Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Read Free Page B

gripped her ankles tighter and started to ram his hard cock into her sopping pussy faster, and faster, and harder . . .
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    Lenny listened at the door for a few moments, heard the sound of two people grunting. Then he moved to the door and pressed his eye to the hole Al Wycliffe had shot in it.
    He could see Wycliffe from the back, covered with coarse hair, holding an ankle in each hand, butt cheeks clenching and unclenching as he drove himself into the girl.
    Lenny watched for a while, massaging his own crotch, and when he had an erection, he turned away from the door and hurried out of the building.
    As soon as he told the sheriff he’d delivered his message, he was going to head over to Miss Lily’s whorehouse. She had one girl he could afford when he really needed one. She wasn’t that pretty, she had a harelip, and she was flat as a board, but she had a wet pussy, and at the moment, that was all he cared about.

SIX
    Lenny Wilson rushed into the sheriff’s office and said, “I found ’im, and gave him yer message.”
    He turned and started to go back out the door, but Garver yelled, “Whoa, hey, hold it.”
    Lenny stopped.
    â€œDid he say he was comin’?”
    â€œUm, he didn’t say . . . when.”
    â€œWhat was he doin’ when you found him?”
    â€œFuckin’ that skinny whore, Patty.”
    â€œGreat,” Garver sad. “He could be doin’ that all night.”
    â€œI delivered yer message,” Lenny said anxiously. “Can I go?”
    â€œYeah, yeah,” Garver said, waving the man away, “you can go. Go on, get outta here!”
    Lenny rushed out the door, slamming it behind him.
    Probably heading for the nearest saloon, Garver speculated. Come to think of it, he could use a drink himself.

    Sheriff Garver drank in only one saloon in town. It was the other saloon that had no games, so while Clint and Dixon were at the Big Tap, Garver was down the street in Little Jim’s Saloon.
    Little Jim himself tended bar. There was nothing misleading about his name. He was about five-three, weighed about one-forty. He ruled his place with an iron hand and nobody ever crossed him—except the occasional stranger. Garver had once seen him single-handedly clean three guys out of his place with his bare hands—they were six-footers, and had guns. It didn’t matter.
    â€œSheriff,” Jim said as Garver stopped at the bar. “Beer or whiskey?”
    â€œBeer tonight, Jim.”
    â€œComin’ up.”
    At the moment there were only three other men in the saloon. Jim didn’t care. He didn’t use the saloon to make money. He used it to have something to do. His mother always told him that idle hands were the devil’s workshop, and she was right. If he didn’t have something to do, he always ended up killing somebody.
    â€œHeard the Gunsmith was in town,” Jim said, setting the beer down in front of the lawman.
    â€œThat’s right,” Garver said. “How did you know?”
    Jim just gave the sheriff a blank look. He knew everything that went on in town.
    â€œAlso heard you was lookin’ for Wycliffe.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWell, he’s probably pokin’ Patty about now. Usually comes in here when he’s done.”
    Garver nodded.
    â€œAdams stayin’ long?” Jim asked.
    â€œDon’t know,” Garver said. “He’s got a friend in town.”
    â€œYeah,” Jim said around a toothpick, “Billy Dixon.”
    Garver shook his head.
    â€œYou know everythin’,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Jim said. “I know Adams bein’ in town changes things.”
    â€œYeah, it does.”
    â€œThen maybe somebody should kill him.”
    â€œYou volunteerin’?”
    â€œSheriff,” Jim said, “you know I never volunteer for nothin’.”
    â€œI know that.”
    â€œBut that