Smokin45s
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2011
- Messages
- 35
- Location
- Colorado
We hadn’t rode more than two miles towards Nowishta Crossing when we topped a small rise and I seen a rider coming our way. He was still a good half-mile off. From the flashy paint-horse and wide sombrero I knew the man right away. I stopped my horse and JD did likewise.
“I’ll be dipped in cowshit!” JD exclaimed. “Here ya go ridin’ out to find a dance partner and here comes Curtis Welch like some eager girl at a country barn dance, just bustin’ to waltz with ya. Pardner, this here’s just too fuckin’ good to be true. He’d make a fine notch on your pistol grip, sure enough.”
I had to agree with JD. It was almost too good to be true. Curtis Welch was a local bad-ass and had a small rep as a killer. He was a few years younger than me, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but had already jerked up four or five men by their roots. I’d seen him gun down a tough-nut named Dave Walters a year back. Put so many slugs though ‘ol Dave that you could read a copy of the Kansas City Star though him. The boy was fast and deadly. Judging by the big wet spot I seen on his jeans when he blasted Dave to hell, he enjoyed usin’ his Colts, too.
Curtis hadn’t seen us so we rode back down the hill to a nice flat spot on the trail. Had JD ride off a piece into some trees. Told him this was gonna be my show and not to stick his nose in. “Unless, of course, that cocky little bastard gets lucky”, I told JD. “The you blast the ever-loving shit outta his hide”. JD Grinned back. “That happens, I’ll do just that.” He kneed his horse into the trees. I turned my horse Tomahawk facing back up the trail, threw a leg over the saddle horn and waited.
Curtis Welch was dead man; he just didn’t know it yet.
Curtis came riding down the hill and around the bend to where I was waiting. He drew up that flashy paint-horse and gave me a surprised stare that grew into a cocky, lopsided grin.
As usual he was dressed up in his showy style. His knee-high boots were black with bright red tops with lotsa fancy stitching. Like me, he wore engraved spurs with big Mexican rowels that clinked as he rode, and the black straps were edged with silver dots. He had on black denim saddle britches with a thin gray stripe, the insides and ass covered in canvas, all tucked into his boots. He had on a fancy yellow silk scarf that draped down the front of his white shirt. His vest was black or dark gray and he wore tight black gloves, probably calfskin. He topped off all this with a wide-brimmed hat and the stampede string was black, the little slider being a silver coin adapted for that use. All-in all, I had to say that Curtis was a damn sight dressier than anyone for fifty miles. And one helluva good looking man.
I started to get hard and could feel my sac start to fillin’.
“I’ll be dipped in cowshit!” JD exclaimed. “Here ya go ridin’ out to find a dance partner and here comes Curtis Welch like some eager girl at a country barn dance, just bustin’ to waltz with ya. Pardner, this here’s just too fuckin’ good to be true. He’d make a fine notch on your pistol grip, sure enough.”
I had to agree with JD. It was almost too good to be true. Curtis Welch was a local bad-ass and had a small rep as a killer. He was a few years younger than me, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but had already jerked up four or five men by their roots. I’d seen him gun down a tough-nut named Dave Walters a year back. Put so many slugs though ‘ol Dave that you could read a copy of the Kansas City Star though him. The boy was fast and deadly. Judging by the big wet spot I seen on his jeans when he blasted Dave to hell, he enjoyed usin’ his Colts, too.
Curtis hadn’t seen us so we rode back down the hill to a nice flat spot on the trail. Had JD ride off a piece into some trees. Told him this was gonna be my show and not to stick his nose in. “Unless, of course, that cocky little bastard gets lucky”, I told JD. “The you blast the ever-loving shit outta his hide”. JD Grinned back. “That happens, I’ll do just that.” He kneed his horse into the trees. I turned my horse Tomahawk facing back up the trail, threw a leg over the saddle horn and waited.
Curtis Welch was dead man; he just didn’t know it yet.
Curtis came riding down the hill and around the bend to where I was waiting. He drew up that flashy paint-horse and gave me a surprised stare that grew into a cocky, lopsided grin.
As usual he was dressed up in his showy style. His knee-high boots were black with bright red tops with lotsa fancy stitching. Like me, he wore engraved spurs with big Mexican rowels that clinked as he rode, and the black straps were edged with silver dots. He had on black denim saddle britches with a thin gray stripe, the insides and ass covered in canvas, all tucked into his boots. He had on a fancy yellow silk scarf that draped down the front of his white shirt. His vest was black or dark gray and he wore tight black gloves, probably calfskin. He topped off all this with a wide-brimmed hat and the stampede string was black, the little slider being a silver coin adapted for that use. All-in all, I had to say that Curtis was a damn sight dressier than anyone for fifty miles. And one helluva good looking man.
I started to get hard and could feel my sac start to fillin’.
