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  “You’re lucky you’re slow, friend,” the Gunsmith remarked. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have had time to take such careful aim.”

  Moe may not have been much with a gun, but he was a bear of a man with the endurance of a young bull—and he proved he wasn’t much smarter than one by going for the Remington with his left hand. Clint even had time to cock the Colt before he fired a third round. The bearded outlaw bellowed in agony when the next .45 slug struck the point of his left elbow, shattering bone and cartilage to pop the joint apart.

  The outlaw dropped to one knee, both arms dangling uselessly. Sweat poured down his brow, forming a dew on the hairs of his beard. With his right collarbone broken, his left arm shattered and two bullets in him, Moe didn’t present much of a threat. The Gunsmith walked around the dazed and wounded outlaw, confident he wouldn’t be going very far in his condition.

  “I’ll be damned,” Moe muttered thickly. His eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out.

  “Not for a while anyway,” Clint remarked as he moved to the mouth of the alley at the opposite side of the bank.

  Although he’d hoped to capture the two outlaws stationed at the rear of the building without firing a shot, Clint had realized they might not prove obliging. When Clem Burns and the fourth member of the gang heard the shooting, Clint figured they would bolt from the bank, with or without the money. Since there were two men and only one horse hitched in front, they’d be counting on Moe and the kid bringing the rest of the mounts.

  Obviously, that wouldn’t happen now. So the pair would find themselves staring into Sheriff Wilson’s rifle and either surrender or both try to escape on one horse. The situation seemed destined to take care of itself from that point on.

  The Gunsmith heard boots pounding the plankwalk at the front of the building, which probably meant the outlaws had emerged from the bank, but he didn’t hear Wilson order the men to surrender or any gunshots. In Texas, half the citizens should be pouring out into the street to back up the law. Clint frowned, wondering what had happened that he’d failed to consider.

  Slowly, his Colt held ready, the Gunsmith started to move up through the alley. He saw a number of men standing across the street by the sheriffs office. Although armed with an assortment of handguns, shotguns and rifles, they merely stared at the bank, anger and frustration etched on their faces.

  The reason for this suddenly stepped into view. Clem Burns held a young blond girl from behind, one thick arm wrapped around her waist while he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against the side of her head.

  “That’s it,” the outlaw boss croaked in his hoarse Alabama voice. “You all just hold off or I blow this gal’s pretty little haid off!”

  Without warning, the remaining gang member swung into the alley, no doubt to see if he could retrieve one of the horses for their escape. He came to an abrupt halt when he suddenly came face to face with the Gunsmith.

  The outlaw already had a Smith & Wesson .44 in his hand, so he reacted in an expected manner: He immediately tried to aim his revolver at Clint and shoot him. Clint didn’t have any choice except to reply to the reaction in a like manner—and he was a hell of a lot faster than his opponent.

  The Colt cracked while Hal was still trying to thumb back the hammer of his weapon. He fell against the side of the bank and blinked in surprise. Then he glanced down at the bloodstain that spread across the center of his checkered shirt. He realized he was dead just before his heart stopped to make the decision official.

  When he heard the shot, Clem Burns, still holding his hostage, whirled to stare into the alley. He saw his partner’s corpse slumped against the wall of the bank and the Gunsmith with his smoking Colt .45 pointed in his direction.

  “Let her go, Burns,” Clint told him in a flat, hard, authoritative voice.

  “You drop your gun or I’ll kill her!” the outlaw snarled in reply.

  Clint saw the panic in Burns’s eyes, which bulged from their sockets like the bullfrog he ressembled both physically and verbally. In his distressed state, Burns might indeed put a bullet in the girl’s head, which would be an extreme pity. She was very pretty, with a clear alabaster complexion and lovely features, even though, at the moment, they were distorted by fear. Her body, clad in a blue gingham dress, promised to be as sweet as her face, although Clint barely allowed himself a fleeting glance. Distractions and gunfighting go together even worse than distractions and cards.

  “I’m not going to drop my gun,” Clint told Burns. “And you’re not going to kill her either.”

  “You better do like I say—” Burns began.

  “I’m going to count to three,” Clint cut him off. “If you haven’t released that girl and dropped your gun by then”—he shrugged—“I’ll kill you.”

  The outlaw bit his lip, uncertain of what to do.

  “One,” Clint cocked the hammer of his Colt to emphasize the word.

  Burns eased the muzzle of his revolver away from the girl’s head.

  “Two,” Clint stated, his arm and the fingers holding the Colt as steady as a boulder.

  Suddenly, Burns thrust his arm over the girl’s shoulder, pointing the gun at Clint, hoping to blast his adversary while still using the girl as a shield. The Gunsmith’s pistol snarled and Clem Burns’s head instantly snapped back as a .45 round drilled through the center of his forehead. The back of his skull exploded and a spray of pink and gray matter spewed out of his head. His gun arm rose with the sudden violent jerk of his body and the revolver in his hand discharged harmlessly into the sky. Burns’s other arm fell away from the girl’s trim waist a moment before his body crashed to the ground.

  “Three,” the Gunsmith sighed as he holstered his weapon.

  Chapter Three

  The citizens of Brownsville were eager to express their gratitude to Clint Adams for preventing the bank robbery. Two of the local diners offered him free meals for as long as he stayed in town. One hotel extended a similar invitation, but limited the expense-free room to three days and nights. Several shop owners told him to stop by and help himself to whatever he’d like—no charge.

  All of this was a bit too much for Clint. Naturally he appreciated their gratitude, but he’d always been one to pay his own way and he’d never been comfortable in the limelight. His current financial hardships made the offers tempting, yet it also made him feel that accepting them would be a form of charity under the circumstances.

  “I didn’t do this because I wanted to be rewarded for it,” the Gunsmith told the crowd that had gathered around him in the street. He felt embarrassingly like a preacher at a revival addressing his congregation.

  “All the more reason why you should be,” the portly owner of a haberdashery declared. Several others voiced their approval of this logic.

  “I really can’t accept—” Clint began.

  “Come on, mister,” the bartender who’d been so surly before urged. “You ain’t gonna offend us by refusing our hospitality, are you?”

  Clint grinned. The irony of the situation stunned him. He’d come to Brownsville because he was down on his luck and now everybody was offering more than he could accept.

  “All right,” he sighed. “How about a compromise? If any of you folks want to give me a discount on anything I buy, that’s fine, but you don’t have to feel obliged to do so, and I won’t take anything for free.”

  Most of the crowd didn’t seem to think this was quite good enough. Others seemed to feel it was reasonable and a few appeared to be downright relieved. Somebody asked if he couldn’t at least buy Clint a beer and half a dozen other men quickly added their desire to do likewise.

  “Hold on,” Clint laughed. “You’ll turn me into a drunk. Before I do anything else, I’ve got to see to my horses and rig. Oh, yeah. If any of you happen to have a gun that needs some repairs or modifications, that’s how I make my living, and I’d welcome your business while I’m in Brownsville.”

  “Then what the sheriff said is the truth,” a voice
remarked, a trace of awe in its tone. “You’re the Gunsmith, ain’t you?”

  “I’m Clint Adams.”

  “However you want it, Clint,” a beefy, red-haired man replied. “Just remember when you’re ready to be gettin’ a room here in town to come on over to the Shamrock Hotel.”

  Several others added their offers for accommodations and goods—and the young whore who’d noticed Clint from the saloon window told him she’d give him a good price for some special services. The Gunsmith managed to work his way through the congregation, receiving enough pats on the back and shaking enough hands to feel like a politician running for office.

  Finally, he headed toward the livery to see to Duke and his other two horses and the equipment he’d left on the wagon. He almost reached his goal when Sheriff Matt Wilson approached him.

  “Really appreciate how you helped take care of things today, Clint,” the lawman told him.

  “Glad to be of assistance, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah, well ...” Wilson began awkwardly. “I’m just wonderin’ why you did it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to ask that question, Sheriff,” Clint replied dryly. “Not if you’re wearing that star on your chest for the right reasons.”

  Chapter Four

  The accommodations provided by the Shamrock Hotel proved to be quite adequate, consisting of a bed, a chest of drawers and a small wooden table with a chair, a wash basin and a coal-oil lamp. Clint felt pleasantly weary by the time he entered the hotel room and tossed his stetson on the bed.

  He’d eaten a big steak-and-potatoes dinner for three cents, enjoyed a long hot bath in a barber shop after a shave and a haircut—all for a nickel—and then visited the saloon and allowed four men to buy him beers. Deciding that was a reasonable amount of brew for one night, he’d declined several more offers and headed for the Shamrock.

  Clint struck a match and lit the lamp. Although he felt tired enough to go to bed, he made room at the table to work and removed a small revolver wrapped in oilcloth from his pocket.

  Harry Collins, the barber, had turned out to be Clint’s only customer so far, although several others told him they’d be bringing him guns to work on the following morning. The Gunsmith unwrapped the oilcloth and examined the barber’s .32 Smith & Wesson pocket pistol.

  “Harry tells me he can’t cock you,” Clint spoke to the gun as though it could understand him. He had a habit of talking to guns and horses—especially Duke. Clint didn’t see anything wrong with this; he figured he’d start to worry when they started talking back.

  He tried the hammer gingerly and discovered reasonable thumb pressure wouldn’t budge it. Clint made a guess about the problem with the pistol and reached under the table for a box containing some of his gunsmithing tools.

  Selecting a small screwdriver, he removed the walnut grips of the little S&W and silently congratulated himself on guessing correctly. The hammer bar and spring were shrouded by a dark, gumlike substance.

  “Harry’s been oiling you a bit too often and then storing you away somewhere that’s too dusty,” Clint remarked, taking the parts out and cleaning them with a cloth. “Better check your trigger mechanism while I’m—”

  Knuckles rapped gently on the door. Clint’s hand automatically moved to his hip and draped the butt of his holstered Colt as he rose from the chair.

  “Come in,” he invited.

  The door opened and the blond girl Clint had rescued stood at the threshold. He smiled at her and she returned the gesture with a sheepish grin.

  “I—” she began, “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  “Just thinking out loud,” he replied, aware that the answer sounded less loco than admitting to a one-way conversation with a .32 Smith & Wesson.

  The girl stepped inside and eased the door shut. “I wanted to thank you for what you did today.”

  Clint noticed that she’d closed the door, but he didn’t jump to any conclusions. “No need for that, ma’am,” he assured her. “But you’re more than welcome anyway.”

  “Oh, my name is Loretta Baiser,” she said.

  Clint could take time to get a better look at her now that he didn’t have to contend with an armed outlaw at the same time. Her large blue eyes were definitely come-hither and her lips formed a tempting bow.

  “Your name suits you,” Clint remarked.

  “Loretta?”

  “Baiser,” he explained. “Isn’t that French for kiss?”

  The girl smiled and stepped closer. “Do you speak French, Clint?”

  “No,” he replied. “But I kiss in several different languages.”

  “Show me,” Loretta invited, her arms reaching for Clint’s neck.

  The Gunsmith embraced her and drew his mouth close to hers. She closed her eyes and prepared to receive his kiss, but Clint slowly extended the tip of his tongue and ran it along her lips instead. The girl trembled with pleasure until she crushed her lips against his.

  Clint’s tongue continued probing inside her mouth. He resisted an urge to explore her body with his hands until he felt her grind her pelvis against his crotch. His fingers then deftly stroked her back and neck.

  Slowly, Loretta broke the embrace and reached her arms back to unfasten her dress. Although Clint’s manhood swelled in expectation, he lived by certain principles. He knew if he didn’t he’d have trouble living with himself.

  “Loretta, you don’t have to thank me that much.”

  She looked at him, a trace of surprise and hurt in her expression. “You mean you don’t want to?”

  “Of course I want to,” Clint assured her. “I mean I’m only going to be in Brownsville for a few days and then I’ll be moving on—alone. It’s my way, Loretta. I want you to realize that before you say or do anything else.”

  Loretta smiled. “That’s considerate, Clint,” she said. “And I appreciate your honesty.”

  Then she continued to take off her clothes. The Gunsmith followed her example. They frankly admired each other’s bodies. Loretta nodded with satisfaction at the sight of Clint’s leanly muscled physique. He somehow seemed bigger without clothes on, due to the muscular development of his chest and shoulders.

  Clint’s gaze roamed down the girl’s swanlike white neck to the splendor of her breasts, capped by firm, stiff nipples. Her waist was narrow and her softly rounded hips tapered into long creamy thighs. The Gunsmith didn’t allow his gaze to linger on the tawny patch of hair between them.

  Loretta, however, had no hesitation about examining his genitals. The girl sank to her knees and eagerly licked his erection before slipping her lips over its head. She cupped his testicles in her hands as she drew her mouth to and fro along the length of his fleshy shaft.

  She’s French, sure enough, Clint thought as hot pleasure filled his loins.

  The girl almost brought him to the limit before she rose and moved to the bed. Clint followed, easing her back onto the mattress. His lips gently kissed her neck and she gasped when the tip of his tongue massaged the hollow of her throat. At the same time, Clint’s fingers found one of her breasts. He fondled it tenderly, thumbing the nipple until it stood hard and erect.

  Clint’s mouth took his hand’s place as the fingers traveled down her belly to her thighs. Slowly, his touch moved to her pubic hair. The girl spread her legs to receive his stroking fingers. He began to work his lips down her abdomen.

  “No need for that, Clint,” Loretta cooed. “I’m ready. God, am I ready!”

  So was Clint. He mounted the woman’s gorgeous, eager body. She didn’t want to waste any time. He’d barely climbed into position before she’d taken his erection in hand and guided it inside her. The Gunsmith eased his penis deeper by rotating his hips, working his organ into her with tantalizing slowness.

  “More!” she pleaded. “Give me every inch!”

  And he gave it to her, a little at a time. He paced himself carefully, slowly increasing the speed and penetration of his thrusts. Loretta’s body began to buck wildly
. She bit into his shoulder when her moans of pleasure became uncontrollable. Clint immediately increased the tempo.

  “O-o-oh that feels go-o-od!” she cried, reaching an orgasm.

  Clint kissed and fondled her as he slowly began the cycle of gradual thrusts a second time. This time she came rather quickly. He repeated the procedure a third time, feeling himself rapidly near his brink.

  “Oh, God!” Loretta cried in delight and amazement. “Again?”

  “I’m trying,” he replied through clenched teeth, straining to hold his load as her body responded to his ramming manhood.

  Then he exploded inside her. The girl’s legs wrapped around his torso as she convulsed beneath him. His throbbing organ still managed to carry her a third time into sensual ecstasy.

  “You are quite a man, Clint Adams,” Loretta Baiser sighed.

  A few minutes later, they started all over again and Clint decided she was quite a woman as well.

  Chapter Five

  Although sexually willing and bold enough to go to bed with the Gunsmith on the very day they met, Loretta was still concerned enough about her reputation in Brownsville not to want to spend the night in his hotel room. Two hours after she’d arrived, the girl kissed him good-bye and left.

  Clint drifted into a deep, blissful sleep only to have it disturbed by a loud pounding at the door. He awoke with a start, reaching for his gunbelt draped over the headboard of the bed. Drawing the modified Colt, he sat up and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “Adams?” a deep, authoritative voice demanded. “Are you too damn drunk to answer me, Adams?”

  “I’m cold sober and wide awake,” Clint replied gruffly. “And you don’t sound like you’re worth losing any sleep to meet.”