Bandido Blood Read online

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  J.R. Roberts

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  Bandido Blood

  J. R. Roberts

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2013

  THE GUNSMITH

  #19 BANDIDO BLOOD

  Copyright © 1983 by Robert J. Randisi

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781612323923

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  To Linda Smith-Hancharick

  Chapter One

  “How the hell did Joe let this happen to you?” Clint Adams muttered as he unscrewed a bolt from the frame of a .44-caliber Winchester carbine.

  Joe Saunders owned a livery stable in Brookstown, Texas. When Clint arrived in the small border town with his wagon and his prized Arabian gelding Duke, Joe had been delighted at the chance to earn a handsome profit for taking care of the rig and horses. When Clint told him he’d pay extra to be certain everything—especially Duke—received special treatment, Joe guessed his customer’s identity.

  “By golly!” the hostler exclaimed. “You’re the Gunsmith, ain’t you? I heard tell you always pay special for this big black beauty of a hoss. Yes sir, Duke here is almost as famous as you are! Can see why too, ’cause he’s purely the most beautiful hoss I ever did lay eyes on! Hey, you are the Gunsmith, ain’t you?”

  With a weary sigh, Clint Adams admitted that some folks—too many folks in his opinion—called him the Gunsmith. He also mentally cursed the newspaperman who had given him that monicker years ago. The journalist had discovered that Clint, who was then a deputy sheriff in Oklahoma, repaired and modified firearms as a hobby. The newspaperman had already been working on a story about Deputy Adams, so he decided to tack on the Gunsmith title for a little extra color.

  It proved to be the beginning of a legend. Clint Adams had suddenly received unwanted fame as a lightning-fast draw, unbeatable with a gun. The fact that Clint decided to give up wearing a badge and became a genuine gunsmith, or that his skill with his modified double-action .45 Colt more than equaled the legend, didn’t make Clint any happier with the title or the reputation that went with it.

  At least, however, Joe Saunders was aware that Clint was a real gunsmith and not just a gunfighter with a fancy nickname. He’d heard that Clint Adams traveled throughout the West in his wagon, picking up work. It just happened Joe had an old Winchester that sorely needed repairs and he’d be mighty honored if the Gunsmith would personally fix it.

  So Clint and Joe made a deal which pleased both men. The Gunsmith would repair the Winchester as payment for Joe’s services as a hostler. Joe would be able to tell about his encounter with the celebrity to anyone who cared to listen, displaying his carbine as he spun his tale. For Clint’s part, he usually paid about five dollars to see to his wagon and horses, while he seldom charged more than a dollar or two for simple gunsmithing on a single weapon.

  But then he saw Joe Saunders’s Winchester. The gun looked as if it had been used as a garden tool. The barrel was rusty and pitted, the magazine had been dented and the mainspring to the trigger was broken. Simple repairs, shit!

  Clint had to disassemble the carbine, run a rod with a wire-bore brush through the barrel and scrub half a pint of solvent along the muzzle before it was clean. Most of the rust had to be filed down and oiled, but the weapon needed a fresh blueing job to look halfway decent again. Clint decided to skip any efforts to restore the Winchester’s former beauty and concentrated on making the weapon serviceable and safe to shoot—although he doubted that Joe would fire it much anyway. The tubular magazine was too badly dented to repair so it had to be replaced. The same proved true for the trigger spring, the hammer and the firing pin. Parts alone would have come to at least six dollars and the labor would have cost at least four under ordinary circumstances. Some deal!

  “Joe must have just let you sit around and get rusty after he broke your parts, ” Clint said. As was his habit when he was alone—and he was alone most of the time—he spoke to the gun as he worked.

  “I’d like to get you all fixed up before five o’clock,” he continued, attaching the new tubular magazine under the barrel. “I met a pretty lady who works at the local haberdashery. Bought a new hat I really don’t need and can hardly afford, but it gave me a chance to talk to her. She’s Annie Michaels and she’s about twenty-three years old and she doesn’t have a husband or a beau. I’m going to meet her when she gets off work and take her to dinner and—if I’ve read the twinkle in her eye correctly—we might just wind up back here in this very room. . . . ”

  Knuckles rapping on the door interrupted his conversation with the Winchester. Clint told the visitor to come in as he placed the screwdriver on the table where he worked and dropped his hand to the butt of his .45 Colt on his right hip. The Gunsmith had enemies he didn’t even know about. There’d always be young gunhawks looking for a reputation and people out to avenge a friend or relative Clint had put in Boot Hill, not to mention the fellows he’d sent to prison who may have been released or even escaped and happened to be in Brookstown. He couldn’t afford to be careless or allow himself to be caught off guard. Not if he planned to stay alive.

  The door opened slowly and the visitor peered into the room. Annie Michaels looked at Clint and then glanced about to see if anyone else was present. Clint realized she’d heard him talking to himself (which sounded less loco than talking to a Winchester carbine), and she naturally thought he might not be alone. Clint hoped Annie had only been able to hear his voice and not the exact words he’d used in contemplating his evening.

  Ann
ie was an attractive girl with bright red hair worn in a ponytail, which made her round, soft face seem very young. In a few years, the girl might become fat, but her current plumpness only accented her breasts and buttocks. Her wide blue eyes and bowlike mouth were her most appealing features.

  “Hello, Annie, ” the Gunsmith said, rising from his chair. He glanced at the turnip-shaped watch he’d placed on the table beside the Winchester. “It’s only four o’clock. . . . ”

  “I know,” she replied, stepping inside and closing the door. Annie inspected the Gunsmith with frank interest. “I’m early. ”

  “Did something come up?” Clint asked. “I hope you didn’t decide to cancel our date. ”

  “No, ” the girl assured him. “Are you working on that gun?” She pointed at the carbine.

  “Yeah. ” He rolled his eyes with frustration. “I’ve been working on it for over two hours. I haven’t had to do so much rebuilding, replacing and modifications on a gun since I converted my Colt to fire double action. ”

  “Double action?” Annie raised a delicate eyebrow.

  “Most guns have to be cocked each time before you fire a round,” Clint explained as he picked up the screwdriver. “That’s single action. A double-action firearm self-cocks when you squeeze the trigger.”

  “And because it doesn’t have to be cocked each time you can fire it faster, right?” Annie observed.

  “Exactly.” Clint smiled, pleased that the girl was paying attention and thinking about the subject—which was one of his favorites to discuss. “Shooting double action is faster, but it reduces accuracy. That’s why, when I have time, I usually cock the hammer and fire single action. ”

  “Do you have to shoot a gun in a hurry very often?” she asked.

  “It has happened from time to time,” Clint confessed. “All I have to do with this carbine is put the bolts back into the gun and secure the magazine. That’ll only take a minute. Then we can see about dinner. ”

  “Are you hungry right yet, Clint?” the girl inquired.

  “Well,” he began as he tightened the bolts into the frame of the Winchester, “I can wait awhile, sure. Is there something else you’d rather do first?”

  “It’s pretty rare to meet an attractive, interesting man in a town like Brookstown,” Annie went on. “When we met, you felt the same way I did, right?”

  “I hope so. ” Clint smiled, hoping he hadn’t misread the suggestive glitter in her eyes when they’d first met nor misunderstood her words now.

  “Then we both figured we’d wind up in this room,” Annie said candidly. “In that bed.”

  “Yes,” the Gunsmith admitted. “I want to make love to you, but that’s not all I had in mind when I asked you to have dinner with me. I’d like to talk to you and listen to what you have to say. ”

  The redhead laughed. “You don’t have to be romantic or pretend that you won’t ride out of town when you’ve finished with the business that brought you here. ”

  “I told you when we met that I’d only be in Brookstown for a couple days. And I will ride out of here then, just like I said. As for being romantic—what’s wrong with that?”

  “You just don’t have to be if it’s for my benefit. ”

  “Let’s just say it serves us both. I need to treat a lady like a lady. When a man spends most of his time alone on the trail, he misses the sound of a woman’s voice. He wants to look at her and smell her perfume and hold her hand. He wants to enjoy that special kind of gentle companionship only a woman can provide.”

  “That’s nice, Clint. ” Annie smiled as she drew closer and slipped her arms around his neck. “But right now I’ve got something else on my mind.”

  “Maybe after we’ve taken care of that, ” he replied, his arms encircling her waist, “you’ll develop an appetite for dinner. ”

  “One appetite at a time,” she said before their lips met.

  Chapter Two

  The kiss started sweet and tender, but their mutual passion soon added fire to their touch. Despite Clint’s apparent calm, he’d felt the blaze of desire stir in his loins the moment Annie Michaels had entered the room. He slid his tongue along the edges of her teeth, then slowly used it to caress the sides and roof of her mouth.

  Annie shivered in response to his skillful kiss and her tongue probed his mouth in a similar manner. Their hands gradually explored each other’s bodies. Annie’s fingers unbuttoned Clint’s shirt to stroke the hair on his chest while the Gunsmith’s palm rubbed the small of her back. His hands roamed over her ribs and slowly made their way to her breasts.

  His tender caresses had already excited the girl and increased her anticipation before she felt his fingers gently squeeze her left breast. Clint felt the nipple, erect beneath the fabric of her dress, and knew she was ready. Annie’s groping hands confirmed this as she proved even more bold than Clint. The Gunsmith hummed with pleasure when her hands found his hardened manhood.

  They helped each other shed their clothes in their haste to satisfy the mounting desire that burned in them both. Even as they moved to the bed, they were still unfastening buttons and buckles. When Annie finally stood naked before the Gunsmith he examined her with appreciation. The girl’s unfettered breasts were large and heavy, their magnificent pink-tipped nipples firm and inviting. Her full breasts and hips suited her doll-like face and made her appealing and cuddly as well as pretty.

  In contrast, the Gunsmith’s physique was lean with well-toned muscles. Almost twice as old as the girl, Clint was still fit, although more than one scar revealed he’d had experiences that were less than gentle. Annie combed her fingers through the carpet of hair on his chest, slowly moving her hand to his flat abdomen and finally to his unrestricted penis.

  She stroked his member until it swelled to full length. Then Annie lowered herself to one knee and gazed at Clint’s genitals as if inspecting a diamond necklace. The Gunsmith wondered if her boldness were artificial. He’d had few virgins and generally avoided them because they tend to expect too much in a relationship which, in Clint’s case, couldn’t include commitments of any kind.

  His apprehension proved to be needless as Annie cupped his balls in her palm and took him in her mouth. The girl’s lips slipped over the head of his maleness and slowly traveled up the fleshy shaft to the root. Her head began to move back and forth, her mouth riding his throbbing cock with eagerness and ability that revealed she was not a novice in the arts of lovemaking.

  Clint felt himself near the brink as Annie’s mouth moved faster. He was about to warn her when she stopped and quickly moved to the bed and lay down on her back, her legs parted in invitation. The Gunsmith joined her on the mattress, his hands stroking her flesh as his lips, tongue and teeth tenderly stimulated her breasts. The girl moaned with pleasure and pulled him closer. She obviously didn’t want to wait any longer, so Clint mounted her.

  Annie immediately found his erection and steered it to where it belonged. Both sighed with pleasure as he entered. Clint slowly gyrated his hips to work himself deeper. The girl squirmed beneath him, clinging to his shoulders and neck. She gasped as he began pumping his member inside her. Annie’s nails bit into his flesh and she gasped to the rhythm of Clint’s thrusting manhood.

  The Gunsmith lunged again and again, increasing the tempo until the girl cried out in ecstatic delight. She was an energetic lover, but she hadn’t drawn Clint’s seed from him yet. Still joined together, they rested for a few minutes before he began grinding and thrusting again. They rode to glory together, breathing hard in passionate labor as they reached the summit. The girl convulsed in a wild orgasm while Clint’s swollen member finally discharged its load.

  “Oh, Clint,” Annie purred as she snuggled close to him, still connected in the closest physical manner possible for a man and a woman. “That was wonderful. ”

  “Yes, ” he whispered his agreement as he kissed her ear.

  “Can we do it one more time before we have dinner?”

  “I don’t
see why not—”

  Their pillow talk was interrupted by the urgent rapping of knuckles on the door. The girl gasped and Clint instinctively reached for the headboard where he usually hung his gunbelt before climbing into bed. However, in his haste to make love to Annie, Clint hadn’t placed the holstered revolver in its customary position. It was on the floor, buried under a bundle of their clothing.

  “Mr. Adams?” a man’s voice called through the door. “Mr. Adams, are you awake?”

  “Oh, shit,” Clint muttered under his breath.

  “Maybe he ain’t in his room,” a man with an East Texas accent remarked from the opposite side of the door.

  “The desk clerk assured us he was here,” the first voice declared in a Texas drawl that revealed a formal education.

  “He mighta slipped out when the clerk wasn’t lookin’,” the second man suggested. “If’n the door ain’t locked, maybe we oughta just go inside and wait for him to come back. ”

  The Gunsmith stifled a groan. Neither he nor Annie had locked the door.

  “Don’t let them in here! ” Annie rasped into Clint’s ear.

  “You fellas hold on a minute!” the Gunsmith shouted at the door. “I—I don’t want to be disturbed. I’m busy.”

  “We must talk to you, Mr. Adams,” the cultured voice insisted.

  “Wait for me down in the hotel lobby, damn it!” Clint snapped.

  “Don’t, Andy!” the East Texan warned.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and a slender figure dressed in a tweed suit capped by a white stetson entered. The girl squealed in horror and grabbed the bed sheets to cover her nakedness. Clint withdrew from her, his penis now dangling limply, and lunged from the bed. His visitor, however, held up his hands to reveal he held no weapon. The man’s mouth formed a small oval as he stared dumbfounded at the Gunsmith and Annie Michaels.

  “Uh,” he began awkwardly, “I apologize for this . . . interruption, but I really must—”