wet. But he still went slowly.
He eased her down on the bed, then stood next to it and removed his own clothes. As she reached for his hard penis, he slapped her hand away and said, “Not yet.”
She pouted and reached again, but this time he backed out of her reach.
“Are you going to tease me?”
“Oh yes,” he said.
He moved to the bed and ran his hands down her body. Those nipples grew turgid, and seemed to get darker. He circled them with his fingers, then ran his left hand down her body until he was cupping her pubic thatch. He could feel the heat from it on his palm, and knew if he probed with a finger, he’d feel her wetness. But he put that off . . .
“Come on, come on,” she said, “please . . .”
“Just relax, Aurora,” he said. “You’re going to like this . . .”
* * *
When they reached their bedroom, Tom Colby and his wife, Ingrid, put their drinks down and slowly began to remove their clothes.
“Did anything else interesting happen tonight?” she asked.
“Yes,” Colby said, “the Gunsmith was in the Lulu Belle.”
“Is that significant?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I’m going to have to find out.”
“Well,” she said, naked now, “can you do that tomorrow?”
He eyed her long, sleek body, the small, hard breasts with their small pink nipples, and her smooth skin, and said, “Of course,” reaching for her . . .
* * *
Clint spread Aurora’s sleek legs and crouched between them. He kissed her inner thighs, licked them, came tantalizingly close to her pubic area, but kept skirting it, tickling the outer hairs, stroking her belly and her thighs, breathing on the area until it was good and hot, and then finally, probing through the hairs with his tongue. She gasped when the tip of his tongue touched her wetness. He lovingly stroked her wet slit with his tongue, enjoying the tart taste of her, reached up to cup her breasts at the same time.
She began to buck beneath him, saying, “Please, please . . .”
He kissed her vagina and said to her, “We’re just getting started.”
THIRTY
Ingrid Colby was a beautiful woman. And she loved her husband. He provided very well for her, allowed her to spend money without his approval. She was able to buy whatever she wanted, which was why she allowed him to do what he wanted when they were in bed together.
Colby loved her, but for some reason he could not perform in bed if she was looking at him. For that reason, he usually took her from behind. Once she was on her hands and knees in front of him, and he was looking at her fine ass, his cock quickly rose and hardened.
He reached between her thighs now, to finger her pussy until she was good and wet, and then slid his hard cock between her thighs, up into her.
The headboard slammed into the wall as he fucked her brutally that way . . .
* * *
Denim and Roburt stopped outside their boss’s house, hesitating.
“What are you gonna tell him?” Roburt asked.
“I don’t know,” Denim said. “We can tell him that the Secret Service man is gone from the hospital, but if we tell him why, he’ll kill you.”
“Kill me?”
“Well, you left the hospital and let him get away.”
“You can explain it to him, then.”
Roburt studied the house, saw the light burning in what he knew was the bedroom.
“He just got home,” he said. “We better give him some time to . . . do whatever he’s doin’.”
“With a wife who looks like his?” Denim asked. “I think we know what he’s doin’.”
“Then we better definitely give him some time . . .”
* * *
Aurora Lane was beating on the mattress with her fists as Clint licked and sucked her until the sheet beneath them was soaked with her juices. Only then did he mount her and drive his throbbing cock home.
She screamed as he pierced her, then wrapped her legs around him as he began to drive into her.
“Oh God, yesssss!” she screamed.
* * *
Tom Colby slapped his wife’s ass until the skin was burning red. Only then did he explode into her, enjoying her screams of pleasure and pain combined . . .
* * *
“Did you hear that?” Roburt asked Denim.
“I sure did.”
They were seated on the steps of the front porch.
“You think they’re done?” Roburt asked.
“Sure sounded like it,” Denim said. “A woman don’t scream like that when she’s just gettin’ started.”
“Should we knock?”
“Not yet,” Denim said. “We better still give them some time to, you know, recover.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
Inside, Colby and his wife lay side by side on the bed, getting their breath back.
Ingrid’s ass was stinging badly, but she would ease the pain by spending an obscene amount of money tomorrow.
“Did Roburt or Denim come by tonight?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “why? Were they supposed to?”
“I gave them a job to do,” he said. “If they didn’t do it, I’m going to have to kill them.”
“You can’t kill them yourself, dear,” she said. “You have a position in this town to maintain.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll have them killed.”
“What were they supposed to do?”
“Kill somebody.”
“That sounds like a lot of killing,” she said.
“It’s necessary.”
He stood up, went to the dresser, and got both their drinks. He came back and handed Ingrid her wineglass as she sat up in bed. She had beautiful skin.
“Who is it?” she asked. “The intended victim, I mean.”
“A Secret Service agent.”
That got her attention.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know his name,” he said, “but I’m sure enough to have him killed.”
“Why didn’t you have him killed before this?”
“They were supposed to kill him,” he said, “but they only put him in the hospital. I was giving them a second chance.”
“You don’t usually give second chances, darling,” she said, sipping her wine.
“I know,” he said. “I was being unusually generous.” He drained his wine and looked into the empty glass. “It won’t happen again.”
THIRTY-ONE
“Oh my God,” Aurora said, “were you trying to kill me?”
Clint sat up in bed and said, “I was trying to make you happy.”
“Well,” she said, “you did that! My body is still shaking.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to think all that effort went to waste.”
“Oh?” she said. “It was an effort to make love to me?”
“No,” he said, “it was a pleasure to make love to you. But now it’s time to talk.”
“Well,” she said, “if you want to talk, you better put some pants on. I can’t concentrate.”
“Okay,” he said, “and you better put on a robe.”
“Or,” she said, “we could take a bath together.”
“I think we both know where that’ll lead,” he said, “and I have to . . . get back.”
“Back?”
“To my hotel.”
“Ah, well . . .” She stood up, walked to a changing screen against one wall, grabbed a robe off it, and pulled it on.
“Is this better?” she asked, tightening the belt.
“Much,” he said, pulling on his trousers. “How about this?”
“Pull on your shirt, too, just to be sure,” she suggested.
“Okay, then I might as well just get dressed.”
She sat on the bed and watched as he pulled on his boots and donned his shirt. His gun belt was hanging on the bedpost, but he left it there for the moment.
“Now I suppose you want to talk,” she said.
“Yes.”
She folded her arms.
“Ask your questions.”
“Why did you come to see me?”
“I did hear those men talking about you,” she said, “and I did check all the hotels to see where you were.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to meet you.”
“Again, why?”
“Well, I’d heard so much about you and I was curious.” She smiled at him slyly. “By the way, everything I heard was true, and more.”
“Aurora . . .”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Help you with what?”
“Getting away from my partner.”
“You have a partner in the saloon?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
She made a face and said, “Tom Colby.”
“Colby. Is he a full partner?”
“Actually,” she said, “he’s more of an investor than a partner.”
“But?”
“But he’s trying to push his way in, and I don’t know how to keep him out.”
“How hard is he pushing?”
“Well, lately, not as hard as he was. Something else has his attention.”
“And I think I know what it is,” Clint said.
“What?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said, “but if I take care of it, he won’t bother you anymore.”
“That sounds good to me.”
“As long as you’re not in business with him in any other way.”
“What? No, I’m not. What do you mean?”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 8