Jim Saddler 6 Read online

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  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Piccadilly Publishing

  Jim Saddler was down to his last buck in a cathouse in Jackson Hole when the infamous Butch Cassidy and his boys stormed in. The outlaw, looking for a reliable gun, pressed Saddler into joining up.

  Saddler was in no position to refuse—especially when Cassidy took him along to the gang’s impregnable Hole-in-the-Wall hideout. Once there, Saddler found the good side of an awkward situation: the presence of more than a few unattached women eager for attention.

  But things got too hot too fast. When he wasn’t robbing trains, Saddler had to service his share of outlaw women, including Cassidy’s girl, the beautiful Etta Place. Then there was ‘Mad Dog’ Harry Tracy, who forced a showdown with Butch for control of the gang—with Saddler and his women caught right in the line of fire!

  One

  The girl squirming under me gave a little yelp when Butch Cassidy came in without knocking and said, “I hear you can play the piano.”

  That’s exactly how it started. I couldn’t help it if Butch took a liking to me because I could tickle the ivories, a thing he had always wanted to learn how to do but never had. Me, I picked it up one time working as a bouncer in a whorehouse in El Paso. This particular bordello had a pretty well-behaved clientele so there wasn’t much bouncing to do, and since you can screw only so many girls in a day, I’d looked around for something to while away the hours. After I gave up solitaire—all forms of gambling were frowned upon—I started taking piano lessons from the old colored man who showed up early and stayed late. Most mornings were slow and I learned to play such easy tunes as Streets of Laredo and the like. Compared to a real musician, I couldn’t play a lick. But Butch had an ear of pure tin, so it made no difference.

  Of course if Butch hadn’t found me he would have found someone else. I just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time, namely the town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, on the evening of April 25, 1890. Land up that way was known as Butch Cassidy country then. The law and the Pinkertons and the railroad detectives had been chasing Butch for about a year and hadn’t been able to catch him. But that’s aside from the point, which is that I had never met the man and never expected to.

  This state of affairs changed abruptly on the night I’m talking about. After working for three months as a bodyguard for a rich Englishman, a rancher who had been dodging bullets from bushwhackers, I was on my way south. The Englishman had wanted to fence off the range with barbed wire and the small ranchers didn’t like the idea. Up close I was a good bodyguard, but that didn’t stop them from busting his head open with a high-powered rifle one day. So I was out of a job and had decided to go on home to Texas, which is more my kind of country than the damp, rainy Northwest.

  Jackson Hole was on the way, and I wish I’d never seen the place. I would have passed right through town if my horse hadn’t gotten a broken shoe. When I saw the blacksmith was drunk, I asked him how long it would be till he sobered up. He had spotted, yellow skin and a lower lip that stuck out like a dish. “Whyn’t you go over to Doxy Milligan’s whorehouse and get yourself a poke whilst I take a little nap,” the horseshoer suggested, and at the time I thought it was a fine idea.

  The Grand Tetons were glorious at sunset, tall and jagged against the deepening blue of the sky, and the wind was cold as it blew down from the peaks. Compared to the majesty of these great mountains, the town was shabby and depressing. I felt like a drink and a woman to help me on my way home.

  Not all whorehouses have red lights, but this one did. It was a three-story frame building painted pink, with white trim on the doorframe and window sashes. It was the best-looking place around. I knocked and was admitted by a hard-eyed gent in a black suit with a daisy in his buttonhole. He carried his gun in a shoulder rig, but it didn’t bulge too much. His wary eyes flicked over me, sizing me up as a spender or as a cheapskate, a peaceful man or a brawler. When he decided I wasn’t going to try to wreck the place, he pointed me towards the parlor, where Doxy presided over four fair-to-middling whores, aged from sixteen to forty years old. There would be others upstairs. I had already decided on the sixteen-year-old when Doxy beckoned me with a queenly air.

  “We have a visitor, ladies,” Doxy announced in a throaty voice. Her bright red hair had come out of a bottle, and it was piled and teased and pinned until it sat on the top of her head like a hen on a clutch of eggs. She had fat cheeks, with a beauty spot pasted close to her mouth on the right side. The beauty spot moved about while she talked.

  All the women looked at me and smiled obediently. Doxy patted the couch beside her and told me to sit down. “Might I inquire as to your name, sir?”

  “Jim Saddler,” I said. “From Jonesboro, Texas.”

  “A fine state,” Doxy said, and of course I agreed with her. It was easy to see why they called her Doxy, for though she was crowding sixty years-old, she might not be too bad if you were hard up. I was glad I didn’t have to find out firsthand, though.

  Doxy introduced the women and said every one was from a fine family. Everything was fine with her, and it was quite a layout she had there. The carpet in the parlor was rich and red, and so was just about everything else. On the polished piano was a red shawl with gold tassels. A stack of seasoned logs blazed quietly in the fireplace. A sign read, “God Bless Our Happy Home.” Idly, I played a few bars of Laredo on the piano.

  My girl’s name was Rosalie, a pretty name, and she was pretty too. Some of the others were pretty enough, but worn around the edges from too many bedroom rides. It would be a few years before Rosalie got that look; at the moment she wasn’t long from the farm. She was fresh-faced and brown-haired, with nice rounded breasts. I liked her pale, gray eyes and quick smile.

  Now that I had picked out who I wanted, the other women lost all interest in me and went back to their reading and needlepoint. “Have a good time, you two!” Doxy cooed as we headed for the stairs. “Rosalie will see to the arrangements.” Doxy was referring to the money. The price was kind of high, but I’d thought what the hell, we pass this way but once.

  Rosalie’s little room was on the second floor. For a room in a whorehouse it was a nice room, and the furniture hadn’t been boot-scarred and cigar-burned as it usually is. Of course the brass bed was a double and the sheets were clean. I like it when my girl is pretty and the sheets are clean.

  Rosalie helped me off with my clothes; there was no need to help her because she had nothing on under her dress. I came up hard as a rock when I caught sight of her round, red-nippled breasts and sweet little bush. I admit to liking them young, but no younger than sixteen, so Rosalie was just right. She got onto the bed and I got on top of her, driving straight into her, because I had been on the trail for a week, and for me that’s a long time to go without a woman. She was wet but that may have been pussy-melted Vaseline. I won’t swear her groans were real, but I do appreciate a girl who throws herself into her work like she did.

  I kneaded her firm, young ass as I slid in and out of her, and when she locked her ankles around the small of my back, my balls tightened with anticipation. She squeezed and relaxed her pussy until I was ready to go crazy. There was no holding back with her, not the first time. I shot a week’s load into her and she held me tight and looked straight into my eyes while I was doing it. Jesus! I don’t kno
w why but that excited me even more, and I kept on coming until I hadn’t a drop left.

  “Are you having a good time?” Rosalie whispered an hour later, after I had unloaded in her again. “Doxy gets mad if she thinks the guests don’t have a good time.”

  I was limp but she insisted that I stay in her, and it seemed that if you paid for a second ride you got the third one free. Of course Doxy wasn’t losing much by that, since for most men two comes inside of an hour are enough. However, I’m different. I like women so much that I can never get enough of them.

  By profession I’m a poker player, if you can call that a profession, so I am around hotels and saloons a good deal of the time, and that’s where you find women. At times I work at other jobs, if the pay is right, and with the Englishman it was. But even if he hadn’t been murdered, I guess I wouldn’t have kept the job more than another month. Out there on the high plains, with the wind from Canada blowing day and night, I got lonesome for my women. Hell! What’s the point of going to bed if there’s nothing in it but you? Late at night I’d lie there listening to the wind and get hopelessly hard just thinking about the women going to waste.

  “You’re a caution, Mr. Saddler,” Rosalie whispered. I liked the way she whispered because you could almost forget that we were whore and customer. “You’re just a caution, sir, and someday you’re going to make some lucky woman a fine husband. By any chance are you married, sir?”

  I guess she was just making conversation while we waited for my hard-on to firm up. “Call me Jim,” I said. “By no chance am I married.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little disappointed. I have no way of knowing why it mattered to her. Maybe she was still young enough to be romantic. I wanted to please her though. “I’m not married, but I am engaged to a sweet girl near as pretty as you are. And that’s the honest truth.”

  The nicest thing about Rosalie was that she hadn’t been a whore long enough to be bitter about men and about her work. That bitterness might come eventually, but for the moment she was young, merry-eyed and enjoying life. Some young whores have to learn the bed-game; others come by it naturally. I think Rosalie was one of the naturals. The affectionate way she handled my cock made me feel right at home with her.

  Soon she whispered, “I’m going to give you a special treat,” and she put the head of my cock in her mouth while she held the base of it with both of her small hands. I tried to push it in as far as it would go, but she held it back and sucked only the head. That’s the most sensitive part naturally. She knew what she was doing. She sucked it steadily but gently, using her tongue at the same time. Doing that, she made it even more sensitive than it was. Even for me this was a new way of getting a suck-job.

  Right away the bulb of my cock seemed to swell up to twice its usual size. It throbbed as she sucked it in that special way. Now and then I tried to re-take control, but she wouldn’t let me. After several attempts I gave up and let her do it her way. Her flickering pink tongue continued to tease my enlarged, throbbing cock, sending waves of pleasure all the way up my spine. As she kept sucking and tongue-teasing, I felt little electric shocks in my skull. I wanted to Cream in her mouth but at the same time I wanted it to go on forever. I knew the moment I came the feelings would begin to fade.

  Rosalie faced me while she sucked and she smiled with my huge cock bulb in her mouth. She had a small, sweet mouth with very red lips and that made it all the more exciting. Then, without warning—the surprise was part of the treat—she sucked so hard she grew pink in the face, creating a tremendous suction. I raised my ass and literally exploded in her mouth. She sucked me dry and empty. I lay there like a man in a trance. Finally I became aware that she was talking to me. Whore or not, I felt a great affection for her.

  “What did you say?” I asked her.

  “Tell me about your girl,” Rosalie asked. “Please tell me about her.”

  I pieced a girl together for her, the hair of one, the eyes of another. “My girl is, uh, a schoolteacher in, uh, Jonesboro, West Texas, and her name is Rose of Sharon. Almost as pretty as yours.”

  Ignoring the last part, Rosalie said, “I think your girl’s name is prettier. Maybe I’ll change my name to Rose of Sharon. Do you think she’d mind?”

  “Rose of Sharon wouldn’t mind a bit,” I said. “I’ll tell her I met a pretty girl in Wyoming who wanted to use her name and I said it was all right.” Outside the Wyoming wind tried to shake the house apart. A tree groaned close to the house, a sad sound, and I was glad I was in a warm, clean bed with a pretty girl with sweet tits and a firm ass, and not rolled in my bedroll beside the trail.

  I asked her to get my fixins from my vest pocket. For the moment, I didn’t have the strength to roll a cigarette and asked her if she could do it. That was just being polite, because all whores are taught that rolling smokes is an important part of the job once the main job is over.

  “Here you go!” she said, putting the cigarette in my mouth. She struck a match on the tiled washbasin beside the bed and lit the gasper for me. I sucked in smoke and let it out slowly. There is nothing like a good smoke after a good fuck.

  A clock with a painted face ticked quietly on the wall, and Rosalie said, “My, how time flies! We’ve been here all of two hours. I’ll have to be getting downstairs.”

  I hadn’t intended to stay all night, but now it seemed like a great idea. I asked Rosalie if she would stay with me. “Well, it’ll cost quite a bit for the whole night,” Rosalie said. She named the figure and it was quite a bit; on the other hand I wasn’t ready to face the lonesome trail all fucked out as I was. I offered her more than she’d requested. “Oh, that will be just fine!” she said. “But I’ll have to tell Miss Doxy, you understand.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “You’ll find the money in my pocket. You think you can find something to drink? Jack Daniels, if you have it.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Rosalie said, smiling and rolling over me to get off the bed. She looked good standing there in the soft lamplight. It was a very nice whorehouse and Miss Doxy was to be complimented on how well she ran it. Rosalie got into her dress and buttoned it. Her face was pink from all the fucking. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Good as her word, she came back with a full quart of Daniels and one glass; in the good houses the whores don’t drink, or aren’t allowed to drink. She uncorked the bottle with strong, even teeth and poured a drink for me. “More,” I said. “I’m thirsty.”

  Rosalie laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t wonder. Now you just have your drink and I’ll give you a fine bed bath.”

  “And after I wash you I’ll do myself. That way we’ll be clean as new pins and will feel better.”

  “I’d rather do you,” I said.

  “Another poke! Right this minute!” Rosalie showed her astonishment. “You think you can?”

  “I meant wash you,” I said.

  “Well, of course, yes, that will be fine,” Rosalie said. “But first I’ll wash you.”

  And she did, from head to toe, cock and balls. The water was hot and soapy and she squeezed out a washcloth and began to wash me all over. I groaned when she got to my balls.

  Just then the front door banged open and a bunch of men came in downstairs and there was whooping and laughing. I must have tensed up, because Rosalie said, “That’s just a bunch of friends. They’re all right. Relax and let me finish washing you.”

  Soon I was done and it was time for me to wash her. She stretched out on the bed and smiled at me. “I feel like royalty,” she said.

  I didn’t feel like royalty, but I felt good. I had two big drinks in my belly and a warm, wet girl under my hands—a naked and pretty girl with her legs open. I washed around in there and, honest Injun, I got hard again.

  Her eyes widened in surprise and she said in mock reproach, “You’ll kill yourself, I swear you will.”

  Fact is, it didn’t do me one bit of harm to stick it in her again. We were damp and smelled of soap, and the hair around her face wa
s damp, too. I was just about to come when I heard someone with a heavy tread coming upstairs. The door opened and I knew it was a man. Completely off my stroke, I turned my head to see who the son of a bitch was. At least he could’ve said, “Sorry, wrong room.”

  But he didn’t say that. He had a cheerful red face and was wearing a derby hat on the back of his head. Rosalie laughed when the man said, “I hear you can play the piano.”

  “Mister,” I said wearily, “you better get out of here before there’s a murder. Anything you heard about me and a piano is a goddamned lie. I can’t even play the paper and comb. Be sensible now and let me be. Can’t you see you’re breaking in on a private party. You came in that door and you can leave the same way if you know what is good for you.”

  I was losing my hard-on and that was making me mad. “Let’s get back to work,” I told Rosalie, hoping the chunky man had enough manners to take the hint.

  Unfortunately he did no such thing. All he did was stand there watching me at my labors. Now it’s widely known that there are certain people who like to watch, and there are those who get paid money to be watched. Me, I don’t belong to either faction. I advised the chunky man of that fact and suggested that he talk to Doxy about his special needs.

  “Talk to Doxy,” I said. “She’ll fix you up with what you want. New Orleans style, or any old thing your heart desires.” There was no sound of a door closing. “You gone yet, mister?”

  “No, I ain’t gone yet,” he answered.

  “Why ain’t you gone yet?” I asked.

  “If you’re bashful about this, I’ll wait till you get finished,” he said. “Anyhow, what’s all the brannigan about? A lady photographer who once took my picture told me there’s nothing more beautiful than the human body.”

  “You can’t take any pictures in here. One more time, sir, will you take yourself out of here? Be off now before you get yourself injured something awful.”

  That was my last effort to keep the peace. I got the feeling that it wasn’t going to work, and I was right.