The Town Council Meeting Read online

  “Why are they lockin’ the saloon up?”

  “I told you, the meetin’ is gonna be private.”

  “What’re they doin’ now?”

  “Takin’ a break,” Yatesman said. “They’ll start up again, soon.”

  “And what’re we supposed to do?”

  “How about you all go home?” Yatesman asked.

  “Not while the man who killed our boss is still in there,” Coleman said, pointing at the saloon.

  “Well then, I guess we’re all just gonna have to keep waitin’ out here, like we been doin’, ain’t we?”

  NINETEEN

  By the time Jennifer slid the entire length of Clint’s cock down her throat he was ready to explode. She kept it there for a few seconds, then slid him out again. She smiled as she took hold of him at the base and squeezed, taking his urge away. She knew what she was doing, this girl.

  “I’m not gonna let you finish until I use you up,” she told him. “Do you mind?”

  “Like you said,” he told her, “I’m just going to lie here.”

  “Good.”

  She slid up his body until she was lying directly on top of him, her big breasts and his huge erection both crushed between them. She kissed him, a hungry, searching kiss, tongue avidly plunging into his mouth. Then she sat up on him, took hold of his penis, lifted her hips, and slowly slid him inside of her.

  “Oh!” she said, and he grunted as her insides gripped him.

  Coleman pulled Charlie Hicks over to the side, into the shadows where the others couldn’t see him.

  “Charlie,” he said, “you’re gonna be the one to kill Clint Adams.”

  “By myself?” Hicks’s eyes popped open.

  “You’re our best rifle shot,” Coleman said. “I want you to get up on the roof and wait for your chance.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” Coleman said, “go up there now. Find a good spot. Nobody will be able to see you in the dark.”

  “But, Arnie . . . is this the right thing to do?” Hicks asked.

  “Charlie, if I offered this chance to any of the other men, they’d jump at it. Adams killed our boss, and you’re gonna be the one who makes him pay.”

  “I—I don’t know if I can do it, Arnie.”

  “Who wins the turkey shoot every year?”

  “I do.”

  “Ain’t nobody can shoot a rifle like you can, kid,” Coleman said. “You get up there and you wait for your chance. I know you can do it.”

  “Okay, Arnie,” the pumped-up young man said, “okay, I’ll do it!”

  Jennifer’s bobbing breasts had Clint’s eyes mesmerized. He watched as the nipples danced before his eyes, and when he couldn’t just watch anymore he reached for her and took hold. He squeezed them tightly, enjoying how solid they felt in his hands, how heavy they were, how hard the nipples were.

  Jennifer was in a world of her own. All she was aware of was how his penis felt inside of her. She rode him up and down, then stopped to grind herself down on him and swivel her hips, growling deep in her throat at the same time.

  Clint forgot that there were twenty men or more waiting outside to kill him. The sounds she made, the feel of her, the smell of her, that was all he was aware of in that room. Sex with Jennifer was all encompassing. She fucked with such abandon that he gave her the attention he deserved.

  And the good thing about her, the absolute best thing, was that she knew they were having sex and not making love.

  Women like that were rare.

  TWENTY

  This time when Jennifer woke Clint it was just to get him up.

  “You said you wanted me to wake you up.”

  He looked at her, saw that she was dressed, looked down at himself, and saw that he was still naked.

  “You better get up and get dressed before I get back into bed with you,” she said. “Then you won’t get out of this room for hours.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” he said. “Jennifer, while I get dressed would you look out the window and tell me what you see.”

  “Sure.”

  She walked to the window and looked out.

  “I see a lot of men holding torches,” she said. She turned and looked at him with concern. “They’re not gonna burn the place, are they?”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “I don’t think they’d sacrifice everybody in this building just to get me. They figure I’ve got to come out some time.”

  He finished dressing, then took his gun from the bedpost and strapped it on.

  “You’re not gonna go walkin’ right out there, are you?” she asked. “Even you’re not good enough to outdraw twenty men, are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” he admitted. “I think fifteen would be my limit.”

  “No, really . . .”

  “No, really,” he said. “I’m not going out there—at least, I’m not going out the front door.”

  “You wanna go out the back?”

  “I think that would be best, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes . . . would you be coming back?”

  “I hope to get out and back before they even know I’m gone.”

  “I could help.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I think you know that I could be a . . . distraction if I want to be.”

  She was grinning at him, and he smiled right back at her.

  “You know,” he said, “I think you might just be helpful, at that.”

  When Clint came downstairs with Jennifer, the judge and the mayor were sitting at the “meeting” table. They were not playing cards, however. They were drinking coffee.

  “Where are our other members?” Clint asked.

  “Still asleep, we assume,” the judge said.

  “Maybe they’re with the other girls,” Jennifer suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” the mayor said. “They have wives.”

  “And they’re old,” the judge said. “As old as us, anyway.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Neither one of those things means they ain’t with one of the girls.”

  The judge and the mayor looked at each other. Maybe Clint thought, they were thinking they could have been with one of the girls.

  “What are you plannin’ to do?” the judge asked Clint, getting away from the other subject.

  “Are you gonna take us up on our offer?” the mayor asked.

  “I am,” Clint said.

  “So what are you gonna do?” the judge asked.

  “I’m going out the back,” Clint said. “And, hopefully, I’ll be able to come back that way, as well.”

  “How do you propose to get out?” the mayor asked.

  “Jennifer’s going to help me with that,” Clint said.

  “Why bring her into this?” the judge asked.

  “Because she offered,” Clint said.

  “What can she do?” the mayor asked.

  Jennifer, who had been wearing a shawl around her shoulders, now removed it. Underneath she had on a dress that revealed her creamy shoulders and much of her big breasts. She took a deep breath, which made her breasts swell even more. Both the judge and the mayor had to moisten their mouths and swallow.

  “She’s going to distract whoever’s watching the back,” Clint said.

  “Uh,” the mayor said, “I think you’re right.”

  “Yeah,” the judge said, “I don’t think she’ll have much trouble distracting whoever’s back there.”

  “But how will you get back in when you come back?” the mayor asked.

  “That,” Clint said, “I’m going to have to figure out for myself.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sheriff Yatesman had been wrong.

  The Bar K boys did not have someone around the back of the saloon. Arnie Coleman didn’t think that Clint Adams was the kind of man to slip out the back. If a man with a reputation did that, his entire reputation would change. It just never occurred to the foreman.

  So when Jennifer went out the back door there was on
ly one man there. Ollie Park was one of Yatesman’s temporary deputies. He was a young man who thought that wearing a badge would be exciting. When Jennifer came out the back door with her shawl worn low, he found something even more exciting.

  Her breasts.

  “Well, hello, deputy,” Jennifer said.

  “M-miss.”

  Jennifer could see this was going to be even easier than she’d thought. The young man could not take his eyes off her partially exposed breasts.

  She walked up to him, then walked around him, getting him to turn his back to the rear door of the saloon. Clint stuck his head out, took a quick look, and then slipped out the door and into the shadows.

  Jennifer talked to the young deputy for another ten minutes before going back inside.

  Clint made his way through the shadows to the livery stable. The big front doors were locked, but he found a side door that he was able to force with no trouble.

  “Hey, big boy,” Clint said, finding Eclipse’s stall. “How you doing?”

  Eclipse moved around impatiently.

  “You want to run, don’t you?” Clint asked. “Yeah, me, too.” He patted the horse’s big neck. “Yeah, well, you’re going to get to run, but I’m not.”

  Clint saddled the big Darley Arabian, wondering what would happen if he rode out of town and just kept going. No, he’d have to do more than that. He’d have to keep going . . . and going . . . and going . . . and change his name. If the word got out that the Gunsmith had cut and run, young guns would be looking for him all over the West.

  There was not chance of that. Clint was tired enough after all these years of carrying his reputation. He didn’t need to give gunmen more reason to seek him out.

  Once he had Eclipse saddled he had to get the large doors open as quietly as possible. He decided he only needed to open one door—which he did—and then walked Eclipse out and closed the door behind them. He mounted up and rode Eclipse slowly and quietly out of town.

  Chambers and Lawson came down from upstairs and joined the judge and the mayor at the table.

  “What were you fellas doin’?” the mayor asked.

  “I was asleep,” Chambers said.

  “So was I,” Lawson said. “Why, what did you think we were doin’?”

  “Never mind,” the judge said, picking up the cards. “Let’s get back to business.”

  “Speakin’ of which,” Ben Lawson said, “where’s our Mr. Adams?”

  “He decided to take us up on our offer,” the mayor said. “So he’s out there . . . somewhere.”

  “He’ll be back,” the judge said.

  “Not if he decides to keep goin’,” Lawson said.

  “And not if those Bar K boys find him,” Chambers said.

  The judge dealt out the cards and said, “He’ll be back.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint didn’t know where he was going.

  If he was going to look into the murder of Big Ed Kennedy, he thought the place to start was the Bar K ranch. Only he didn’t know where the Bar K was. It was dark, too dark to try to track his way there—and even if it wasn’t dark, which tracks would he follow? The Bar K men had ridden in, so had the Double H boys and the Triple R hands. That would leave a lot of tracks.

  But as is often the case, fate takes a hand in men’s lives, and it did today.

  Clint heard the light tinkling of a bell up ahead of him. In the moonlight he saw a drummer’s wagon coming toward him. The bell was obviously somewhere on that wagon.

  Clint was sitting still on Eclipse and he decided to remain that way. If he rode up to the drummer, he might frighten him, might make him think he was being robbed. So he just sat and let the man reach him on his own.

  The drummer did, indeed, see him and reined his horse in.

  “Hello, friend.” The man driving the wagon was middle-aged, scruffy-looking. Clint didn’t know what he was selling, but he didn’t think he’d ever buy anything from him.

  “Howdy,” Clint said.

  “Heading for Cannon City?” the drummer asked.

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I just came from there.”

  “A little late to be traveling, isn’t it?”

  “I thought I’d be able to find my way in the dark,” Clint said. “As it turns out, I got turned around.”

  “Where were you headed? I spend a lot of time in this area and can find my way pretty well in the dark.”

  That was good news to Clint.

  “I was trying to find the Bar K ranch.”

  “Big Ed’s place?”

  Clint nodded, wondering if the drummer had heard about the rancher’s murder.

  “Hell, that’s the easiest place to find,” the man said. “I can give you good directions.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I’d be much obliged if you could get me there.”

  “No problem,” the drummer said. “Ya see, you go north about . . .”

  Clint followed the drummer’s directions and rode right to the Bar K ranch with no problem. He also rode his horse up to the house without being challenged. Apparently, everyone from the ranch was in town. But just to be on the safe side he rode around back and left Eclipse there.

  He found a way in through the back—going in and out back doors was getting to be a habit—and found his way to the rancher’s office, where the man had been found dead behind his desk.

  As he entered the room he saw the blood on the desk and on the floor. He got behind the desk and avoided the blood as best he could while giving the desk a thorough search. Then he looked around the office, trying to find anything in the dead man’s files that would help him figure out who he had actually hired while he was thinking he had hired Clint Adams.

  “Are you a burglar?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Clint looked up quickly. A middle-aged woman was standing in the doorway, holding a glass with a brown liquid in it. She looked to be about forty-five, but she was a handsome woman, apparently a wealthy rancher’s wife who had taken good care of herself.

  “Mrs. Kennedy?” Clint asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought everybody had gone to town.”

  “Everybody who wants revenge on the man who killed my husband did,” she said.

  He stood straight up.

  “And you don’t want revenge?”

  She sipped her drink, then said, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he stopped bein’ my husband a long time ago,” she said.

  “There were . . . difficulties between you?”

  “You said it.”

  She had a lot of red hair, and it fell to her shoulders in waves. She was wearing a robe, Clint assumed over a nightgown. But she didn’t look as if he had awakened her—unless she had taken to sleeping with a drink in her hand.

  “If you don’t mind me asking . . . what kind?”

  “What kind didn’t we have?” she asked, laughing. “For one thing we had separate bedrooms. He hasn’t touched me in years.”

  “Well . . . I’m going to assume by looking at you that your husband was much older than you.”

  “Not ‘much’ older,” she said, “but you’re sweet. Yes, he was older, but he had his other women—younger women—so he really hasn’t been a husband to me . . . oh, I don’t know. But it’s been years.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “About twelve years,” she said. “I was no spring chicken when he brought me here, but I soon learned he hadn’t brought me here for sex. He just wanted someone who would look good—respectable—on his arm.”

  “And have you—were you respectable?”

  “Are you asking me if I had other men?” she asked, making her eyes wide. He noticed they were a very pretty green.

  “Well—”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said. “You can ask me. The answer is no, I did not have other men.” Then she frowned. “Or is the answer yes, I have been respectable?” />
  “I think it’s pretty much the same either way, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh, don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ ” she said. “At least I know I’m not considerably older than you are.”

  “No, ma—uh—”

  “My name is Barbara.”

  “That’s a lovely name.”

  She took another sip of her drink.

  “No one’s said anything that nice to me in years,” she said. “You know, my husband was such a powerful man around here that men were afraid to talk to me, let alone sleep with me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she said. “I’ve become a dried-up old prune.”

  “If I may so say, Barbara, you don’t look dried up, at all.”

  She studied him for a moment, her pretty lips pursed, then asked, “Would you like to come and sit with me and have a drink?”

  “Well—”

  “There’s no one else on the whole ranch,” she assured him. “No one.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Come with me.”

  She led him out of the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  He followed her swaying ass down the hallway. There was certainly nothing dried up about her. She looked as if her full-bodied figure had been very well preserved.

  She took him into a sitting room and said, “Have a seat anywhere. I’m having whiskey. It’s my husband’s—late husband’s—very best.”

  “That sounds fine,” he said.

  She poured him a drink, then topped off her own glass. She carried both drinks to the sofa he had seated himself on, sat next to him, and handed him one. He noticed she had given him the glass with the least liquid.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  This would be a good test.

  “Clint Adams.”

  “I’m happy to meet you, Clint Adams,” she said, clinking glasses with him.

  He sipped the whiskey. It was, indeed, very good stuff.