East of the River (3 page)

“Yeah, sure, Mort.”

“Two stagecoaches,” John said.

“That idea appeal to you, Johnny?”

“Yeah, kinda,” John said, “but I don't know if it'll appeal to Tom.”

“You let me worry about Tommy.”

 

Thomas Archer came out the front door of the store and locked it behind him. When he turned, he came face-to-face with the law.

“Hey, Sheriff.”

“Tom,” Sheriff Lou Perry said. “Closin' up early for the day?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, “gotta go out to the farm and help Mort.”

“You fellas sure are hard workers,” Perry said. “Hell, you're my age, Tom. Farmin' and storekeepin', that's hard work.”

“We ain't exactly old, Sheriff, are we?” Thomas asked.

“Forty,” Perry said, “forty's pretty old. In fact, I been feelin' kind of old lately.”

“Yeah, well, just think about Mort,” Thomas said. “Poor guy's forty-five.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “I guess things could always be worse, right?”

“You got that right, Sheriff,” Thomas said. “Things could always be worse.”

Clint was about to reread Mark Twain's
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
when there was a knock at the door. He was rereading the book because Twain had not come out with a new one since its publication in 1884. He'd exchanged some letters with Twain where the man said he was working on something that had to do with King Arthur. Clint couldn't wait to read that one.

He put
Finn
down on the rickety night table and took his gun from the holster that was hanging on the bedpost. He carried the gun to the door with him.

“Who is it?”

A woman's voice said, “Harry sent me.”

“Harry . . . ,” Clint said, shaking his head.

He was still cautious as he opened the door, gun ready. Standing in the hall was the big-breasted, pale-skinned blonde who had been in bed with Harry earlier in the day.

“Remember me?” she asked, with a smile.

“Listen,” Clint said, “tell Harry I appreciate the thought but—”

“—you don't pay for whores,” she finished for him. “I know, I heard. But I'm not here as a whore.”

“What are you here as?” he asked.

“A woman,” she said, “one who really doesn't like standing in the hall.”

“What's your name?”

“Sophie.”

“Sophie,” he said, “you're a lovely girl—”

She laughed.

“I ain't been a girl in a long time, Mr. Adams,” she said, “and I also ain't been lovely, but I do have these.” She took hold of the front of her dress and pulled it down so that her bare breasts fell out. Her pink nipples were hard.

“You kind of noticed them this afternoon, didn't you?” she asked.

“How could I not?”

“So?” she asked. “Do you want to leave me out here in the hall with my breasts hangin' out?”

“No,” he said, “no, of course not. Get in here.”

He opened the door, backed up so she could enter, then closed it. By the time he turned to face her, she had her breasts covered.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he said.

She saw the gun in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. He walked to the bedpost and holstered the gun. “Can't be too careful.”

“I understand,” she said. “Harry told me who you are. Clint Adams, the Gunsmith. This is quite an honor.”

“Is it?”

“You're very famous,” she said. “I've never met a famous person before.”

“I'm afraid I'm just like anyone else.”

She walked toward him. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was half naked, his torso and feet bare. And the dress she was wearing was thin cotton, clinging to her lush body like a second skin. And she'd already proven how quickly she could take at least part of it off.

She came close to him, and he could feel the heat her body gave off, and smell the scent of her sex.

His body reacted naturally, and there was nothing he could do about it.

When she got close enough to touch him, she did. She placed her hand on his crotch, felt how swollen he was.

“Ooh,” she said, “not just like anybody else, I see.”

“Sophie—”

“Shh,” she said, reaching for his belt. “I'm not askin' for any money, Clint. Can I call you Clint?”

“Sure,” he said, his mouth going dry.

“Harry said you had nothin' to do tonight,” she told him, “said you were leavin' in the mornin'. All I want is a little bit of your time.”

“My time?”

She slid off his belt, undid the button on his trousers.

“One night, then,” she said. “One for both of us to remember.”

She reached into his pants, inside his underwear, to take hold of his swollen cock.

“Ooh,” she said, “you're hot.”

“So are you,” he said. “It's coming off you in waves.”

“I know,” she said, lowering her voice and licking her bottom lip. “I get like that. Men have commented on it before.”

She stroked him inside his pants.

“I'm gonna take this out of your pants now,” she said. “You can stop me if you want.”

He reached out, hooked his finger inside the front of her dress, and pulled it down until her breasts spilled out.

“I don't think I want to stop you.”

She lowered Clint's pants and shorts to the floor, and his erection popped free.

“Ooh,” she said, getting down on her knees.

She took him in both hands, licked the head of his penis until it was very wet, then slid it into her mouth. She began to suck on him and, at the same time, stroke him with one hand.

“Jesus,” he said.

Her wet mouth took more and more of him in, until, at one point, she had his entire length in her mouth. She held him there for a moment, then released and gasped, catching her breath.

“Jesus,” she said, “you could choke a girl.”

“I wouldn't want to do that,” he said. He reached down, pulled her to her feet, then hastily removed her dress, peeling it off of her. When she was completely naked, he stepped back so he could look at her. She had a fleshy body—big breasts, wide hips, strong thighs and calves. She was a large woman, not fat—not yet anyway. In her later years she'd probably go that way, but at the moment she was mouthwatering.

He moved closer, took her breasts into his palms, and hefted them.

“I know,” she said, “they're heavy, but you don't have to carry them around all day.”

“Well,” he said, thumbing her nipples, “you might have complaints, but I don't.”

He lifted her breasts to his mouth, sucked each nipple until it was very hard, then bit them.

“Oooh, yeah,” she said, “bite 'em hard.”

While he sucked her breasts, she reached down and stroked his dick.

“God, it's gettin' even bigger,” she marveled.

“So are your nipples.”

“I know,” she said. “Sometimes I think they're so ugly.”

“Ugly?” He stared at her. “Are we looking at the same nipples? They're a beautiful pink.”

“But they're so big.”

“Makes it easier to bite them,” he said, demonstrating.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it's fine,” she said, “but how would you like me to bite you?”

He smiled and said, “Yes, please.”

She got on her knees again and began to nibble on him. Eventually, though, her tongue came out and she started licking up and down the length of him—up one side, down the other. While she sucked him, he reached down to cup her breasts, tweaking her nipples. Then he put his hands in her armpits and lifted her to her feet.

“Time for the bed,” he said.

“What's the hurry, big boy?” she asked with a smile. “We got all night.”

“You're making my legs weak.”

“Ain't you sweet,” she said, then licked her lips and added. “Well, yeah, you are. Come on, I wanna suck some more on that salt lick of yours.”

He pulled her to him for a deep kiss, and walked her to the bed while still in the clinch. When they fell onto the bed together, she once again maneuvered herself between his legs and began to suck on him. Lying on his back, he put his hands up over his head and began to move his hips in unison with her mouth, so that eventually he was fucking her mouth.

“Mmm, mmm,” she moaned, digging her nails into his thighs.

Just when he thought he couldn't take any more, she release him and gripped his penis tightly at the base to ward off his orgasm.

“See that?” she asked. “I'm an expert. I could keep this up all night.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Lucky me . . .”

 

It was the most exquisite torture he'd ever endured. She would suck him for what felt like hours, and refuse to let him climax. Finally, though, she allowed him to explode into her mouth. He cried out, lifted his butt off the bed, and let loose. He flopped around until she had sucked him dry; then she released him and settled back onto her haunches, grinning at him while he tried to catch his breath.

“That was . . . That was . . . ,” he said.

“Memorable?”

“To say the least.”

“Think you can match that?” she asked. “And please remember, I'm a professional.”

“That's okay,” he said. “I've been doing this for a long time, too.”

“Okay, then,” she said, settling down onto her butt and spreading her legs, “get to it, mister.”

The Archer brothers talked all evening, even while Mort cooked dinner and they all sat at the kitchen table, eating.

“I like Mort's idea,” Sam said. “Two stages in one day.”

“Or two banks,” Mort said. “Either one.”

“You ain't got much of a say, Sam,” Thomas said. He wasn't all that happy when he got to the farm and discovered that Mort and John had agreed that Sam would be part of the gang now.

“He's our brother,” John said. “It stands to reason he'd be part of the gang.”

“I suppose . . .”

“So that means I get an opinion, right?” Sam asked.

“Right, Mort?”

“Right, Sammy,” Mort said. “You get an opinion.”

“Then I agree with you,” the kid said. “Two jobs in one day.”

“It makes a statement,” Mort said.

“And maybe makes us enough money that we won't have to pull another job for a while,” John said.

“Well,” Thomas said. “that ain't gonna happen with two stagecoaches, unless we hit one that's carrying a payroll.”

“So then that means two banks,” John said.

“But not banks that we've already hit,” Mort said.

“How about one in Orange County, and one in Marion?” John asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said anxiously.

“Okay then,” Mort said, carrying the plates to the sink, “then we gotta decide which two banks in which two towns.”

“What about Ajax?” Sam asked. He remembered being there once and going to the cathouse.

“You just wanna go see that big blonde that made a man outta you,” John said.

“Sophie, wasn't that her name?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah, that was her!” Sam said, his eyes shining.

“Boy,” Mort said, “you gotta learn the difference between business and pleasure. We're either gonna rob a bank or get our ashes hauled, but we can't do both.”

“Yeah, get it together, boy,” Thomas said.

“Sam, why don't you go out and check on the horses?” John said.

“Aw, Johnny—”

“Don't worry,” John said, “we're not gonna make any decisions while you're outside.”

“Oh, all right.”

Sam went out the door.

“He ain't ready,” Thomas said.

“What makes you say that?” Mort asked.

“ 'Cause we're talkin' about robbin' banks and he's talkin' about some whore's cunny, that's why.”

“Hell, Tommy,” Mort said, “seems to me when you was his age all you thought about was pokin' some whore.”

“Yeah,” John said, “remember that time in Abilene—”

“Forget that time in Abilene,” Thomas said. “When I was Sam's age, I was smarter and more mature.”

“Well,” John said, “how are we gonna know if he's ready if we don't take him with us?”

“Yeah, but this two-job idea,” Thomas said, “why don't we wait on that until we know we can trust him?”

“You wanna wait?” John asked. “We need some operating capital now, brother.”

“No, I don't mean to wait,” Thomas said. “I mean let's pick one job—a stage, a bank—and see how little brother does under pressure.”

“Johnny?” Mort asked.

“I say let's go with the two jobs, Mort,” John said. “I think Sam'll do fine.”

“So I guess that leaves the decision up to me,” Mort said.

“What about Sam?” John asked. “He gets a vote.”

“What do you think he'll vote?” Thomas asked sarcastically.

“We'll give him a vote,” Mort said, “but I'll still make the final decision.”

“When?” Thomas asked.

“Tomorrow,” Mort said. “I'll make up my mind tomorrow.”