The Bisbee Massacre by J. Roberts

going wide, as he drove himself inside of her, and then she was off again, wave after wave of pleasure flowing over and around her, and through her, as he fucked her at a steady pace, his own eyes closed, chasing his own pleasure while she writhed and moaned beneath him . . .
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    â€œSeñor Clint,” she said, breathlessly, “never before have I known such . . . such pleasure.”
    â€œYou’re welcome,” he said. “You’re quite a woman, too, Luisa.”
    â€œOh, I was not a woman until now,” she said. “No man has ever made me feel . . . that!”
    He kissed her.
    â€œThen you’ve been with the wrong men.”
    â€œSí,” she said, “I have. Por favor,” she added, reaching down and grasping his semierect penis. “Tell me you have come here to be with me and you will never, ever leave.”
    â€œI wish I could tell you that, Luisa,” Clint said, trying to sound sincere, “but I’m here to make an arrest and then I must leave and take the prisoner back to Tombstone.”
    â€œOh, I know that,” she sighed. “I know you cannot stay, so we have no time to waste.” She rolled over on top of him.
    â€œLuisa,” he said, putting his hands on her majestic butt, “I have to take my turn and go and stand watch for . . .”
    â€œYou have time, señor,” she said, covering his mouth with hers.
    Well, he thought, maybe a few more minutes . . .
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    But it turned out to be more than a few minutes.
    They had to stay there for three more days before Jack Dowd finally showed up. So Clint spent two more frenzied, magnificent nights with Luisa in her bed, so that he could hardly walk straight by the third day.
    Manuel seemed to be having the same problem. Both sisters—though physically very different—seemed to be similarly insatiable in bed.
    â€œI hope Señor Dowd comes soon,” Manuel said to him that morning, “or I will not be able to walk straight ever again.”
    It had become known between them that each was spending the night in the other sister’s bed.
    â€œI know what you mean, Manuel.”
    Manuel smiled and said, “You see what I meant about the wimmins?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Clint said, “I see.”

    It was Dodge himself who was on watch when Jack Dowd rode into town from the north. Dodge watched the man ride in and dismount, step inside one of the buildings to do his business.
    Dodge broke from cover and ran to get both Clint and Manuel who, at that moment, were eating in Victoria’s kitchen.
    â€œHe’s here,” Dodge said, bursting into the room. “Just rode in.”
    â€œWhere?” Clint asked.
    â€œHe dismounted and went into one of the buildings, I assume, to pick up his supplies.”
    Manuel’s friend was also present, and he quickly stepped up to warn them.
    â€œSeñors, there are those here who do not want you to take Señor Dowd,” he said. “They want his money to keep coming in.”
    â€œWell, his money ain’t gonna last much longer,” Dodge told Manuel’s friend. “He’s on the run. I’m sure his money’s just about run out.”
    Clint wasn’t so sure of that. He didn’t know how much money Dowd had ended up with from the Bisbee bank. The robbers might have split the money between them after they left town.
    â€œI will come with you, señor,” the man said. “Perhaps I can prevent bloodshed. The people listen to me . . . most of the time.”
    â€œMost of the time?” Clint said, looking at Dodge.
    â€œHopefully,” Dodge said, “this’ll be one of those times.”

SEVENTEEN
    The building Dowd had gone into was like a small trading post. Dodge, Clint, Manuel, and Manuel’s friend approached and stopped just outside.
    â€œDo we wait for him to come out?” Manuel asked.
    â€œWe could,” Dodge said, “but that