Tull Morrison was lying in his hotel room bed, cleaning his. 45 calibre Scholfield break-top fast draw revolver, when the knock came at the door. It was hot and dry and Tull had run short of whisky so he was more than a little bit parched. He'd taken off all his outer clothes, leaving only his longjohns; which were quite filthy and ragged to cover his hirsute muscular male physique.
Tull was a rather short man, as those things went, but he had an uncircumcised cock and a pair of hairy balls a man could feel proud of.
He also had only recent gotten out of the Yuma State Prison and was lookin' to bag himself a sweet piece of tail. Nationality didn't much matter to the man at that point, nor the size of her tits or her ass nor the amount of body fat on her body.
In fact she didn't even have to be particularly good looking.
She just had to want herself a good poke; or two, and be almost as horny as he. Tull had served five years locked away in Yuma's prison locked away for a crime he'd not committed And yeah, he'd committed his share of crimes, but not the one for the which they'd incarcerated him.
He'd not robbed that Santa Fe Railway train. But he'd sure shot to death that phony US Marshall who'd tried to bugger him the first night he and the press ganged posse of train passengers had gone out in pursuit of the real bandits. Killed him with his own Scholfield which he'd pulled from the erstwhile lawman's shoulder holster, while the degenerate with trying to force feed him his grotesquely erect and throbbing dick while threatening his life with a rusty hunting knife.
Afterwards, he'd taken the dead cretin's revolver, his .44/.40 Winchester '66, his slouch hat, badge of office and all the available ammunitions for the weapons he could find.
He'd even taken the dead man's boots and neckerchief and watch fob. The chain he'd kept; the watch he'd thrown away for it was monogrammed and inscribed on the back with the words, "From your loving wife, Martha, with eternal love and admiration.
" Tull had spat in the dead man's carcass with utter contempt.
On the way back to the train, one of the other passengers misguidedly bushwhacked Tull and the other passengers dog-piled him and knocked him to the ground. Afterwards, they'd tied him up and thrown him over the side of the dead man's half Mustang gelding. Tull hadn't put up a fuss, because he figured someone in that posse would have safe vouched him and borne witness to the fact the perverted lawdog had tried to face-rape and possibly turn to sodomy afterwards.
But not an one of those cowardly mongrels stood forth and witnessed that Tull Morrison had committed no more crime than to try and defend himself from a deviant attacker who'd held him at knife-point. Tull was appointed a tired, bloodhound faced public defender who hadn't been worth the spittle Tull had wasted on the deviant lawman, and the circuit judge, who was half-baked on locoweed gave Tull five years' hard labour at the Yuma Territorial Prison.
Tull had created havoc in the courtroom that afternoon, busted the pot bellied judge in the mouth, breaking his bulbish nose and knocking out a couple of his rotting yellowed teeth. He'd gotten life without parole ( a ruling an expensive attorney-at-law from San Francisco had later over turned) and spent the first night in prison in solitary confinement.
Life in the prison had been nightmarish for Tull who was quite a handsome feller, even with all the scars his misadvantures inside the prison had garnered him.
And at the end of five years; because he'd gone to the defence of one of the bulls during an attempted prison riot, in the which several visitors had been taken hostage, he was released back into society under his own recognizance as hard bitten and bitter a man as had ever spent time behind swinging bar doors.
He left the Yuma Territorial Prison wearing a brand new tailored suit, made for him by the bull's grateful mail-order Russian bride and the watch fob and weapons and slouch hat and boots of the degenerate lawman he'd slain. All these Tull obtained when one of the girlfriends of one of the train passengers who'd formed the posse which later been instrumental in getting him sent to prison came forward and testified on his behalf.
The public defender who worked his case; having learned of his release, had bribed the evidence room clerk to turn over the murdered marshall's personal effects over to him and he'd given them; including the mashall's badge, to Tull Morrison. The Russian woman; who'd looked far older than the date of birth she'd given Tull, had come forward after her man's death by the fever, because she'd wanted a man; any man, to help rear her children and work her homestead.
Tull had spent one night in the frigid woman's bed, but had pushed on, before the sun rose over the Arizona sky the next day. He might have eventually helped the woman overcome her frigidity, but Tull was gonna be damned before he helped rear the children of the son-of-a-bitch who'd helped him get sent away in the first place. Now, months later, he was riding around the country masquerading as a US Marshall, acting the part of a vigilante and putting paid to any lawman he found to be abusing the powers granted him by the wearing of a badge.
But Buford Holdermann had had friends in Arizona Territory and somehow they'd caught wind of Morrison's release and came gunning for him. He'd killed all those who'd come for him; thus far, and had garnered quite a collection of rifles and revolvers in the doing.
"Door's open, " Tull croaked "I'm too tired ta come to th' door, so's you c'n let yourself in." Even while he was yet speaking a sloe eyed, succulent titted and large, round-assed mulatto girl, who couldn't have been more than fifteen,; if that, crossed the threshold of his room and came in out of the blast furnace heat.