Red Water

by J. R. Roberts

  “Holy . . .” She gasped. “Oh . . . oh my God.”

  While he hadn’t been sure about the position in which they’d wound up, Clint knew it was a winner the moment Gwen’s pussy tightened around him and she shook with a powerful orgasm. He slowed his pace a bit before she cried out loud enough to be heard by the whole town. Just when she was regaining control of herself, Clint drove into her again.

  The move caught her by surprise, but Gwen was too worn out to make much noise. She grabbed a few handfuls of straw and wriggled her backside against him. Now it was her turn to hang on for the ride.

  Clint grabbed her hips in both hands. That way, he could move her back and forth as he slid in and out of her. As his climax rushed toward him, Clint pounded into her harder and harder. Fortunately, Gwen’s body was built for just such an occasion and she was well into her second orgasm by the time Clint was overtaken by his own. With one more strong thrust, he exploded inside of her. After that, he could only lie back and try to catch his breath.

  Gwen moved around so she was lying with her face against Clint’s chest. The cool air brushed over her skin, which was made to look even creamier thanks to the pale moonlight.

  Grinning, Clint said, “Happy Founder’s Day.”

  SIX

  As comfortable as that pile of straw behind the corral had become, Clint didn’t spend the entire night there. While he and Gwen had been pulling themselves together, they were nearly discovered by some folks looking for their horses. Clint felt like a kid escaping with a pocketful of stolen candy sticks when he led Gwen away from there in a rush. It also made it easier for them to part ways.

  “Go on and get before someone thinks you stole something,” Clint told her.

  Gwen blinked excitedly and asked, “You want to come with me?”

  “I saw a hotel on Sales Street. I’ll go there, so nobody gets the wrong idea about us.”

  “Too late for that.” She chuckled.

  When the folks looking for their horses walked into sight, Clint gave Gwen a quick tap on the rump. That, combined with the exhilaration already running through her, was enough to get Gwen moving. Clint had to laugh as he watched her scamper away. When he noticed the folks near the corral looking at him with no small amount of confusion on their faces, he tipped his hat to them and strolled toward Sales Street.

  The hotel Clint had spotted was the Well Water Inn at the far end of Sales Street. Even though the festivities hadn’t quite dried up just yet, the inn was far enough away so the noise was at a tolerable level. The band had packed it in for the night, and that made things a lot easier to bear. Clint rented the last available room, set his things in a corner, and then dropped onto the bed.

  After all he’d done that day, Clint fell asleep on top of the covers with his clothes and boots still on. Sometime during the night, he crawled under the sheets, but he didn’t quite recall when that had happened. When he awoke the next morning, it was to the scent of fried eggs and bacon.

  “Well, well,” he mused as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Seems like my luck is still holding up.”

  Breakfast was a quiet affair. Judging by the pall in the dining room, Clint figured that someone had died or that the folks having their meals were still feeling the bite from all the liquor they’d consumed the night before. Just to test the waters, Clint scooted his chair out a bit rougher than he could have.

  “Aw, hell,” one of the nearby diners groaned.

  Since that fellow and everyone else in the room winced as if the noise were a bullet ripping through their heads, Clint guessed that the liquor was the cause of the somber mood around him. If there was any doubt of that, it was cleared up when the inn’s owner practically skipped into the dining room with a kettle in one hand and a plate of bacon in the other.

  “Anyone want more coffee?” she asked.

  “Quiet, Donna!” another of the guests snarled.

  Ignoring the sour words, Donna looked around hopefully. Seeing that Clint was the only one not glaring daggers at her, she extended her other arm. “What about you? More bacon?”

  “Sounds perfect,” Clint replied.

  Donna smiled widely and walked over to Clint’s table. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “I see you know how to control yourself during a Founder’s Day celebration.”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s good to see!”

  Several more guests waved at her or groaned into their plates, which only brought a critical scowl to Donna’s oval face. Straight brown hair was tied into two braids and hung down along the front of her shoulders. Clint guessed it was no fluke that her hair and the ribbon tied at the end of her braids were a perfect match to her brown and red dress.

  “Will you be staying for the festivities tonight, Mr. Adams?” Donna asked.

  “Will they be anything like last night?”

  “Even better! There’s a cakewalk down at the church, a picnic starting at one o’clock, and more dancing.” Sensing the expectant eyes that were fixed upon her from every other seat in the dining room, she added, “And more tables set up by the saloons, of course.”

  That last part was well received by the others, no matter how much they were hurting at the moment.

  Donna rolled her eyes, but put on a friendly face for Clint as she said, “I’m entering two cakes, myself. They’re my specialty.”

  Lifting his coffee cup after helping himself to a few perfectly cooked strips of bacon, Clint replied, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  Just when Clint thought Donna’s smile couldn’t be any brighter, he was proven wrong. “Wonderful.” She beamed. “That’s just wonderful.” With that, she turned and started to make her way back to the kitchen.

  Clint had just set down his cup when Donna stopped and spun back around to face the room. “Oh, and the marshal is in town.”

  “Probably lookin’ for those saloon tables,” one of the aching guests suggested.

  “No,” Donna scolded. “Well . . . maybe. He asked me to ask my guests to stop by Tanner Hall whenever they got a chance.”

  “What for?”

  Since one guest in particular had been needling Donna the most, she fixed him with a particularly nasty scowl. “There’s been some problems with robbers and such that might cut Founder’s Day short.”

  That statement couldn’t have gotten a worse reaction if it had been followed by a rabid dog being let loose in the room.

  “What?” the crankiest diner asked.

  Obviously proud of what she’d stirred up, Donna said, “That’s right. He wants to speak to you men, so go pay him a visit.” With that, she used her hip to bump open the door behind her and walked into the kitchen.

  Clint had to chuckle at the way Donna handled her guests. Since one of the things she’d said struck a chord with him, Clint decided he, too, would see what was on the lawman’s mind.

  SEVEN

  Tanner Hall was a real fancy name for a not-so-fancy place. Despite the ornate sign nailed to the front of the single-floor building, the hall wasn’t much more than a billiard room. Clint stepped inside the place to find a few small square tables scattered between three billiard tables covered in faded red felt. There was a short bar at the far end of the room that was tended by a tall man wearing a checked shirt.

  Spotting Clint, the bartender took an empty glass from under the bar and asked, “What can I get for you, mister?”

  “I’m just here to see the marshal,” Clint replied.

  “What about a drink?”

  Blinking once, Clint stepped a little closer to the bar. “Nothing to drink. I just heard the marshal wanted to—”

  “You need to order a drink. That’s the rule here at Tanner Hall.”

  “But I don’t want anything to drink.”

  “Then you can’t stay.”

  Before the anger in Clint’s gut could flare up too much, he noticed a man wearing a black suit waving at him from one of the small square tables. The next thing Clin
t noticed was the badge pinned to the man’s lapel.

  “There’s the marshal,” Clint said. “I’ll just go over there and see what he wants.”

  When the bartender reached across the bar, he almost lost his hand. Clint snapped his arm away so quickly that he knocked the bartender’s knuckles against the polished wooden surface.

  “There’s a sign posted, asshole,” the bartender growled. “One drink minimum.”

  “Fine, send it over to the marshal’s table.”

  “What’ll you have?” the barkeep asked.

  “Surprise me.”

  The bartender rubbed his bruised hand and then straightened his shirt. “There, now. Was that so hard?”

  Clint choked back the urge to slam his fist into the man’s smug face, then walked over to the marshal. “I was told you wanted to speak to folks staying at the Well Water Inn?”

  The lawman was a squat fellow with a trimmed mustache that spread along the entire top of his upper lip and was cut short at either end of his mouth. A dented hat sat on the table, next to a tall glass filled with water. His head looked like an overly ripe squash with a broken ring of hair connecting the back of one ear to the back of the other. Judging by the long strands that sprouted irregularly from the top of his scalp, he hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that he would soon be completely bald.

  After taking a few seconds to size Clint up, the lawman gave him one upward nod. “Yeah. I wanted everyone to come talk to me. Have a seat.”

  Clint pulled up a chair and sat down. “I suppose you were forced to buy that water?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What’s the urgent matter that needs to be discussed?” Clint asked. “I heard it was something about robbers.”

  Before the lawman could respond, the bartender approached the table and held a glass down toward Clint. After glancing at the drink for a fraction of a second, Clint waved it away. “I don’t want that.”

  Even though Clint wasn’t looking at the guy, he could hear the scowl on the other man’s face when he said, “It’s just whiskey.”

  “I don’t want to drink whiskey.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  Clint shrugged and leaned so both elbows were resting on the table. “Something else. Just surprise me.”

  The barkeep stomped away while muttering something under his breath.

  “You’re not from around here,” the lawman pointed out.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m Marshal Flynt.”

  “Clint Adams.”

  Raising an eyebrow, the marshal asked, “Clint Adams, the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you’re just the sort of man I’d like to talk to.”

  The barkeep returned with a mug of beer in his hand. Clint heard the angry steps approaching, turned around to look, and then waved him away again. “Try something else.”

  Baring his teeth as if he meant to bite, the barkeep said, “Tell me what you want!”

  “I don’t want anything,” Clint replied. “If you insist on making me pay for a drink, at least bring me something good.” Smirking as the barkeep stormed away again, Clint shifted his eyes back to Flynt. “Better hurry this up, Marshal. I think I’m wearing out my welcome.”

  “You ever hear of a robber named Laramie Harvey?” Flynt asked.

  “That name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “He’s some bloodthirsty kid that tears through this county and a few surrounding ones with another fella by the name of Chris Jerrison.”

  Suddenly, Clint snapped his fingers. “Harvey and Chris. Now I know where I heard those names.” Seeing the barkeep approach the table with a glass, Clint waited for the man to get close enough and then grimaced and shook his head. The barkeep turned around and walked back to his bar. “A few men tried to steal my horse right before I got to town. They seemed harmless enough.”

  “Was one of them a black fella?”

  Clint studied the lawman for a second before answering. “Yes.”

  “That’d be them,” Flynt grunted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And don’t try to tell me they’re harmless. You just said they tried to steal your horse.”

  “Yeah, but they weren’t much of a threat. I suppose they might frighten some women or men that don’t have any business riding out on their own, but they weren’t much trouble.”

  “Maybe not for a gunfighter like you, but they’re plenty of trouble to the good folks in these parts.”

  “Then it looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Marshal.”

  Flynt had no trouble picking up on the emphasis that was given to that last word. “I may be the law around here, but my territory covers a whole lot of miles. The reason I put the word out was to form a posse with the intent of rounding Laramie and his boys up and showing them what’s what.”

  “From what I saw, Laramie was the boy of that group.”

  “Fine, then why don’t you help me track down that boy and the rest of his group? There’s pay in it for you and if you charge extra for killin’ those assholes, I can see about payin’ that fee as well. It’d be worth it.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,” Clint said in the steadiest tone he could manage, “but I’m no hired killer.”

  “All right. Whatever you call yourself, come along with me and my boys and we’ll make it worth your while.”

  The smugness in the marshal’s voice, combined with his slack-jawed smile and piggish eyes, made Clint want to take a swing at the lawman. When Flynt looked across the table at him as though he were looking down into a rat’s nest, Clint wanted to bounce the fat man off the floor even more.

  Rather than give in to those temptations, Clint took a breath and stood up. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Marshal Flynt twitched as if he’d just witnessed the unthinkable. “What? Why? There’s good money to be made.”

  “I don’t need to explain myself. I’ll just pass.”

  All but jumping from his chair, Flynt snapped, “Maybe I did have you pegged wrong. Maybe you’re not a gunfighter. Maybe you’re an outlaw. That would explain why you don’t mind seeing a man like Laramie traipse about as he pleases!”

  “Let me ask you something, Marshal. Are these men wanted for murder?”

  Settling back as if he’d already won his fight, Flynt replied, “Not as such, but I’m sure they’ve killed plenty.”

  “How are you so sure?” Clint asked.

  “What the hell difference does it make?”

  “The same difference that separates a lynching from a hanging and if you don’t know that difference, I sure don’t want to ride with you or your men.”

  Clint started to turn, but almost ran into the barkeep. Looking down at the glass in the barkeep’s hand, Clint said, “Forget the drink. I’ll just be on my way.”

  As he walked out of Tanner Hall, Clint couldn’t decide whether the barkeep or the marshal was cussing the loudest.

  EIGHT

  When Clint walked down Sales Street, he intended on collecting Eclipse and putting Red Water behind him. For the most part, that was a reflection of just how badly Marshal Flynt had ruffled his feathers. By the time he made it to the next corner and was in sight of the stable, Clint’s temper had simmered down a bit. It may have been due to the fresh air, or the fact that the stable ahead of him was the same one that he and Gwen had visited the night before.

  Either way, Clint was in better spirits when he walked past the corral and stepped into the stable itself. Of course Eclipse was in there waiting for him, but he was more surprised to see another familiar face.

  “Oh!” Allie said with a start. “It’s you.”

  Clint nodded and approached her. Allie’s hand was still reaching out to rub Eclipse’s nose. “It’s me, all right,” he said. “And that’s my horse. Were you expecting me to be gone a bit longer?”

  “No, I just . . . that is . . .” Allie
stammered.

  Watching her fumble about for her next few words, Clint couldn’t help but smile. Allie was wearing a simpler dress than the one she’d had on when she’d greeted Clint upon entering town the day before. It was pale yellow with a white apron, which looked freshly bleached.

  “Do you remember me?” Clint asked.

  “Yes,” she replied quickly. Blushing and rubbing her temples, she added, “Mostly, I do. I don’t recall your name, though.”

  “It’s Clint.”

  “I’m—”

  “Allie,” Clint cut in as he stepped forward to offer his hand. “I heard it from your friend.”

  “Oh . . . would that be Gwen?”

  “It’s fair that you don’t recall who I am,” Clint pointed out, “but you might not tell Gwen that you forgot about her.” The only reason he’d said that was to see if he could darken the color in Allie’s cheeks. It didn’t take long for Clint to realize he’d accomplished that mission.

  Trying to hide her reddening face, Allie quickly realized she didn’t have enough hands for the job. Rather than turn completely away from him, she cleared her throat and straightened up. “I was a little tipsy last night,” she told him. “If I said anything out of line, I apologize.”

  Clint shook his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Certainly nothing worth the effort of tracking me down.”

  “You say that now, but . . .”

  Clint started to feel bad for making her squirm so much, so he let her off the hook. “I’ve seen many drunks that have plenty to apologize for. The only thing you did was sing a little too loud and stomp a few feet when you danced.”

  “You saw that, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Clint replied.

  “So your name is Clint?” Allie asked.

  “That’s right.” Since Allie seemed to be stuck in her spot, Clint stepped up to Eclipse so he could look the stallion over. Not only was the Darley Arabian in good condition, but he seemed reluctant for Allie to stop petting him.

  Allie had yet to leave. In fact, she was currently staring at Clint’s face as if she were trying to commit every line to memory. “Is there anything else you needed?” he asked.