“Oooh,” she said as she bounced.
He got on the bed with her, spread her legs, picked one up, and put it over her shoulder, then leaned into her fragrant crotch and pressed his face to her. Her pubic hair was extremely blond, and glistened a bit with her wetness. He probed her with his tongue, then licked her up and down until she was writhing beneath him, wetting the sheet thoroughly. He let her leg drop, but stayed where he was between them, keeping them wide so he could get to his knees between them and thrust his hard cock into her.
“Oh, Jesus!” she shrieked as he pierced her.
She closed her hands into fists, gathering up the sheet and hanging on while he pounded in and out of her.
“Oooh, God,” she moaned. He reached beneath her to cup her ass in an attempt to drive himself into her even deeper. She moaned and gasped as she tried to breathe, but he was literally fucking the air out of her lungs.
“Jesus,” she said at one point, placing her hands against his chest and trying to push him off, “you’re not lettin’ me breathe.”
“Breathing’s overrated,” he rasped to her. His mouth and throat were also raw as he was having trouble taking breaths himself. He realized he was going to have to ease up a bit or they’d both pass out.
He slowed his pace down, began to take her in long, slow strokes so that they were both able to catch their breath a bit.
“Mmm, that’s it,” she said, “that’s nice.”
“You get a man all worked up, you know,” he said.
“And you do the same thing to a girl,” she said, “but we have to make sure we can finish what we start.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he promised, “we’ll finish what we started…and then start all over again.”
“Ooh,” she said, closing her legs around him, “my hero…”
They finished and started, finished and started a few times before they finally took a rest, lying side by side. He was glad no one had kicked in the door to try and kill him. He would have been very disappointed if that had happened.
“Oh my,” she said, “by the time you ride out of town in the morning, I won’t be able to walk straight.”
“Riding might be a little bit of a problem for me, too,” he said.
“Oh, good,” she said. “Then you’ll have to stay to recover.”
“I wish I could,” he said, “but I really have to get going.”
“Why?” she asked. “Is it a life-and-death thing?”
“Actually,” he replied, “it is. More than you know.”
THIRTEEN
Perry Silver rode into Brethren, Tennessee, on a big midnight black horse, which took all the attention off him. All anyone remembered later was the horse, which was his plan.
Brethren was a thriving town, growing by leaps and bounds over the last few years. Just riding down the main street, you could smell the newly cut lumber that had been used to erect some of the newer buildings.
Silver didn’t know if the town was religious, as the name might imply. What he had to do, however, had nothing to do with religion, so it didn’t matter to him one way or another.
Brethren was bigger than the other towns had been, so it was likely that this would take a bit longer. It might even make it necessary for him to stay in town overnight, at least. He hoped to avoid hotels, but a town this size would probably have some rooming houses available to strangers.
Silver stopped in front of the first saloon he came to, a big place called The White Stetson Saloon. He tied off his horse and entered the saloon. There was enough activity going on that he didn’t draw very much attention. He was not a big man, or a physically demonstrative man, who drew attention simply by entering a room. This worked in his favor.
He went to the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it, he asked him about rooming houses.
“Sure,” the barman said, “there are a couple. Mrs. Costner’s got one at the far end of town, and then Libby Callahan made her home into one after her husband died. The rest of the houses around here are all single families.”
Libby’s sounded like the one he wanted.
“Can you give me directions to both?” he asked.
“Sure thing.”
The bartender reeled off the directions and Silver memorized them. He finished his beer, thanked the bartender, and left to check out the rooming houses.
He stopped at Libby Callahan’s first, dismounted, and knocked on the front door. There was nothing out front that indicated it was a rooming house, but he was sure he had followed the directions properly.
A handsome woman in her forties answered the door and smiled at him.
“Can I help you?”
“I was told in town that this is a rooming house?” he asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Do you have a room available?”
“I have a couple,” she said. “Are you alone?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m alone.”
She looked past him.
“Your horse?”
He nodded.
“You’ll have to put him up in one of the livery stables in town. I can direct you to the closest one.”
“Okay.”
“Come on in,” she said.
“Let me get my saddlebags.”
He got his saddlebags off the horse, then followed the woman into the house and to his room.
“Very nice,” he said, looking around. A bed, a dresser, a table, and one chair. And clean.
“Better than any hotel,” she said.
“I believe it.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“Just one night, hopefully.”
“Passing through?”
“That’s right. I have…business elsewhere.”
“Well, breakfast is at eight, and supper’s at five. You’ll have to get lunch—but you won’t be here for lunch, will you?”
“No, just supper tonight and breakfast in the morning.”
They discussed money and he paid her in advance for one night. After that she gave him directions to the nearest livery stable.
She walked him to the front door and said, “You won’t need a key. The door’s unlocked until ten. After that you can’t get in.”
“At all?”
“At all,” she said. “And no girls in the room.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I’m not here looking for a girl.”
“No? Who are you here looking for?”
He stared at her for a moment, then asked, “Do you know a man named Andrew Beckett?”
FOURTEEN
Clint rode into Brethren, Tennessee, and was impressed with what he saw. Unlike the other two towns he’d been to, it might take him a little longer to find the man he was looking for.
He’d given the matter a lot of thought during the days and nights it had taken him to get from Kansas to Tennessee. If this was simply a replay of the last two towns, with him simply finding the men dead, he was going to have to make a change. Just riding from town to town to find dead men would not cut it. He had to try to do something to save these men, and something to find the killer.
After Beckett, there were seven more men on the death list. One thing he was considering was calling on seven of his friends, having each of them go to find one of the seven men and not only warning them, but keeping them safe until Clint could get there. Maybe talking to them and comparing notes would give him some insight into who the killer might be.
Clint rode to a livery stable at the end of the main street and left Eclipse in the care of a capable-looking hostler. From there he took his saddlebags and rifle and registered at the Haystacks Hotel, across the street from The White Stetson Saloon.
From his room he looked down at the traffic in the main street in front of the hotel. Like the first time, he’d stop at the sheriff’s office first. In Kansas, he’d stopped at the undertaker’s first. Both times all he’d succeeded in doing was finding a body.
If Andrew Beck
ett was already dead, it wouldn’t make a difference if he stopped at the sheriff’s first, the undertaker’s, or a saloon. Dead was dead.
Feeling frustrated, he left the hotel and crossed over to The White Stetson. It was afternoon, still a couple of hours from the time the saloons would be jumping, but this one was close. It was a big place, more than half full, and noisy. A piano was being played in a corner, gaming tables were coming alive, four or five girls were working the floor, and there were two bartenders behind the bar.
Clint found himself a space at the bar and waved for one of the bartenders to come over. One was young, in his twenties, the other in his fifties. The young one came over to him.
“Whataya have?”
“Beer.”
“Comin’ up.”
He came right back with the beer, moving quickly but not spilling a drop.
“Anythin’ else?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “do you know a man named Beckett?”
“Beckett?”
“Yes, Andrew Beckett.”
“Um, lemme ask Barney. He knows everybody.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The boy went over to the older bartender, who Clint assumed was Barney. Clint took his beer in hand and turned to survey the room. Covers were still coming off the gaming tables, and dealers were setting up their games. He looked back to the bartenders, but they were both gone. Then, while he was watching, the one named Barney reappeared again, but the young one was still gone.
Clint waved at the older bartender, but he didn’t seem to see him. He waved again, then called out, “Barney.”
The man looked at him, seemed to be nervous about something. Clint waved him over.
“Yessir?”
“Are you Barney?”
“Yessir.”
“I asked the other bartender about Andrew Beckett. He said you’d know who he is.”
“Beckett?”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “Come on, man, do you know him or not?”
“Um, I think so,” Barney said. “Yeah, he—he lives in town.”
“Right in town?” Clint asked.
“Well, no,” Barney said, “I mean, hereabouts.”
“Well, where?”
“Um—oh, hey, I gotta go to work. I’ll—I’ll be right back.”
He hurried down the bar to serve somebody else.
Something was wrong, Clint thought. The man was too nervous for no reason, and the young bartender had not come back yet.
He was about to call out to him again when he heard a voice from behind him.
“Just stand fast, mister,” he was told. “No sudden moves.”
Clint froze.
“Put your hands up.”
He did so.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“That’s what I want to know,” the voice said. “I’m Sheriff Busey.”
“There’s no need for this, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I only just got to town—”
“And already you’re asking about Andrew Beckett.”
“Is there a law against that?”
“There is when Andrew Beckett is dead,” the sheriff said.
FIFTEEN
“Turn around.”
Clint did so, saw a fiftyish man with gray hair under a gray hat, pointing a gun at him. He noticed that the gun was very steady.
“Who are you?” the sheriff asked.
“My name is Clint Adams.”
The saloon had become quiet when the sheriff arrived, so everyone in the place heard that.
“Adams?” the sheriff asked.
“That’s right.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“Yeah.”
The sheriff hesitated, then said, “You’re lyin’.”
“Nope, I’m not.”
“Put your hands up, away from your gun.”
Clint obeyed, even though he really only needed to raise one hand to keep it away from his gun.
“Take his gun.”
The sheriff had a deputy with him who stepped forward, nervously plucked Clint’s gun from his holster.
“Okay,” Busey said, “let’s take a walk over to my office and we’ll find out who you really are.”
“How are we going to do that?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know,” the sheriff said. “Let’s just get over to my office first.”
“Okay, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I’m not going to give you any trouble.”
“That’s good to know,” Busey said. “Let’s go.”
The deputy led the way.
When they got to the office, Clint expected to be put into a cell. Instead, the sheriff just told him to have a seat. Then he sat behind his desk and put Clint’s gun in a drawer.
“Okay,” he said, “so you’re Clint Adams.”
“You mean, you believed me?”
“Well, yeah,” Busey said. “Who’d lie about a thing like that? It’s like painting a bull’s-eye on your back.”
“So, why did you—”
“You didn’t want the whole saloon knowin’ you were the Gunsmith, did you? That’s a sure way of havin’ somebody come after you.”
“You might be right about that. Can I have my gun back?”
“Not right now. I came over to the saloon because Willie—that’s the other bartender—came running over here and told me somebody was in the saloon asking about Andrew Beckett.”
“And Andrew Beckett is dead.”
The sheriff stared at him for a moment, then asked, “What do you know about that?”
Clint took the telegram, letter, and list from his pocket and handed them over. He had put a line through the first two names.
The sheriff read everything, then looked at the list again.
“I assume the first two names on this list are dead?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“Shot in the back?”
“Right again.”
Busey put all the papers on the desk, then opened his drawer, took out Clint’s gun, and laid it on top.
“Giving me back my gun?”
“Nobody would fake this story, and those,” the sheriff said, pointing to the papers.
Clint took his gun and holstered it, folded the papers, and put them back in his pocket.
“Can you tell me what happened to Beckett? Who he was?” Clint asked.
“He was a rancher hereabouts, got a place about five miles east of town.”
“Rich?”
“No.”
“But not poor. Not a drunk?”
“No! He was a respected businessman here in town,” Busey said. “Why, were those others—”
“The second one,” Clint said. “He was a drunk in Dexter, Kansas. The first man was a rancher, like Beckett.”
“Dexter, Kansas,” Busey said with a frown. “That don’t mean nothin’ to me.”
“Didn’t to me either,” Clint said. “The only thing I see that these men had in common is that they all lived outside of town.”
“That ain’t no reason to kill ’em all,” Busey said. “What about these other seven? You gonna warn them?”
Clint hesitated long enough for Busey to say, “You gotta warn ’em.”
Clint told Sheriff Busey what the letter writer had said about that.
“Well, how’s he gonna know if you send a telegram?” the lawman asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I don’t know if he’s a one-man show, or if he’s got people working with him.”
“I don’t see where you got much of a choice, Adams,” Busey said. “You got three dead men on your hands right now. How many more you want?”
“You know,” Clint said defensively, “I could’ve just ignored the whole thing. Let each of you local lawmen deal with it.”
“That’s true,” Busey said, “but the time for that has passed, don’t you think?”
“That’s the problem,” Clint said. “I do think that. I’m stuck in this for the long haul, but I’ve
got to act carefully.”
“Well…I don’t know what to tell you,” Busey said. “I guess you gotta make your own decisions. You wanna see the body?”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “Where is it?”
“The undertaker’s.” The lawman stood up. “Come on, I’ll take you over there.”
They stood up and left the office together.
SIXTEEN
Clint looked down at the body of Andrew Beckett, then turned and walked back into the main room of the undertaker’s office. This undertaker—unlike Mr. Blemish from Dexter, Kansas—looked like an undertaker—tall and cadaverously thin. Clint wondered if men who did this job just developed that way over the years.
“When is he supposed to be buried?” he asked the sheriff.
“Today, actually.”
“So when was he killed?”
“Two days ago.”
“Two days?”
“Is that the closest you’ve been to him?”
“I’m not sure,” Clint said. “I mean, I don’t know how long the other men were dead before I got there. I may be two days behind him all along.”
“You should be able to make up some of that time,” Busey said.
Yeah, Clint thought, if I mount up on Eclipse right now and ride like hell to the next town. He was unwilling to ride the big Darley Arabian to death, not even to save a life. That spoke volumes about how much store he put in that horse. He wasn’t sure other people would understand.
“I’ve got a lot of thinking to do,” Clint said.
“I just hope somebody else doesn’t die while you’re thinkin’,” Busey said.
Clint had supper alone that night, studied the list while he ate a passable bowl of beef stew in the hotel dining room.
For the next stop he had to travel all the way back west to Denver, then northwest to Minnesota, then south to Saint Louis…it probably was time to press the railroad into use. But he didn’t want to leave Eclipse in Brethren. He would prefer to leave the horse in Denver, where he’d know he was being well cared for.
By the time he finished his supper, he’d decided to take a chance with sending a telegram. He’d compose one in his room and send it the next morning to his friend, Talbot Roper, in Denver. Roper was a private investigator. Maybe they could save the life of the man in Denver. His name was Daniel Dolan, another name Clint had never heard. But maybe Roper would know something.
The Death List Page 4