Straw Men (3 page)

Clint had heard about the Evans game while spending a night in Tombstone. Like most big poker games, it had taken on a certain mythic quality as word was passed along by the winners and damnations were made by the losers. Also, like most big poker games, it wasn't much more than a collection of gamblers who'd taken to cycling in and out of one continuous event instead of starting a bunch of smaller games. In short, it was just a game that was started up by a man named Evans.

That was it.

The stakes rose and fell, but all the big talk had come about simply because there wasn't much else to talk about of late. Nothing, that is, except for the Indian raids.

Clint had heard about those as well. Coincidentally enough, he took in those stories the same way he'd taken in the ones about the Evans game—with more than a few grains of salt. The reports he'd heard sounded like a string of robberies that may not have even been committed by Indians. Some robbers and a few cowardly souls liked to blame their own deeds on Indians, simply because Indians made for good targets. Other times, there truly were Indians to blame. After all, Indians had their criminals and killers like any other group of people.

For the most part, however, Clint hadn't thought about the attacks one way or the other. He knew he could pick a different route if he needed to ride through that area for a bit and that was all. He was reminded of the incidents as soon as he opened the letter that Abigail had brought to him.

The letter read:

After reading through the letter, Clint set it down and watched it as if he expected it to pull some sort of trick. When it did nothing but lay on the table, Clint picked it up and walked over to the bar. The game was still going on at the back of the Jackrabbit Saloon, but was losing steam by the hour. Even so, there were a few men lined up to fill the next chairs that were vacated. As Clint looked toward that end of the saloon, he felt the impulse to go back and reclaim his spot. The letter in his hand kept him from doing so.

“What's the matter, Clint?” the bartender asked as he stepped up to meet him. “This is the longest you've been away from that table for three days. Bad turn of luck?”

“Maybe it just feels good to stretch my legs.” When he saw the skeptical glint in the bartender's eye, Clint added, “Okay, so maybe my last few hands weren't the best.”

“A bit of rest wouldn't hurt. I've got some nice rooms for rent, you know.”

“What do you know about Fort Winstead?”

The bartender winced as if a fly had just buzzed into his ear. “Fort Winstead? Ain't that a long way to go for a night's sleep?”

“I'm not just talking about renting a room, Eddie. I'm talking about anything you might know. I've never even heard of the place.”

Throughout most of the Evans game, Eddie had been tending bar. Although Eddie was staying more for the generous gratuities being tossed around by the gamblers, he had the same dark circles under his eyes and the rough edge in his voice as all the others who'd been playing for so long. In that way, it sort of made Eddie a comrade in arms. He blinked a few times and rubbed his face. “Sorry, Clint. I didn't follow you there.”

“I guess I could've warned you before I switched tracks like that. You heard of Fort Winstead?”

“Yeah. It's a few days' ride west of here. There were a whole bunch of men driving supplies and wood through here to build the place about a year ago. Big bunch of Army men strutting around and expecting free whiskey because of their uniforms. I'm a patriot and all that, but I still got a business to run.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, I've heard it's less of a fort and more of a trading post.” Leaning over the bar, Eddie whispered, “Seems that the Federals ran out of money before they were done building the place. I even heard tell that the place was built as a clerical mistake or some sort of swindle.”

“A swindle?” Clint chuckled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Eddie wiped off the top of the bar and shook his head. “I hear a lot of things when I'm serving drinks and that's just one of 'em. There was an Army sharpshooter that passed through not too long ago who had a bit too much beer and started saying all kinds of things. One of them things was that Fort Winstead wasn't even supposed to be built and the Army was too embarrassed to tear it down once they found out where all the supplies had gone. He said all the supplies were supposed to be sold off and nothin' was even built until an officer found out what was going on. Fort Winstead was slapped together with some spit and polish to cover some cheatin' general's ass.”

“Or maybe a cheating colonel,” Clint grumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just putting a few things together. Is there another saloon down the street with rooms for rent?”

When he heard that, Eddie straightened up and glared at Clint as if the honor of his mother and sister were just questioned. “What's wrong with my rooms?”

“Nothing,” Clint replied earnestly. “I'd rent one for myself, but not everyone is as anxious to stay so close to all these gamblers.”

“Ah! You mean that pretty little gal with the dirt in her hair?”

“The one that nearly cut George off at the knees,” Clint added.

“That's the one. She turned right when she stepped out the door, so she's probably headed for Janeway's down the street. That's the only saloon in that direction that rents rooms. Leastways, it's the only one with any rooms left. If that little lady's out to rent a bed that ain't here, she's probably gonna end up there.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“Of course…I know my loyal customers wouldn't stab me in the back by—”

“I'll rent one of your rooms for myself,” Clint said before Eddie could get around to the same spot.

“And I'll just put it on your account. It's the Presidential Suite at the top of the stairs.”

“You had a president stay here?”

“Nope, but it's the fanciest room I got. Worth every penny, too.”

“It better be.”

Judging by the glee on the face of the bartender at Janeway's, that saloon hadn't had many customers walk through their doors for a while. The skinny old man practically jumped from a stool behind the bar and ran toward Clint.

“Welcome to Janeway's,” the old man said in a distinct Irish accent. “What can I do for ya?”

“I'm just here to see one of your guests. Has a woman in buckskins just rented one of your rooms?”

The disappointment on the old man's face looked painful. In fact, he practically drooped all the way down to the floor when he swung a tired arm toward a narrow set of stairs. “The rooms are up there,” he said. “Are you Clint Adams?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then she's expecting you. Last door on the left.”

As he started walking toward the stairs, Clint looked around the saloon to find less than half a dozen people scattered among the tables. “Quiet night, huh?”

“Every night's been quiet since Willie Evans decided to start up his damned game. And don't look at me with no sympathy. I know yer just another one of them gamblers.”

Clint looked over the empty tables in the saloon one more time. Since a good number of those tables were set up for poker and faro, it seemed the old man wasn't entirely opposed to games of chance. “Yeah, well, maybe you should start up your own game. There's no law against that.”

Although the old man started to grumble some more sour words, he stopped and furrowed his brow. “You're right. I just might do that.”

“Have at it,” Clint said as he hurried toward the stairs and climbed them two at a time.

The second floor of Janeway's wasn't much better than the first. It was as empty as it was dusty, although there was a more inviting smell drifting through the air. The closer Clint got to the door the old man had told him about, the stronger that smell became. Finally, he knocked while pulling in a deep lungful of the inviting scent.

“It's Clint Adams,” he announced to the door when he didn't get a response. Before he could knock again, the door was pulled open and Clint found himself looking at a vaguely familiar face. “Do I know you?” he asked.

Abigail smiled up at him. Her hat was gone and her hair was mostly loose. Her buckskins were gone as well, leaving only a large towel wrapped around her body to cover her up. Although her skin was still a bit dusty, the warm air that flowed out from the room took away every last trace of the long trail she'd ridden.

“I was about to take a bath,” she said. “You got here a lot quicker than I thought you would.”

“I could always come back later.”

She shrugged and turned around to walk back into the room. Just then, it became obvious that the towel wasn't wrapped around her, but was being held up to cover the front of her body. As soon as she turned her back to Clint, Abigail showed off the finely etched lines of her naked body. Her spine curved along the muscles of her back and led straight down to a firm pair of buttocks that swayed hypnotically as she moved. Abigail's legs were muscled as well, but carried her across the room with a distinctly feminine grace.

Abigail's hair was no longer braided, but hung down past her shoulders in two rows as if it were unaccustomed to being so free. The strands were crooked and a bit knotted, but still soft against the bare skin of her shoulders. After taking a few more steps, Abigail bent down to dip her hand into a bathtub that was filled with steaming hot water.

The towel fell away from her a little more, exposing the finely honed muscle in her hips and thigh. Abigail's naked backside hitched to one side as she bent down further to swirl her hand within the water. As she moved her hand, she slowly moved her hips until the towel was only covering the spot where her other hand was pressing it against her chest.

Standing up to look over her shoulder, Abigail let the towel drop to show Clint the side of one pert breast capped by a pink nipple that was slightly smaller than a penny.

“Then again,” Clint said as he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, “I could always stay here to keep you company.”

Clint stepped up behind Abigail as she remained with both hands upon the edge of the tub. Steam rose from the dented metal tub, making it look like a giant stewpot. Despite the poor condition of the tub, which had several slow leaks that contributed to one hell of a puddle on the floor, the scent of that steam was more than enough to make up for it. Soap mixed with a bit of lilac-scented salts to make the entire room smell like a freshly made bed.

But Clint didn't even spare a glance toward the bed. He was doing just fine where he was and he wasn't about to take his eyes off of Abigail's smooth, naked body. He let his hands wander along the slope of her lower back and then down the curve of her hips. From there, he tightened his grip on her and pulled her close against him.

“Oh,” she said as she felt the bulge between Clint's legs pressing against her backside. “Seems like someone's getting some mighty big ideas.”

“Am I the only one with the ideas?” Clint asked. He reached around to run his hand along her belly and then down between her legs. “Let's just see about that.”

Clint's fingers slipped through the downy hair of her pussy and then slid along her moist lips. After a few gentle rubs, her subtle dampness grew wetter and wetter. “Seems like you've got a few notions of your own,” he whispered.

“That's just from the bathwater,” Abigail replied as she gripped on to the edge of the tub with renewed strength.

“Really?” His fingers slid up and down over her pussy and then settled over her clitoris before making a few quick circles. Clint reached down a bit farther until the palm of his hand was rubbing against her inner thigh. He bent his knees to feel his way down her leg before straightening up and placing his hands back where they'd started. By the time his fingers slid into her, he felt Abigail pressing against him to rub her backside on his erection.

“Maybe I do have an idea or two,” she said.

Clint kept one hand between her legs and used the other to unbuckle his belt and ease his jeans down. “Let me guess,” he said as he used that hand to guide his cock into her from behind. “Is it anything like this?”

“Oh, yes,” Abigail moaned as she leaned forward to accept every inch of him inside her. “That was it, exactly.”

Clint took hold of her hips in both hands as he pumped slowly in and out of her. Whenever he buried himself all the way inside, Abigail let out a moan and grabbed on to the tub hard enough to shake the water inside. Soon she held on and tossed her head back to savor every thrust. The moment Clint stopped to catch his breath, she backed against him to pick up where he left off.

While he pulled off his shirt, all Clint had to do was stand still and enjoy the way Abigail rocked back and forth in front of him. She even threw in a few twitches of her hips for good mea sure. When Clint took a step back, he immediately heard her groan with disappointment.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I just need to get my boots off.”

Abigail spun around and locked eyes with him. “Be quick about it,” she growled as she sat with her backside against the edge of the tub. “You can't keep me waiting after starting like that.”

The look on Abigail's face was almost savage. She bared her teeth and spread her legs for him the moment Clint took half a step forward. When she reached out to pull him closer, Clint thought she might just sink a set of claws into him. Abigail pulled Clint by the arm and wrapped her leg around him. She was smiling now and let out a long, relieved sigh when he finally drove his cock into her. She leaned back to brace her hands against the other edge of the tub so her back was suspended above the oval opening.

“You're going to fall in.” Clint chuckled.

She shook her head, smiled weakly, and replied, “Don't worry about that. And don't stop. Don't you stop.”

Cupping her firm little backside in his hands, Clint held on to Abigail rather than have her perched in such a precarious spot. It also gave him a better angle to drive into her harder and harder as she begged for more. Before long, Clint was holding her completely over the tub as she held on to the edge with both hands behind her back. When he stopped again, Abigail's eyes snapped open.

“What's wrong?” she asked breathlessly.

Looking down at the tub, Clint replied, “I think we moved that thing halfway across the room.”

He might have stretched the truth a little, but the tub obviously wasn't in the spot where it had started. Reluctantly, Abigail set her feet down and tried to lean forward. She had barely sat upright before Clint lifted her up and carried her to the bed. Abigail's eyes were as wide as her smile by the time she was set down again.

“Sweeping a lady off her feet?” she mused.

Clint stood in front of the bed as she opened her legs and scooted even closer to the edge of the mattress. “I aim to please,” he said.

“Then get back over here and please me.”

Abigail wrapped her legs around Clint's waist and locked her ankles behind him. She barely gave him enough time to guide himself into her before pulling him in closer and driving him deeper inside. She leaned back on the bed and stretched out her arms to grab hold of the blankets as Clint picked up his rhythm. The faster he pumped between her thighs, the louder she moaned.

As he thrust in and out of her, Clint reached down to rub a hand along the taut muscles of her thigh. Clint admired the way each inhale brought out the layers of muscle in her trim body and how every exhale set that body to quivering.

Soon Abigail clenched her eyes shut and ground her hips against him. Her climax was powerful enough for Clint to feel as it rippled through her body. While she was still riding that sensation, she looked at him and thrust her hips with a rhythm of her own as if she were the one riding him.

Needless to say, it was one hell of a ride.