*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft spell check; you have been forewarned.
In 2017, Blackrandl1958 had an invitational, '
Writers Go West
.' There were some wonderful stories in that series, which inspired me to try my hand at the genre.
*.*.*.*.
The stagecoach came to a stop in front of the Mayor's office, which was also the post office and the telegraph office. After the dust from the path had settled, the stagecoach driver got down and opened the door to the coach.
A small, wiry figure got out of the dark interior and stretched. Then the stagecoach driver handed down a fairly heavy trunk.
"Thanks; happen know where the sheriff's office is?" Sam McCleary asked.
"Next building down," the stagecoach driver said, nodding with his head.
"Thanks again," Sam said, trunk perched on a narrow shoulder.
Sheriff Boyd glanced up when the door opened. Earl Travers, his deputy also looked at the door.
A small, wiry figure entered, trunk on shoulder.
"Hey there, name's Sam," the stranger said. "Sam McCleary. I'm a bounty hunter."
Earl sat up a little taller in his chair. The chair groaned under the man's bulk.
"Say that's McCleary?" Earl asked. "Think I heard of you."
"And what can I do for you, Sam?" Sheriff Boyd asked guardedly.
"Looking for the Knothole Gang," Sam said easily.
Sheriff Boyd looked past Sam. Then he looked at Sam again and frowned.
"Uh, Sam, they's seven of them," Sheriff Boyd said. "You planning on taking all them in? Going need more'n just you do it."
"They wanted, dead or alive," Sam shrugged. "Figure they be pretty easy handle they dead."
"Like I said, they seven of them," Sheriff Boyd said.
"Know that," Sam said and shifted the trunk to the other shoulder. "Stopped in tell you I'm here take them in. I'm a bounty hunter, but I'm not here step on no toes."
"Your funeral, Sam," Sheriff Boyd shrugged. "Where you want me send your carcass?"
Deputy Travers snickered. Sheriff Boyd grinned.
"St. Louis, Missouri," Sam smiled easily.
Six of the seven members of the Knothole Gang were presently at the Knothole Saloon. They'd taken their name from their hideout. It was a small squat building made of knotty pine boards. It stood among other small, squat buildings in the town of Benhurst, Colorado. Other bank robbers and train robbers and stagecoach robbers occupied other saloons in the small town that sweltering July of 1880. But it was the Knothole Gang that had killed three US Marshalls in their last heist.
Sam McCleary looked at the small building. Sam looked around at the other buildings. Gangs were known to be territorial. The Main Street Saloon wouldn't take too kindly to the members of the Knothole Gang showing up in their saloon. Same with the Nugget, and the Sweet Oak Saloon.
The only building across from the saloon that would be considered open to all was the stable. Sam ambled to the stable.
"Help you?" the stable master asked genially.
"Needing hire a buggy and four horses," Sam said.
"Where taking it?" the man asked, looking at a barely serviceable buggy.
"Denver; nearest train station," Sam said.
After securing the buggy and approving of the four horses, Sam walked to the Knothole Saloon. The man behind the counter perked up; strangers weren't that common entering his raucous establishment.
"Whiskey, neat," Sam ordered, putting the heavy trunk on the floor.
Five dancing girls bounced and gyrated to a poorly played piano. Sam cast an appreciative eye at one of the girls. She was a round figure, round, with a head full of copper colored curls and a pleasing face sprinkled liberally with freckles.
"Girls for hire?" Sam asked, nodding toward the dancers.
"Course," the man nodded.
"Hmm, needing a room for the night and I can get a hot bath?" Sam asked.
"Course," the bartender agreed. "Two for the room, um, one for the bath, and which one them girls you thinking?"
"Big Red at the end there," Sam nodded. "Whole night be how much?"
"Five," the bartender said quickly.
"How much?" Sam asked, surprised.
"Fine, fine, three," the bartender grumbled.
Sam nodded, put a five dollar coin and to dollar coins onto the bar.
"Wanting some vittles; stew smells good," Sam said.
"Hey, Clara!" the bartender called out.
Clara stopped bouncing to the jangly music. She looked over at Frank, then opened her green eyes wide as Frank pointed to the wiry looking stranger.
Penny also looked over at the stranger and pursed her lips in distaste. She was a buxom blonde with finely shaped legs. She was used to men choosing her, even fighting over here. Clara being chosen before her? It had never happened before.
"Fixing eat some stew; you eat?" Sam asked as Clara approached.
Clara looked at Frank. Frank shrugged and fixed a second plate of the hearty venison stew.
"Got a bath coming," Sam said as they ate their meal.
Clara smiled a saucy smile.
"Needing me scrub your back, stranger?" she cooed.
"Scrub yours too," Sam agreed.
"Ooh, both us going take a bath?" Clara giggled flirtatiously.
"Bath's ready, partner," Frank said a few moments later. "Got you in Room Three."