Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  She felt herself getting wet just thinking about it. She moved over to where Russ sat staring out the window. She stood in front of him and stretched, making her tits push out hard against the thin cotton blouse she wore. He looked up and grinned.

  "Deed I would like to do something about it, Miss Amy, but I like my balls too much to crack them with you."

  Amy moved quickly and sat on his lap and at the same time unbuttoned the blouse. She let it hang there with just the sides of her breasts showing.

  "You really going to let Douglas tell you what to do? I'm telling you what to do right now. Both the others are sleeping. Nobody will know but us. Come on, right here on the floor. Fuck me right now."

  Russ wet his lips and she bent and kissed him. Her kiss was hard and open mouthed and her tongue got between his lips and washed him out as he gave a soft moan. She found one of his hands and pulled it up and pushed it under her blouse until it closed around one of her breasts.

  She could feel his erection rising against her soft ass. She pressed the kiss a minute longer then came away. She watched him a moment, then pulled his face down to her breasts. His mouth covered one and his hand the other. He rubbed and chewed and licked at her breasts. Russ gave one more moan and came off her breasts, knelt on the floor and pulled her down beside him.

  "Just once and fast and you don't let on to Doug, O.K.?"

  Amy nodded and pulled at the buttons on his pants fly. She had it open in a rush and fished around to find his whanger. Amy yelped in delight when she pulled it out. She swore it was teninches long. Not so large around but it would poke a hole all the way to her chest once it hit her cunny.

  Amy ripped off her blouse, shook her breasts at him, then pulled down her skirt. A moment later she had her pink bloomers off and sat there with her legs spread apart and her knees lifted, showing him exactly what he had been missing these past nights.

  "Now," she said. She pulled him with her as she leaned backwards on the floor. Russ knew what to do, not like some of them young boys she taught sex lessons to now and then. He plunged into her and jammed it in again and again until she thought he'd never stop.

  At last he was into her sheath as far as he would go and she felt that wild, strange half-hurting sensation when a whanger went in so far it touched a vital part of her she couldn't even name. Didn't happen often.

  She wrapped her legs around his back, but he shook his head. He undid her legs, caught them and lifted them up and up until he could rest them on his shoulders. It bent her almost double and her breasts were in her face.

  "Oh lordy but that does feel different," she said. Then she began to sweat and she felt the climax coming.

  "Do me hard, hard, harder!" Then she roared and screamed, her body shook and jolted, bouncing and trembling and vibrating like she was in an earthquake.

  Russ grinned and held on pumping hard to try to keep up with her. He couldn't. Then she stopped. Didn't move at all. He looked at her and then the whole thing started again and she screeched and bellowed and roared and then shook so hard she couldn't say a word or make a sound.

  The third time she started to climax, Russ said to hell with it and kept humping her until he exploded himself and pounded out the last of his jism and relaxed, letting her down flat as he rolled to the side panting like the back side of an ox team going up a steep hill towing a heavy wagon.

  Knute stepped around the door from the near bedroom grinning from ear to ear. "So you finally poked her," he said. "I been watching and she's too much a wild cunt for me. I like them to stay in one place more."

  Sully had been watching from the kitchen where he'd been making himself a sandwich. The uneaten food remained in his hand as he stared first at Russ, then at the naked woman. He'd never seen a woman stark naked before.

  "Damn," he breathed, afraid that she would put her clothes on. "Holy damn in a fruit basket, look at them knockers!" He had whispered the words to himself. He put the sandwich down and stood so he could see her better.

  Amy sat up and her flattened breasts swelled and jutted forward to their natural position.

  "Damn," Sully said. He pumped his hips five then six times against the wall while still watching her breasts bouncing and jiggling and the swatch of hair between her legs.

  He pumped his hips again, let out a soft moan and then felt the thrill that he could never get enough of as his hips pounded hard again and again. "Oh, damn it to hell, it's all over my pants." Sully rubbed his crotch and kept looking at the woman's breasts. He swore that he'd never seen anything so beautiful before in his whole life.

  Amy saw Sully watching around the door molding. She smiled.

  "Hey, Sully, come here. You ever seen real live girl tits before? Come on out here and show me your whanger. Bet you got yourself one long dick."

  Sully vanished back into the kitchen.

  Amy laughed and then turned and looked at Knute. "Not a fucking chance, big Knute. You had your chance on the trail. Fact is, I feel kind of fucked out right now. Not a word of this to Doug if he ever comes back."

  "He'll be back," Russ said. "Only thing he took the other time was the bonds, he called them. He got all excited, remember."

  Amy pulled on her blouse, then her bloomers while the two men watched.

  "He'll be back because we got plans," Amy said. "Damn well better be back, that little fucker."

  "You do him?" Russ asked.

  "Hell yes, that's how we met. We both woke up in one bed one morning. Both of us so hungover we didn't remember anything that happened the night before."

  "Here in town?"

  "Nah, in Little Rock. I live there. We were at a party."

  She slipped into her skirt and hiked it up, then sat in a chair and picked up the magazine. This time she got interested in the pictures.

  "Not a Goddamn word about this to Doug when he comes, you all hear. You say a word about it and Doug will pistol whip you and won't pay you a single greenback."

  Russ put his hand on her breast and rubbed gently. "Amy, I think they get the idea."

  She slapped his hand away. "Don't. Only when and if I say so. Otherwise, keep your fucking hands to yourself.

  Spur McCoy walked another block knowing someone was following him. He'd been in this situation dozens of times. Each one evolved differently. What terrain or buildings were there here that he could use? He checked the small businesses on the side street. He could dart into one of them.

  Yes, only he didn't dart. He pretended to relax, didn't look behind himself and walked into a saddle shop as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  Most of these shops had a rear door. The marvelous smell of the new leather hit him as soon as he stepped inside the shop. When he became rich and famous he was going to have his own saddle shop just to play with. The smell of the fresh tanned cow hide brought back a million memories.

  When he entered the door, he stepped to the side behind the solid wall and waited. The outside door swung away from him so he'd have a perfect point of attack on the man following him if he ventured inside.

  Spur remembered the man who followed him had on a gray hat, kerchief, a blue shirt, no vest and jeans. Spur waited five minutes and the man didn't come in. At this point, Spur was curious who the jasper was. He waved at the leather man, and sauntered out the door to the boardwalk taking care not to look behind him.

  This time the tracker was ahead of him, watching a jeweler repair a watch where he sat in the six-foot high display window. Several others watched as well.

  Spur started to walk up to the man but he faded away into the crowd so Spur couldn't touch him. Cat and mouse. Spur enjoyed his role of the cat, the hunter. Spur walked to Main Street and turned down it. Here the street was half filled with buggies, freight wagons, farm wagons, and mounted men going somewhere. Where did they all come from?

  Spur idled his way, caught the reflection in a side window of the same man behind him, then walked on. This was not getting him anywhere. He slowed so the man came clo
ser, then Spur did a rear march maneuver, spinning around with his left foot forward and moving directly in the opposite direction.

  In a moment, Spur was ten-feet from his tracker. The man snarled and drew his six-gun. Before he could fire two women came between the men and the gray hat turned and ran. Spur ran after him.

  The man in the gray Stetson darted into a dry goods store with mostly women shoppers. He tipped over a display rack of ladies' dresses to slow Spur, ran down an aisle and out the rear door into the alley.

  When Spur came to the door he paused, then threw it open. A shot slammed through the opening where the gunman thought Spur was coming out. Spur ducked and moved into the doorway firing twice at the fleeing man.

  Spur ran after him.

  For 100 yards it became a footrace, then the attacker held his side and sagged behind a fire barrel at the side of the alley and brought out his revolver.

  Spur ran to within 40 feet of the man. It was a long revolver shot. He saw a wooden crate ahead that looked solid enough for a fort. He fired one shot hitting the barrel and at the same time darted the last ten-feet to the wooden box and slid in behind it without taking any return fire.

  Spur waited for the man to look around the barrel. He didn't. Spur put another round into the barrel, making a heavy dent in the metal but not penetrating it.

  A moment later the man was up and firing at Spur's cover. He ran backwards firing five shots until he was out of range, then he turned and ran again, reloading as he went.

  Spur sprinted after him. He snapped one shot with a lot of elevation, but it missed. He kicked open his Colt and pulled out the spent cartridges and filled it with new ones until all six chambers were loaded.

  At the end of the alley, the ambusher turned down a side street and Spur took the corner wide to prevent another ambush. The man wasn't there. He ran again flat out down the street that led toward the near edge of town.

  Spur growled. He hadn't figured on a long chase when this started. Now he was curious to know who had hired the man. It might be worth finding out.

  They ran another 50-yards and the man ahead slowed and walked looking over his shoulder. Spur closed the gap to 20-yards and lifted his six-gun. A woman and two children came out of a house just beyond the runner. The ambusher saw them, dashed up and grabbed the oldest, a boy about 12, and held him in front of his chest. The ambusher's six-gun was pressed against the boy's head.

  "Don't come no closer or this kid gets his head blowed off," the gunman called.

  Spur had slowed to a walk. He kept on moving until he was 30-feet away. He brought up his Colt and held it steady.

  "You just go right ahead and shoot, bushwhacker. Then a second later I'll put six slugs into your worthless carcass and you'll be dead, too. You're bluffing with the boy. I've played poker, too."

  The boy's mother stood a dozen feet from the gunman, tears streaming down her face. She held her smaller child and wailed.

  The gunman said nothing. He looked at the boy, then at Spur.

  "I'm calling your bluff, bad ass. Either shoot and die or let him go and run again, your choice."

  The gunman turned the weapon toward Spur and fired. He missed by two-feet, but Spur couldn't return fire. He darted one way, then the other, as the gunman shot again, then a third time. Spur had worked backward until he was almost 50-feet away and out of any reasonable handgun range.

  "You've got two tries left, hard case. Want to risk them and then get yourself blown straight into hell?"

  The gunman scowled, looked at the boy, then at Spur. He had figured out he didn't have time to reload. If he tried it the kid would slip away. Just then the boy spun around in the man's arm and kicked him twice in the shins. The man in the gray Stetson yowled in pain, let the boy go and turned and bolted.

  Spur lifted his Colt and ran after him. Spur admitted he'd never been a winner at sprinting, but long-range running was more to his liking. The gunner ahead settled into a steady trot, looking over his shoulder now and then. Spur put on a spurt, sprinting fast to close the gap. He was 40feet away before the man ahead noticed. Spur got off two shots before his target sprinted ahead. The second round caught him in the side of the arm, spun him around but he kept running, bellowing with pain.

  "Give it up," Spur called. "I don't want to kill you."

  The man turned and fired one time, then once more. Spur grinned. Unless the man had loaded six rounds, his fangs had been pulled.

  They slowed the pace and Spur caught up again to within 20-feet. They had left the last house and now ran across the open country. A shallow draw began ahead and tapered down into a small valley that could hold a stream and was half wooded.

  "One more shot and you're a dead man," Spur barked.

  The runner stopped suddenly, turned and pulled the trigger. His weapon didn't fire. He pulled the trigger five more times as Spur walked up to him, his Colt trained on the man's chest.

  "Enough," Spur said. "Drop it and keep your hands in sight."

  The gunner wilted, let the six-gun fall to the grass and shook his head. "Didn't seem so tough when he told me about the job."

  "Killing a man is always harder than it looks, especially for a rotten shot like you. Who hired you?

  The man was half a head shorter than Spur. He slowly took off his gray Stetson and fanned himself. "You know I won't tell you that."

  "How would I know something dumb like that? You look halfway smart. You followed me, shot at me, ambushed me. Why should I go to the trouble of walking you back to town? I might just as well shoot you right here and let the buzzards have their afternoon meal."

  The man's eyes grew wide. His hands jiggled around at the end of his arms. He stared hard at Spur. "You wouldn't just kill me in cold blood."

  "What did you try to do to me, give me fair warning so we could have a shoot-out? Tell me now or I'm going to start shooting."

  The man shook his head. Spur lowered the barrel of the .45 and from four-feet away shot him in the thigh. The man slammed backward and rolled over screaming.

  Spur walked over and looked down at the man cringing and braying in agony on the ground.

  "Who hired you to shoot me?"

  "Damn, hurts! You fix me. Stop the damn bleeding. No human being can let another one die like this. Look at my blood coming out!"

  "Who hired you to shoot me?"

  The gunner looked up at Spur, who moved the aim of the six-gun down until it pointed at the man's right knee.

  "Oh, God, no! Not in the knee. Damn I'd never walk again. Maybe I can tell you. It 7n you let me go. Let me get patched up by a doctor and then let me get the boat downriver. Yeah, I could stay with my cousin in New Orleans."

  "Who hired you?"

  The man looked up as Spur cocked the Colt.

  "Oh, goddamn! All right. Don't shoot me again. Okay, I'll tell you. Some little guy. Didn't get a name. He was at the saloon and bought me a beer and asked if I wanted to make some extra money."

  "How much?"

  "Two hundred. That's damn near what I made all last year. He gave me twenty, pointed you out to me this morning and I followed you a bit. You didn't know it till you came out of the big house on the rise."

  "You local?"

  "No, came in last week on the train. I'm a logger. Heard there was some jobs."

  "When do you report to get the rest of your money?"

  "Tonight, about eight o'clock, in back of the same saloon. The alley. He don't like to be seen much, he says. Strange little guy, maybe five feet tall, cowboy outfit, no, more like a gambler. Fancy vest and all."

  "You think he'll be there?"

  "Damn well better. Now can I tie up my bullet holes?"

  Spur tore strips off the man's shirt tail and bandaged the man's two wounds. The slug had gone all the way through making an exit hole, cutting down on the repair work needed.

  Spur and the gunman walked back to town. Spur led him down back streets and they went in the side door of the Wentworth Hotel. Then it was up
the back stairs to the second floor and room 212.

  He pushed the man inside and tied his hands behind his back.

  "What the hell we doing here?"

  "Waiting until time to go and report in to your contact. Little guy, remember?"

  "Yeah. I'm hungry."

  "Good, shows you have a good strong system and can stand to miss a few meals. You'll eat next in jail if you need to eat anything at all." Spur wondered about the room. Anyone could find out which room he had. He checked the hallway, looked in the room he had slept in before and in one swift move, propelled the killer across the hall into room 215. He locked the door, put a chair under the handle and relaxed on the side of the bed.

  "What's your name?" Spur asked.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Like to know the man's name I'm about to kill. Especially if he's been lying to me."

  "Faulkner, Hank Faulkner. Used to live in Ohio."

  Spur heard some pounding on a door in the hallway. He opened his door a crack and checked. Lillian hit the door to 212 again, then scowled, turned and walked down the hall to the stairs.

  Spur shrugged. Maybe next time. He had his first break on this case and he didn't want to let go of it.

  Spur spent the afternoon catching up on his copy of Brother Jonathan, a weekly "compend" of Belles Letters and the Fine Arts, Standard Literature and General Intelligence. It had changed a lot since he first saw it years ago. But it did have some good continuing fiction that was fascinating.

  By six o'clock, Spur was hungry. He tied Faulkner's feet, checked the tie on his hands, and put a gag in his mouth. Then Spur went down to the hotel dining room and ate dinner. He brought back two sandwiches for his prisoner. He had to be strong enough to make the contact with the conspirator who hired him.

  At 7:30 that night, Spur took Faulkner down the back stairway and to the alley behind the Black Bart Saloon. They arrived early and Spur hid behind a large wooden crate, with Faulkner perched on top of it. There was a knot hole he could see out of toward the rear of the saloon.