Anatomy of a Lawman (6 page)

“Is he here?” Clint asked.

“No,” Buck said, “but he should be here soon.”

“Let’s have a beer, then,” Clint said.

They went to the bar, told the bartender to ring two beers.

“Sure, Sheriff,” the barman said.

He set two beers in front of them and then went back to doing nothing at the other end of the bar.

“Has Minnesota been in today?” Buck called out to him.

“Not yet,” the man said, “but he’ll be here. He always comes in here.”

“That’s what I said,” Buck told Clint.

“I know,” Clint said. “We’ll wait.”

“Okay, Clint.”

They drank their beer in silence until Buck asked, “So you think the sheriff will be okay?”

“Sure,” Clint said. “Sure. He’s a strong man, and Doc Foster said the doctors in Kansas City are real good. He’ll be fine.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, Buck, I really think so.”

“That’s good,” Buck said. “Real good.”

Clint drank the rest of his beer and signaled the bartender for another one.

“What would you do if he didn’t come back?” Buck asked.

“What?”

“If the sheriff doesn’t come back,” Buck said. “What would you do?”

“Well, Buck, I hope that when he does come back, I’ll already be gone.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Just gone.”

“But . . . who would be the sheriff, then?”

“I don’t know . . . look, I told Jack I’d wear the badge until I found somebody else who could wear it.”

“So . . . you’re not stayin’?”

“No, I’m not staying.”

“No, I mean, until the Graves gang comes back. You’re stayin’ until then, right?”

“Probably,” Clint said. “I mean, it depends on when they come back. I expect that they’ll come back sooner than later. I hope to get some men together before then, men who’ll be able to stand up to them.”

“But you’ll be here, too, right? When they come back?” Buck asked.

“Probably.”

“Clint—”

“Have another beer, Buck,” Clint said, “and stop asking so many questions.”

 

Miss Jean thought it was odd that such a small man would always choose a big woman.

“You sure you want Elspeth?” she asked Minnesota.

“I’m sure.”

Elspeth was almost fat. She stood five foot nine and had mountainous breasts and buttocks. Miss Jean kept her around for big men who liked big girls, but even she looked down on this fellow.

“Okay,” Miss Jean said. “Go on up to room five.”

“Thanks.”

She watched as he went up the stairs. She rarely talked with the girls about their clients, but Minnesota had been there several times now, and always chose a woman taller and larger than himself. She thought that this time she was going to ask Ellie what he had in that small package . . .

 

Minnesota knocked on the door, opened it, and stepped in. Elspeth was on the bed, already naked. He drank in the acres of flesh before him. Her huge breasts were tipped with large, pink nipples, and between her meaty, pale thighs was a forest of black hair.

“Minnesota,” she said, “you cute thing. You came back to your Ellie? Last time you were with Diane.”

“I like to spread it around, Ellie,” he said, unstrapping his gun belt.

“Well, come on over here and spread it all over me, honey,” she said.

Minnesota liked that Ellie was a big girl, but what he also liked was that she was young—younger than him. She had a beautiful face and the prettiest smooth skin. And she always smelled so good.

He got himself naked, and already his cock was rigid. Ellie—and the other girls—had been shocked to see what Minnesota was packing. He may have been small of stature, but there was nothing small about his penis.

He climbed on the bed with Ellie and let her enfold him in her arms, his face pressed between her breasts. He nursed on one big nipple, then the other, holding each breast in turn in both hands.

“You lie back, honey,” she said, pushing him down. “Your Ellie wants to enjoy that big tallywacker of yours. Mmm.” She slid down his body, kissing his chest, his belly, poking her tongue into his belly button. Finally, she was down between his legs, his big penis in both hands. She licked the head, wetting it, then smiled at him before taking him into her mouth.

“Oh, shit, girl!” he said as she took him all the way in.

Her head began to bob up and down as she sucked him, making wet noises, occasionally gagging on the size of him, but not letting him get the better of her. She wanted to prove she could handle the entire length and width of him. She liked Minnesota because he was a young, unscarred, and usually smelled better than most of the men who came to Miss Jean’s.

With Minnesota, she could take as well as give pleasure . . .

 

Later, Minnesota was on his knees between her chunky legs, driving his cock into her while holding those legs open. Each time he slammed into her, ripples went through her breasts and belly.

“Oooh, baby, yeah, like that,” she cooed to him. “Give it to me.”

He didn’t even care if she was just giving him whore talk. He knew he was giving it to her good, and that she liked it.

“Oh, baby, I like it just like that,” she said, “but when you gonna flip me over, baby? I like when you do it to me from behind.”

“Then flip on over, girl!” he told her.

He withdrew from her, his cock glistening with her juices. She rolled over and got to her knees, presenting her majestic butt to him. The cleavage between her cheeks was deep enough for him to fuck, and he did that for a while, like he had done earlier with her big tits. Finally, though, he spread those fleshy cheeks, pressed the head of his cock to her little brown anus, and pushed. She had taught him this, and said she didn’t do it with any of her other clients.

He didn’t care, as long as she did it with him.

 

When Minnesota came down the stairs, his legs were shaking. He had given it to Ellie good this time, but she had given as good as she got.

At the foot of the stairs Miss Ellie was waiting.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “I’m real satisfied. Now I need to get me a drink.”

The odd thing about Minnesota—the other odd thing—was that after he was with one of the girls, he always seemed to be drunk. And yet she knew he wasn’t because she didn’t allow any liquor in her house. She had seen too many cowboys get liquored up in the past and hurt one of the girls. One time a girl even got her face cut up, which made her good for nothing but cleaning the house after that.

Minnesota gave Miss Jean a lopsided grin and said, “That gal, she’s somethin’ special.”

“She sure is,” Miss Jean. “One of my best.”

“I’ll be back.”

I know you will, she thought as he went out the door. Then she went upstairs to ask Elspeth the question she’d been wondering about.

“Is that him?”

Buck turned to look. The batwings had opened and a man entered. He was short—about five-five—and young. Clint figured him to be about twenty-five, probably two or three years younger than Buck Wilby.

“That’s him,” Buck said. “That’s Minnesota.”

“Beer, Jimmy!” Minnesota yelled, approaching the bar.

“Minnesota,” Buck said.

The smaller man turned to look at him while the bartender set a beer in front of him.

“Hey, Deputy Buck,” Minnesota said. “How’re ya doin’?”

“Good, Minnesota. I want you to meet the new sheriff,” Buck said. “This is Clint Adams.”

“New sheriff?” Minnesota said. “What new sheriff? Where’s Sheriff Harper?”

“The sheriff was shot when the Graves gang tried to rob the bank,” Clint said. “He’s gone to Kansas City to have surgery.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

Minnesota was dressed in trail clothes that were rather worn, a denim jacket with frayed elbows, but the peace-maker in his holster was well cared for.

“Well, it’s good to meet ya,” Minnesota said. “Buck said your name was . . .”

“Clint Adams.”

“Adams,” Minnesota said. “Clint . . . Adams?”

“That’s right.”

The younger man drank some beer, then frowned at Clint and asked, “Clint Adams? The Gunsmith?”

“That’s right,” Buck said.

“And you’re the sheriff?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Minnesota exclaimed, “whataya know? Jimmy, beers all around. We’re celebratin’ the new sheriff.”

The bartender set up three beers.

“Minnesota,” Buck said, “the sheriff wants to talk to you.”

“He does? About what?”

“I guess I better let him tell you that,” Buck said.

“Let’s take our beers to that back table,” Clint said. “That okay with you, Minnesota?”

“It’s fine with me, Sheriff Adams,” Minnesota said. “Just fine!”

 

It became apparent to Clint that Minnesota had been drinking before he got to the Red Queen. But he seemed to be able to hold his liquor fairly well. Still, Clint wanted to talk to him before he had any more to drink.

“You didn’t hear about the bank robbery?” Clint asked. “About the sheriff shooting it out with the Graves boys?”

“No,” Minnesota said, “I was outta town. What’s the big deal? The sheriff stopped them and he’s gonna be all right, right?”

“Well,” Clint said, “we have to wait and see what happens after the surgery. He was shot twice in the back, and the bullets are close to his spine.”

“That’s too bad.”

“But the other thing, the reason he asked me to wear the badge, is that the Graves gang is going to be coming back, and with more men.”

“Really? When?”

“We’re not sure,” Clint said, “but I want to try and get some men together to face them with me and Buck.”

“Deputies?”

“Well, not really deputies. Just men from town, who have an interest in protecting it.”

“So, like a posse, but in town.”

“Right.”

Minnesota sat back and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Buck asked.

“You’re gonna have a hard time with that,” the younger man said.

“Why?” Buck asked.

“The men in this town ain’t gonna want to face up to a gang like that,” Minnesota said. “Not these fine folks—storekeepers, politicians, and the like.”

“If they don’t,” Clint said, “the Graves gang might burn the town to the ground.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna happen either, is it?” Minnesota asked.

“Why not?” Clint asked.

“Because you’re gonna stop ’em,” Minnesota said. “You’re the Gunsmith, and you’re the law. You and Buck. It’s your job.”

“Well,” Clint said, “you may be right about that, but I think we’re going to need some help.”

“Wait a minute,” Minnesota said. “You’re gonna ask me?”

“You’re the first one we’re asking,” Clint said.

“Why?” Minnesota asked. “Why me?”

“I understand you know your way around a gun,” Clint said.

“Where’d you hear that?”

Minnesota suddenly seemed completely sober, and Clint now had second thoughts about him being drunk when he got there. The young man looked over at Buck accusingly.

“What?” Buck said. “I just told him what I saw that time.”

“Buck tells me you took two men in a fair fight,” Clint said.

“Maybe they weren’t so much,” Minnesota offered.

“And maybe you’re just pretty good with a gun,” Clint said. “Why would you deny that?”

“I didn’t deny nothin’,” Minnesota said. He took a moment to drink some beer.

“Well, see, here, I need men who can handle a gun,” Clint said.

Minnesota sat back and looked at Clint.

“Okay,” he said, “you payin’?”

“Probably regular posse rates.”

“A dollar a day?”

“It’s your town, too, Minnesota—”

“Actually, it ain’t,” Minnesota said. “I ain’t from here.”

“Well,” Buck said, “nobody’s really from here—”

“Me less than anybody,” Minnesota said.

“Where are you from?” Clint asked. “Minnesota?”

“That don’t matter,” the other man said. “Look, I got no stake in this fight, and a dollar a day just ain’t gonna do it. If you want me, you’re gonna have to pay.”

“Well,” Clint said, “if I’m going to pay, I’d like to see what I’m getting.”

“What, you want a demonstration?”

“I need something.”

“You want me to shoot a cigarette out of the bartender’s mouth?”

“I don’t need a trickshooter, Minnesota,” Clint said, “I need a man who can shoot at somebody while they’re shooting back. But that takes a special kind of man. Maybe I just ought to forget about it—”

“Not so fast, Sheriff. You already know what I can do . . .” Minnesota said. “Why don’t you let me think about this for a while, Sheriff?”

“Okay, Minnesota,” Clint said, pushing his chair back, “but don’t take too long, okay? This town might just get burned down around our ears.”

Frank Graves sat at a table in the Silver Star Saloon, his left leg straight out to try and ease the pain from the bullet wound. The bullet had been put there by the sheriff of Guardian, Missouri, Jack Harper, when Harper broke up their bank job. But Graves and his brother, Dudley, had repaid Harper with two bullets in his back.

“Sammy!” he called.

Sammy Holt turned and looked at Graves. Holt was a young man, a new member of the gang, and as such he usually ended up running Frank Graves’s errands.

“Yeah, Frank?” Holt asked from the bar.

“Bring me another beer.”

“Comin’ up, boss,” Holt said.

The young man came running over with the beer and put it down in front of Graves.

“You know where Dudley is?” Graves asked.