The Gunsmith 385 Read online

  “You think he followed you here?”

  “I know he did,” Clint said. “Nothing happened in camp that night that would make him quit.”

  “And you didn’t hear him outside your camp over the next few nights?”

  “Not a sound.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting this young man,” Rick said. “I wonder if he’ll have the nerve to come walking in here.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “What else has been going on?”

  Clint took the time to tell Rick about some of his adventures, especially surviving the flood on Bayou Teche—thanks to Travis.

  “Sure doesn’t sound like he means you harm,” Rick commented. “I would think the curiosity would be killing you.”

  “It was for a while,” Clint said. “But then I decided it was all up to him. He wants something. Eventually, I’ll find out what it is.”

  “So how long do you figure to stick around this time?” Rick asked.

  “Don’t know,” Clint said, reaching for the fresh beer. “I’ll just take it as it comes.”

  “Got some new girls working,” Rick said. “Maybe that’ll interest you.”

  Clint drank some beer and said, “If I’m going to be meeting some new girls, I guess I’d better have a bath.”

  “We’d all appreciate it,” Rick said.

  FOUR

  Clint finished his beer and went back to his hotel for the bath. He kept his gun close at hand while in the tub. It wasn’t because of Travis; it was just something he always did.

  After the bath he dressed in fresh clothes, took his dirty trail clothes down to the Chinese laundry, where they knew him.

  “You come back to town, Mr. Clint,” the Chinaman who ran the place said. Clint could never pronounce the man’s name, so they just agreed between them that Clint would think of him as the Chinaman.

  “I from China, and I a man,” the Chinaman said, “so no insult.” He cackled. The man could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. He had a big family working for him in the laundry—his wife and four daughters. No sons.

  “But we not finished trying,” he’d told Clint once, cackling again. His wife had a smooth, handsome face, and her age was also difficult to figure, but Clint thought she was well beyond childbearing age.

  “How are your girls?” Clint asked.

  “They growing up,” the Chinaman said. “Pretty like their mama, not ugly like me.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and eighteen,” the man replied. “Too young for you, Mr. Clint.”

  “I agree,” Clint said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about from me, but I’m sure there are some young men in town who are sniffing around.”

  “They sniff too close, I chop off sniffer!” the Chinaman said. “I got hatchet.”

  “I know you do,” Clint said. “I’ll come back for my clothes tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

  “You take ticket,” the Chinaman said, handing Clint a ticket. “You no have ticket, you no get shirt.” The Chinaman cackled again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I be here,” the Chinaman said. “I always here.”

  Clint left, thinking that maybe he should try pronouncing the man’s name one last time before he left town. Just to show respect.

  * * *

  “Travis” sat on his horse just outside Labyrinth, Texas, wondering how long Clint Adams meant to stay in this small town. During all the time he’d been trailing Adams, the man had never stopped here before.

  Using his binoculars he saw that Adams had gone into the hotel, then a saloon called Rick’s Place, and then the hotel again. Later he came out and went to a laundry. At that point he decided that Clint Adams meant to stay in Labyrinth for a while.

  The Gunsmith would probably expect him to come into town after him. Maybe he would, but he wouldn’t do it today. He decided to camp for the night, and maybe he’d ride into town in the morning.

  Maybe . . .

  * * *

  Clint waited until it was after dark to return to Rick’s Place. Walking from the hotel to the saloon, though, he turned and looked up into the hills east of town. He could see the light of a campfire. It wasn’t hard to figure who was camped up there. “Travis” was once again advertising his location. Clint thought about riding up there and surprising the young man in his camp, but decided against it. He was still determined to let the young man call the play.

  He turned and entered Rick’s Place, looking forward to meeting Rick’s new girls.

  * * *

  Rick did not employ whores.

  The bulk of his business was whiskey and gambling. The girls he hired were window dressing. Their job was to serve drinks, that’s all. Anything else they wanted to do was up to them. Rick was always careful to explain to new girls he hired that there were no cribs or rooms for them to take men to. No “nickel nights” at Rick’s Place. If they wanted to do that, there was a whorehouse in town they could work for.

  Clint entered and went to the bar. The place was busy. There were other saloons in Labyrinth, but Rick’s was the most popular place in town. It had the best beer and whiskey, and honest games.

  And pretty girls.

  Rick was always careful to hire very pretty girls. Working the floor were a blond, a redhead, and two brunettes, all of whom were pretty, none of whom was thirty.

  In the past Rick used to tell the girls to pay special attention to Clint, as he was Rick’s good friend. But Clint had put a stop to that.

  “If one of these nice young ladies shows interest in me, I’d like it to be because of me, and not because you told them to.”

  Rick had shrugged and said, “Whatever you want. I was just trying to be helpful.”

  So Clint stood at the bar with a beer in hand and watched the new girls work the floor.

  FIVE

  One girl caught Clint’s eye.

  She was blond and, at maybe twenty-eight or so, older than the other girls. She was tall and lean, except for her breasts, which were impressive. And her trim waist made them look all the more so.

  He watched her work the room, gliding effortlessly away from the groping hands of drunk cowboys.

  “I see you’ve zeroed in on the class of the bunch,” Rick said, coming up next to him.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Delia.”

  “How long has she been working here?”

  “About a month,” Rick said. “She was very pleased to discover we didn’t expect her to sell her wares.”

  “I imagine she’d do very well if she did.”

  “No doubt,” Rick said. “But she’s happy just slinging drinks.”

  “Smart?’

  “Very,” Rick said. “She’s exactly your type, my friend.”

  “What type is that?”

  “You get just what you see,” Rick said. “There’s no pretense about the girl.”

  “That’s good.”

  “There’s no pretense about you either,” Rick said. “I’ve known that about you from the start.”

  “I wasn’t always like that, but it’s the only way I know how to be after all these years,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Rick said, “it looks to me like she’s interested. She keeps looking over here.”

  “Well, you’re her boss,” Clint said. “She keeps looking at you.”

  “I don’t think it’s me,” Rick said, “but I’m going to my office to do some paperwork, so you’ll find out. I’ll see you later.”

  Clint raised his mug to his friend, who turned and walked to the back of the saloon, entered his office. Clint then glanced over at Delia, and saw her looking at him. When their eyes met, she held his for a long moment, then turned her head.

  Clint looked
around at the gaming that was going on. He saw faro, roulette, and blackjack, but no poker. He had played the other games, of course, but poker was his preference. At the moment, he had no desire to partake in any of those other games.

  But he and Delia were playing a game with each other, tossing glances back and forth. As the night wore on, the glances became hot. Finally, she passed close enough for him to reach out and grab her arm.

  “I was wondering when you would make a move,” she said frankly.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re a cut above the rest of them. What are you looking for, sir?”

  “Just some time,” he said. “Some pleasant time to pass. And you?”

  “The same,” she said. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend or a husband.”

  “Seems we’re looking for the same thing.”

  “What hotel are you in?” she asked.

  “Labyrinth House.”

  “What room?”

  “Twelve.”

  “I get off here at two.”

  “I’ll be awake,” he said, “reading.”

  “Ah, you read?” she asked. “Like I said, a cut above.”

  “I hope you’ll still feel that way,” he said, “in the morning.”

  SIX

  Clint was reading when there was a knock at the door. He marked his place by folding a page corner and set the book aside. He hoped Mr. Twain would not object.

  He walked to the door with his gun behind his back in his left hand. When he opened it, he saw Delia waiting in the hall.

  “Miss me?” she asked.

  “Terribly.”

  “That’s good to hear. May I come in?”

  “Please.”

  He let her enter, then closed the door, walked to his holster hanging on the bedpost, and slid the gun home.

  “Do you always answer the door with a gun?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I did ask about you after you left. I guess the Gunsmith has to be careful, doesn’t he?”

  “All the time.”

  “Want to frisk me for a gun?” she asked, raising her hands. She had changed into a dress more suited for walking in the street than the revealing dress she’d been wearing at work.

  “Not necessary,” he assured her.

  When Delia smiled at Clint, it was an invitation that he was more than willing to accept. She stood in front of him with her arms at her sides and a glint in her eye. As he approached her, she reached up to place her hands upon his shoulders and open her mouth just enough for the tip of her tongue to slip out so she could lick her upper lip.

  That was all Clint needed to see. He’d had something in mind to say to her, but instead allowed himself to give in to his instincts by grabbing her by the hips and pulling her close. She leaned her head back and let out a grateful breath as Clint tasted the side of her neck. Delia’s golden blond hair brushed against his face, and her breasts pressed against his chest. His hands moved along her body, feeling her generous curves through the layers of clothing she wore. Within seconds, he was pulling that clothing off, stripping her bare with a need that grew by the second.

  He wasn’t the only one that was anxious. Delia’s hands were busy as well, unbuckling Clint’s belt, pulling his shirt open, and throwing his clothes aside until her fingertips were raking against his naked skin. There was a perfectly good bed nearby, but Clint wasn’t about to wait long enough to take the five or six steps required to get there. Instead, he pushed her against the closest wall and reached down for her thigh.

  Delia lifted that leg up to wrap it partway around Clint’s waist. His cock was already hard and grew even harder when it found the damp patch of hair between her legs. Looking hungrily at him, she ground her hips slowly, rubbing the lips of her pussy up and down along the length of his shaft. Wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, she locked her eyes on him and whispered, “You like that?”

  “You know I do.”

  “There’s something I’d like even more.”

  “Let me guess,” Clint said while reaching down to guide himself between her legs. The moment his rigid pole entered her, they both let out satisfied moans. Delia leaned her head back and closed her eyes, smiling as he started pumping in and out of her. Clint reached down with both hands to cup her buttocks, which also allowed him to drive into her with even more force. Every time he thrust his hips, Delia grunted and was pushed against the wall. Her nails dug into his back, and her hips moved with his rhythm.

  When Clint lifted her, she wrapped both legs around him and gripped him tightly with them as well as her arms. He wanted to take her to the bed, but when he got halfway there, he could feel Delia’s entire body tensing. She leaned back, swaying slightly while her hips ground against him with building force to ride him even harder.

  Before long, her eyes snapped open and she stifled a moan as tremors started working through her body. Delia embraced him and gasped into his ear while her climax ran its course, sighing with satisfaction when it was through. Clint then carried her to the bed and set her down. Delia’s body glistened with sweat and she barely had the strength to move.

  “God, Clint,” she gasped. “That was . . . that was . . .”

  Smirking, he told her, “I’m not through with you yet.”

  She lay on the mattress with her legs hanging over the edge. As he moved his hands along her legs, she spread them for him and stretched both arms over her head to grab hold of the blanket beneath her. Clint slipped inside her while pulling her toward him. Delia moaned with approval and gripped the blankets even tighter as he started to thrust in and out.

  Clint got a breathtaking view of Delia’s full, rounded breasts as he pumped between her long legs. Her large nipples were erect, and when he reached out to cup her breasts, she clasped her hands on top of his to hold them in place. Massaging her tits while burying his thick cock inside her again and again, Clint moved his hands down the front of her body. He savored the smooth texture of her skin while driving into her faster and harder.

  Delia moaned loudly, opening her legs wider to accommodate every one of Clint’s thrusts. In one last powerful motion, Clint drove in as deep as he could go before exploding inside her. Delia’s breathing quickened with another explosion of her own, and when Clint opened his eyes again, he found her looking up at him with a tired smile.

  SEVEN

  Clint spent the entire night and much of the morning in bed with Delia. He’d been on the trail a long time. A woman was one of the things he had missed, so he made the most of having one in bed with him—and one who was so energetic about it.

  He woke up first, saw Delia lying on her back next to him, no sheet on her. Feeling himself stirred by the sight of her, he forced himself out of bed. His stomach was growling, and another thing he had missed while on the trail was a breakfast of steak and eggs.

  He washed with the water from the pitcher and basin on the chest of drawers, doing it as quietly as he could, and then got dressed. Before he left, she stirred and rolled over onto her right side, presenting him with a fine view of her ass.

  He forced himself out the door.

  He walked to a small café that was located halfway between his hotel and Rick’s Place. Sometimes, when he was in Labyrinth, he joined Rick for breakfast at the saloon, prepared in his kitchen. Today, however, he chose to eat alone.

  * * *

  Five men rode into town from the north, moved slowly toward Rick’s Place, reined in outside.

  “O’Brien,” Tom Barry said, “stay here, keep watch, and take care of the horses.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Tom Barry had been hired to do a job. When he was in town a couple of weeks before, he’d spent a lot of time at Rick’s Place. He was impressed with the amount of business the saloo
n did, and had come back with his gang to relieve Rick Hartman of some of his hard-earned cash. Keeping his ears open, he had first heard the name “Hartman,” then discovered that the man had a low opinion of banks. To Barry, that meant large sums of money kept on the premises. The saloon and gambling hall was an easier target than a bank.

  Barry had ridden out and met with his gang at a prearranged place in North Texas. He laid out the job, told them what he knew about Labyrinth . . .

  * * *

  “They got one lawman, a sheriff with no deputies, and the saloon ain’t got no security to speak of. One night I saw the bartender break up a fight, and he did it by hisself.”

  “So what yer stayin’ is,” Cameron Davis said, “it’s easy pickin’s.”

  “The easiest.”

  “So whatta we waitin’ fer?” Tracy Hastings asked . . .

  * * *

  Barry dismounted, followed by three of his four men. The fifth, Irish O’Brien, remained mounted and kept an eye out for possible trouble.

  Barry walked to the front door, his three men behind him. The door was locked, but he’d expected that. He knocked, rather than pounded, as he did not want to attract anyone’s attention, except for somebody on the inside.

  He knocked again and the door was finally opened by a tall man in his forties, who stared out at them without expression.

  “We’re closed,” he said.

  Barry produced his gun and pointed it at the man’s face.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you’re open.”

  The man stared at the gun barrel, still no expression on his face.

  “Back away, bartender,” Barry said. “We’re comin’ in.”

  “That’d be a mistake,” the bartender said.

  “I don’t think so,” Barry said, “but let’s just see. Back up!”

  The man did as he was told. Barry moved in with him, and the other three eased in behind him past the batwings, closing the door again.

  “What’s this?” Rick Hartman asked.

  He was seated at a table with breakfast in front of him. The other tables were either covered, or had chairs stacked on them.