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He slipped the magnum into the holster and buckled the gunbelt about his
waist, letting it hang a little on the right side. To hell with it, he
thought. If those two characters show up now, at least I'll have an
edge. He pulled five .44 Special slugs from the belt and loaded the
weapon, being careful to see that the hammer hung on the empty chamber.
Then he decided to see how good he was.
Where the hill rose sharply for a small distance behind the house, Nick
found a good area where he could test his marksmanship. He lined up five
cans, a few feet apart, at the base of the rise and snapped off five
fast shots at them as quick as the single action would operate. Either
amnesia had nothing to do with a man's gun knowledge, or he was a
natural. All five cans were blown to hell and sent skittering against
the side of the hill. Stunned, but satisfied, he reloaded the revolver
and dropped it back into the holster.
He prowled the grounds about the cabin with the aimlessness of a man
looking for something but not sure what. Beyond the lawn furniture and
the shed that contained his tools, the only other interesting thing was
the creek. A fast running little stream, barely a foot deep but filled
with numerous little holes that bragged of trout. He walked along the
gurgling water for a ways, then he went back to the house, still unsure
of what to do.
He went back to the cabin and shoved the door open and stopped dead!
She was just like the painting. Her raven black hair hung loose and free
while, beneath the scant confines of the shorts and halter, the warm
flesh rose and fell temptingly. Nick stood there, unable to say a word.
It was Janet and the light in her eyes made him wonder what kind of a
guy he'd been more than ever. She gave a little gasp of pure pleasure
and flung herself into his arms, planting the ripe sweetness of her lips
squarely on his.
"Janet," he managed, but she had a strangle hold on him.
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