Way with a Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  He pushed her away from him just as Winston reached them, invading their space with not only his presence but—as she had said—with his smell.

  Rio had understated the situation. The only thing Clint had ever come across that smelled this bad was a bear he had surprised in a cave one time in Minnesota.

  “You got your hands on my woman, friend!” Winston bellowed.

  Clint noticed that the center of the room had cleared out, patrons moving to the sides and the back, giving Winston room.

  “Is that a fact?” Clint asked. “The lady tells me she’s not your woman.”

  “Rio ain’t got nothin’ ta say about it,” Winston told him.

  He was even as big as the bear Clint had surprised, towering over him and the rest of the saloon.

  At that moment Rio had something to say, though, and she said it in rapid-fire Spanish that Clint didn’t understand.

  “What’d she say?” he asked Winston.

  “I toldja,” the big man replied. “It don’t matter.”

  “I said I would never have a smelly pig like you as my man,” Rio told Winston.

  The man looked at Rio, and, despite her insults, Clint noticed that his expression softened. He was completely in love with the woman, and it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t feel the same.

  Under other circumstances, Clint might have stepped aside and allowed the two people to work things out for themselves, but he wasn’t in that expansive a mood on this night.

  “You heard her, big man,” Clint said. “She’s not interested.”

  Winston looked back at Clint and his expression changed again. It became dark, foreboding, and filled with hatred.

  He pointed a huge forefinger at Clint.

  “I’m gonna hurtcha.”

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said.

  “Why?” Winston seemed honestly puzzled by Clint’s reply.

  “Because I won’t let you.”

  “You ain’t got nothin’ ta say about it,” Winston said. “I’m gonna hurtcha. It’s as simple as that.”

  “No, my friend,” Clint said. “You’re the simple one.”

  “Simple?” He frowned again. “Are you callin’ me stupid?”

  “If you think I’m just going to stand here and allow you to hurt me, then yeah, you’re stupid.”

  Winston looked Clint up and down and then said, “Gun or fists, friend. Your choice, but now I’m gonna hurtcha real bad!”

  “Guns are used to kill people,” Clint said. “Not hurt them. If you make me draw my gun, I’ll kill you. I say the choice is yours.”

  That wasn’t the first mistake he’d made that day.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The other patrons in the saloon tried in vain to get even closer to the walls. They didn’t want to get in the way of a bullet if there was gunplay, but they also didn’t want to miss a punch if there was a fight. The stranger didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight against Winston, but there was no way of knowing how he’d fare with a gun against the big man. If anyone had taken a vote, it would have pretty much been a hundred percent for a fight and against gunplay.

  Just in case there was a fight, some of them had already begun to make bets. Only the most ardent underdog lovers were giving the stranger a chance in a fistfight with Winston.

  “You’re givin’ me the choice?” Winston asked, staring at Clint in disbelief.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re crazy, mister,” he said.

  “Or drunk,” Bruno said from behind Clint.

  Clint thought the bartender was probably right. He was a little drunk. His best bet at this point would probably be to walk out of the saloon, go back to his hotel, and go to bed—alone.

  It was being alone that kept him from doing it, though. Miriam Taylor offering herself to him had gotten him started, but now there was the prospect of taking the fiery Rio to bed. And to do it, all he had to do was get by this big moron.

  Winston’s shirt was open almost to the waist, exposing a hairy chest. He was muscled, but he was big and raw-boned, probably got that way from years of hard work. His fighting skills probably depended entirely on his strength. He’d have speed, and no finesse.

  His hands were big and thick-fingered. Clint doubted the man could get his gun out of his holster the first try, and then when he did, it’d probably take him a while to get his thick index finger inside the trigger guard. He might have been accurate with the gun once he got it out, but he wouldn’t be getting it out in a hurry.

  All of these thoughts went racing through Clint’s mind as Winston tried to make up his own mind.

  “You kin walk on outta here, mister,” the big man said. “No hard feelin’s.”

  A collective groan went up in the room at the prospect of no fight at all.

  “If I do, I’m taking Rio with me.”

  Now a sigh of relief went through the room. Something was going to happen after all.

  “No, you ain’t,” Winston said, flexing his big fingers. “I tell you what. I don’t wanna kill you. Not with a gun anyway.”

  “I don’t want to kill you either.”

  “Well, then, I’m gonna take off my gun belt and hand it to Bruno there, behind the bar.”

  “I’ll do the same.”

  Clint had taken on bigger men before, and come out on top—though not without some pain. But maybe pain was what he needed right now. He needed to let out some frustration, and pounding on this big man seemed a fairly harmless way of doing it.

  As they handed their gun belts to the bartender, Clint wondered if—when this was all over and done with— he’d even be in shape to walk out of the saloon, let alone take Rio with him to bed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The first punch, a looping right, whistled past Clint’s head, and the breeze almost knocked him down. It also served to sober him up a bit—enough to realize that Winston himself was more than a little drunk.

  The second punch was a left, and although Clint stepped back, it clipped his jaw, rattling his teeth and knocking him against the bar.

  “He’d rather wrestle than box,” Bruno said into his ear. “Don’t let him get his arms around you.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said, keeping his eyes on Winston, “but he seems to be doing okay.”

  Although Clint didn’t need the help, Bruno put his hands on his shoulders and pushed. Winston opened his arms wide, intending to put Clint in a bear hug, but the intended victim ducked and moved past him.

  Clint turned as Winston did, and he threw a left jab into the man’s face. It hit him square, but Winston didn’t even blink. Clint threw three more jabs in quick succession, all landing, and although Winston’s bottom lip bled, he didn’t seem fazed.

  That’s when Clint really knew he was in trouble.

  Clint looked over at Rio to remind himself what he was fighting for. He had to admit she was a magnificent sight. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils were flaring, and her breasts were threatening to spill out of the top of her peasant dress as she breathed heavily.

  Winston came at Clint again, and was deceptively quick for a big man—not as quick as Clint, but he also had the benefit of a solid base. Clint figured what he might have to do was take the man’s legs out from under him, so as Winston got close he kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow!” Winston howled, hopping around on one foot. “You kicked me!”

  Clint backed up and watched the man hop around and glare at him.

  “You kicked me,” he said again. “That ain’t fair.”

  “What are you talking about, fair?” Clint asked. “You’re trying to hurt me. Anything is fair.”

  “Not kickin’!”

  “Anything.”

  “You sonofa—” Winston charged him again, and this time Clint kicked him in the other shin.

  “Jesus, that hurts!”

  Clint seemed to have found the big man’s Achilles’ heel, and it was his shins. That made sense. Most people’s shins were tender. T
hey certainly weren’t meant to be kicked.

  “You kick me again and I won’t just hurtcha, I’ll kill ya.”

  Clint wanted to find a quick way to end this, short of killing the big man. He saw his beer mug still sitting on the bar. The next time Winston charged him, he ducked him, got to the bar, and grabbed his mug. When he turned, the man was coming at him like a bull again, angered because of his sore shins. This time when Clint kicked him in the shin, he didn’t stand and watch Winston hop around, he took advantage of it. While his opponent was holding his shin with both hands, Clint swung the mug and hit him right on the jaw, beer flying through the air.

  Winston straightened up and stared at Clint. Blood suddenly blossomed on his jaw.

  “You hit me with a glass?” he demanded.

  Clint was about to do it again when Winston’s eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The big man keeled over and hit the floor with a loud thud.

  “Is he dead?” somebody asked.

  Another man leaned over and checked him.

  “Nope,” he announced, “he’s just knocked cold.”

  Clint turned to the bartender. “Give me my gun.”

  He did so and Clint strapped it on.

  “Now let me have a beer.”

  Bruno got him a beer and set it in front of him.

  “You ain’t got a scratch on you,” the bartender said. “I ain’t never seen nobody fight Winston and come out of it without a scratch.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “Mister,” someone said, “you kicked him and hit him with a beer mug.”

  Clint turned to face the man. “What’s your point?”

  “Well . . . that just waren’t blamed fair.”

  “That was as fair as it was going to get without me killing him,” Clint said.

  Rio sidled up next to him and slid her arm through his.

  “Bruno, I am leaving early.”

  “No argument from me,” the bartender said.

  “Come, Señor Clint,” she said. “You are the victor, and I am the prize.”

  Clint and Rio stepped over the prone form of Winston on their way out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  When Sheriff Andy Taylor entered the saloon, the prone figure of Winston was still on the floor in front of the bar. Men were walking around him, drinking and ignoring him.

  “What went on here?” Taylor asked Bruno.

  “Stranger wanted to leave here with Rio,” the bartender said. “Winston objected.”

  “And?”

  “The stranger left with Rio.”

  “After doing this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bruno said, “and it was slick as you please. Winston never laid a hand on him.”

  “Who was the stranger?”

  “I never got his name,” Bruno said, “but all the girls was buzzin’ around him, until he picked Rio.”

  When the sheriff got around to talking to the blonde, Santana, she said, “I heard him tell Rio his name was Clint.”

  “Clint Adams,” Taylor said.

  “What?” Bruno asked. “Did you say Clint Adams? The Gunsmith?”

  Someone else at the bar heard that and said aloud, “You mean it was the Gunsmith who put Winston down? Hey.” He turned to face the room. “That fella was the Gunsmith.”

  “Jesus,” another man said, “he coulda shot Winston dead easy.”

  “Everybody calm down,” Taylor said. “Nobody’s shootin’ nobody.”

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Bruno said, “you oughta get the Gunsmith to help you when Ned Pine and his men get here.”

  “Hey, that sounds like a good idea,” another man said.

  “Why not?” Taylor replied. “I’m sure as hell not gettin’ any help from any of you.”

  “Hey,” a man said, “it’s your job to face men like that, not ours.”

  “You got that right, Leo,” Taylor said, recognizing the man as a do-nothing bigmouth. “Suppose you and some of your friends take Winston out of here and take him home. You can at least do that, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure, Sheriff,” Leo said. “We’ll take care of ’im.”

  Taylor turned to Bruno.

  “Adams and Rio went to his hotel?”

  “That’s where they were headed when they left here,” Bruno said.

  Taylor nodded and left without a further word.

  When they got back to his room, Clint and Rio frantically removed each other’s clothes and fell onto the bed locked in a hot embrace. Hot mostly because the girl’s skin burned like fire. The only heat that was more intense was the heat coming from her crotch. Clint placed his palm over her pubic thatch and swore it almost burned his skin.

  “You must be a joy to have around on a cold winter’s night,” he said to her.

  She laughed deep in her throat and said, “I can keep a man warm in the middle of a blizzard.”

  “I believe it,” he said.

  He rolled her onto her back and took her full breasts into his hands. Her nipples were dark brown, a perfect match for her dusky skin. Her long hair was black as coal, and if it was possible, her pubic hair was even blacker— and there was a lot of it.

  “I like a full bush,” he told her, wrapping it around his fingers.

  “Sometimes I think I should shave it,” she said with a sigh as his fingers probed her. “There are women who do that, you know.”

  “I vote no,” he said, sliding his middle finger along her wet slit. “It’s perfect just the way it is.”

  She arched her back as he continued to finger her. At the same time, he leaned over to kiss and lick her nipples, which grew turgid and chewable, so he obliged.

  She reached between them to take hold of his swollen penis and press it to her hot and wet vagina. She was impatient for him inside her, so again he obliged the lady. He moved his hips and was inside her slick as you please, she was so wet and ready. And if her skin felt hot, and the outside of her sweet pussy hotter, the hottest place still was inside her.

  Clint gathered her up by her buttocks and began to fuck her in long hard strokes. She gasped, wrapped her long legs around him, and bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming. The pain from her bite drove him on, and he increased his tempo until he was slamming into her, banging the bedpost off the wall with each thrust.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Andy Taylor stopped in front of Clint Adams’s room and pressed his ear to the door. He heard a thumping sound, and then two voices, both grunting and groaning with effort. He lifted his fist to knock, then hesitated. Finally, he turned and walked away. From the sound of it, Clint Adams was perfectly healthy, and probably happy. If anything, he wanted to keep Clint Adams happy.

  He left the hotel and went home.

  “He’s what?” Miriam asked.

  “In his room with one of the girls from the saloon,” Taylor said. “Rio, the Mexican.”

  “A whore?”

  “Not a whore,” Taylor said. “A saloon girl. And she’ll keep him busy all night, believe me. Uh, considering what I’ve heard about her.”

  But Miriam Taylor wasn’t interested in how her husband knew about Rio’s stamina. She was more concerned with the fact that Clint Adams had rejected her, and then gone out and gotten a whore. She hoped he ended up with a disease of some kind.

  Taylor didn’t notice his wife’s distress, but therein lay the problem with their marriage—one of the problems anyway.

  “I’m going to bed,” she told him.

  “I’ll be up in a while.”

  Miriam went to their bedroom, undressed, and got into bed. She thought about Clint Adams in bed with the saloon whore and felt herself becoming excited. If her husband had come into the room at that moment, and into their bed, she might have let him have her. As it was, she slid her hands down between her thighs to take care of the situation herself.

  Damn Clint Adams, damn him, damn him, damn him . . .

  In the parlor, Andy Taylor wondered what was in his future. He knew his marriage was in trouble,
but that was not the problem that was tantamount in his mind. No, he could not deal with that until he knew if he was going to be alive beyond the next few days.

  He poured himself a whiskey and carried it to the sofa. Hs sat and sipped it, pondering the problem. Sure, he had Clint Adams, the Gunsmith, on his side, but was that going to be enough?

  Clint reached out and grabbed a handful of Rio’s hair. He pulled back on it as he fucked her from behind, his penis sliding up between her thighs and into her steaming pussy. With every thrust, the sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the room as he bounced off the cushion of her buttocks. She supported herself on her hands, her head back, neck stretched as he kept hold of her hair.

  She growled more than groaned each time he slammed into her, and as he pulled her hair she implored him, “Harder, harder,” and he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to fuck her harder, or pull harder on her hair . . . so he did both.

  The line of her back was beautiful as it made its way down to the cleft between her ass cheeks. She looked back at him over her shoulder and her eyes were ablaze. She smiled at him and began to drive back into him, meeting his every thrust so that he drove into her as deeply as possible.

  Abruptly, he withdrew from her, flipped her over onto her back. She protested at first, but then he dove down between her thighs headfirst. She was incredibly wet, her juices having soaked the sheets beneath them, and he wanted to taste her.

  “God, you are a sweet-tasting woman,” he told her as he licked her.

  She was unable to answer. The touch of his tongue was like lightning striking her. She was struck speechless. She reached down to hold his head in place while he lapped at her. She lifted her knees to give him better access to her, and with her other hand gathered a handful of the sheets in her fist.

  She’d never had a man be so concerned with her pleasure before his own. This was a rare man who had walked into the saloon tonight unexpectedly. He had fought for her—a fight that had, in itself, excited her tremendously— taken her back to his room, and given her more pleasure than she’d ever known. She was determined to enjoy every moment of it, and for the rest of the night make sure that he enjoyed it too.