Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (10 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

Mark Silvester looked up from his notes as he realized Clint Adams had stopped speaking.

“So he let you take the money?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought it back to Cheyenne?”

“Of course,” Clint said. “Mark, this was all about Bill's sense of justice.”

“For the people of Cheyenne?”

“For the depositors of that bank, for the relatives of the people who were killed, and for that young boy.”

“The young boy,” Silvester said. “I never realized Wild Bill Hickok was that sentimental.”

“It had nothing to do with sentiment,” Clint said. “Weren't you listening? It had to do with justice.”

Silvester looked around, then closed his notebook.

“You have more stories, of course,” he said.

“Yes,” Clint said, “I do, but that's it for now.”

“But . . . we've only just begun.”

“We can get back to it later,” Clint said. “I understand Sam Clemens is in town and I want to see him.”

“Mark Twain?” Silvester said. “You know Mark Twain?”

“Yes, we're friends.”

Silvester jumped to his feet.

“May I come with you?”

“For what?”

“Why, to meet him.”

“What would you say to him?” Clint asked.

“That he's a genius,” Silvester said. “That I have enjoyed all his work.”

“He'd probably appreciate that,” Clint said.

“You mean, coming from another writer?”

“I mean coming from anyone,” Clint said. “All right, come along.”

* * * 

That night Dawkins watched the woman named Carla get dressed. He was lying naked on his bed.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, brushing her hair while looking in his mirror.

“Go ahead.”

“Clint Adams is in town,” she said. “The Gunsmith. And you want me to find out what he's doing here.”

“That's right.”

“And we're working for a man from New York named John Wells?”

“Right again.”

“Jeff,” she said, looking at him in the mirror, “do we know who this man is?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do we know?”

“That he has money to spend. Lots of it.”

“And he wants you to find out why the Gunsmith is in Denver?”

“No,” Dawkins said, “he doesn't care about the Gunsmith.” He lay back on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and looked down, admiring his own flat stomach. “He's concerned with the writer, Silvester.”

“The writer who is interviewing the Gunsmith.”

“Who is apparently interviewing the Gunsmith,” Dawkins said. “That's what I want you to find out.”

She finished with her hair, stood, straightened her dress, looked at herself critically n the mirror, then walked to the bed and sat next to him.

“Why don't you take that dress off?” he suggested.

“I just put it back on.”

He glanced down at the sheet that covered his groin, and the tent pole that was sticking up. She smiled, took hold of his penis through the tent, and stroked it.

“You're not done,” she said.

“Not by a long shot.”

She sighed.

“I'm not taking my dress off again,” she said, “but . . .”

She removed the sheet from his hard cock, stroked it with her hand, then leaned over and took it into her mouth. Dawkins closed his eyes and enjoyed it while she sucked him . . .

* * * 

Later, she put the finishing touches to her face, once again examining herself in the mirror.

“Where do I find him?”

“The Denver House Hotel.”

“He has good taste.”

“That's what I'm counting on.”

“Flatterer,” she said, moving away from the mirror. She did not approach the bed again. “You're covering the expenses, right?”

“Right. Come over here,” he said.

“No,” she said, “I'm safer over here.” She picked up her handbag. “How far do you want me to go to get the information?”

“You're a professional,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

She reached into her bag and took out a small .32 caliber revolver.

“Think I'll need this?”

“No,” he said, “I don't want you to kill him, just find out what he's doing here.”

She put the gun back and said, “All right.”

“Just keep me informed on your progress,” he said.

“What will you tell Mr. Wells?”

“That I'm making progress.”

“And will you tell him about me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, all right,” she said, walking to the door. “I'll let you know what happens.”

“Do that.”

She went out the door and he got out of the bed, looked down at his well-toned naked body. His penis was at half-mast. That wasn't good, since Carla was gone. He decided to go and take a bath.

A cold one.

* * * 

Carla caught a cab in front of Jeff Dawkins's building, gave the driver her home address. She had to pack a bag—one bag—to take with her to the Denver House Hotel. She'd get settled in her room, and then find a way to meet the Gunsmith. If everything she had heard about him was true, that wouldn't be at all difficult.

She was pleasantly fatigued from the sex with Dawkins, but found herself very curious about Clint Adams, wondering what she'd have to do with him—to him—to get him to talk to her.

THIRTY-FIVE

Samuel Clemens—or Mark Twain—was in town only for the one day, making a presentation at the university. Afterward, he met Clint for dinner, and Clint brought Mark Silvester along.

Twain and Silvester talked all through the meal—well, actually, they argued, as they each had different opinions on what the most valuable works of literature were over the past few years. The only one they agreed on was Twain's
Tom Sawyer
.

They said good-bye to Twain in front of the restaurant, and then Twain caught a cab to the train station. Clint and Silvester took a cab back to the Denver House Hotel.

“I can't thank you enough for taking me along, Mr. Adams,” the young writer said. “That was the thrill of my life.”

“Even though the two of you argued for most of the time we were together?”

“Oh, that,” Silvester said. “Well, I do tend to have . . . strong opinions.”

“And so does Twain. He liked you.”

“Really? You really think so?”

“If he didn't, he wouldn't have argued—”

“Debated.”

“—debated with you.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

The cab stopped in front of the hotel, and they got out.

“Where can we talk now?” Silvester asked.

“Um, I was thinking about having a drink and then going to my room to read before turning in.”

“B-But . . . you have lots more stories to tell, right?”

“I have more,” Clint admitted, “but we have plenty of time.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Silvester said. “I mean, I have plenty of time before my deadline. My publisher has given me a lot of time to get this book right.”

“That's good,” Clint said. “Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

“For breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“Are you, uh, going to the bar now?”

“I am.”

“I could use a drink,” Silvester said. “I mean, before I go back to my hotel.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Come on. I'll buy you a drink.”

“Thank you.”

“One drink.”

“Oh, sure,” Silvester said. “One drink.”

* * * 

Carla thought that the likeliest place to meet Clint Adams would either be in the hotel dining room, or the bar. Since it was late, after dinnertime, she decided to go to the bar and have a drink.

While she was sitting there alone, she was approached by four different men who wanted to join her, buy her a drink. She turned them all away.

Dawkins had described Clint Adams to her, which was why she noticed him as soon as he came into the room. And he had a younger man with him, who she assumed was the young New York writer.

She finished her brandy, hoping that the Gunsmith would notice her empty glass.

THIRTY-SIX

Clint and Silvester sat a table at the far end of the crowded room, but Clint still noticed the woman sitting with an empty glass.

When the waiter came over and took their order, Clint said, “And bring that lady whatever she was drinking.”

The waiter turned and looked to where he was pointing.

“She's drinking brandy,” the waiter, “but take my advice and save yourself some trouble.”

“Why's that?”

“She's already rejected four men,” he said, “and coldly.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe the fifth time will be the charm.”

The waiter shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. You want me to tell her who sent the drink?”

Clint thought a moment, then said, “No, let's leave her guessing.”

The waiter smiled and said, “That's nice,” approvingly, and walked away.

“Why wouldn't you tell her who bought the drink?” Silvester asked.

“Because she's already turned away four men,” Clint said. “This will make her curious about number five.”

“She's very attractive.”

“Yes, she is,” Clint said. “That's why after your drink, you're going to get lost.”

“Huh? Why—oh, I get it.”

“Good,” Clint said. “I knew a big-time New York writer like you wouldn't need me to spell it out.”

* * * 

The waiter came along and set down their drinks, then went over to the woman and put her drink down in front of her. While Clint watched, she frowned up at the waiter and asked him a question. The waiter shook his head, said something, and walked away.

“She's curious,” Silvester said. “It worked.”

“Yeah, it worked,” Clint said. “Drink up.”

Silvester drank his beer down, and stood up.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I'll meet you down here for breakfast in the morning.”

“Early?”

Clint looked past him at the woman and said, “Maybe not too early.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Silvester said. “How about nine o'clock?”

“Fine.”

Silvester nodded, and then left.

* * * 

Carla knew the drink had come from the Gunsmith. She had already turned away four suitors in plain sight of everyone, so who else would try? She watched as the young writer left, and Clint looked over at her. She could have raised the glass to him, letting him know she knew it was from him, but she decided to play dumb.

He finally stood up and walked over to her.

“Ready for another?” he asked.

“Was this one from you?”

“It was.”

“I was wondering,” she said. “The waiter wouldn't tell me.”

“I asked him not to.”

“Why not?”

“I was trying to be clever.”

“Ah,” she said, “you wanted me to be curious.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said, “everyone is watching to see if I'm going to let you sit down.”

“Are you?”

She studied him for a few moments, then said, “Yes. Please, have a seat.”

He sat across from her. Up close, he could see her eyes were hazel, her nose was straight, her lips were full, and her auburn hair was pinned up. She was wearing a dress that made it clear that she had proud breasts—or breasts to be proud of. Whichever way you wanted to look at it.

The waiter came over and Clint said, “Same again.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said with respect.

“You are now a hero in this place,” she said.

“To you?”

“To them.”

“I'd rather it be with you.”

“Well,” she said, “you never know. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

“Carla,” she said. “Mercer.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Mercer.”

“You're buying me a second drink,” she said. “You can call me Carla.”

“Well,” he said, “you haven't bought me anything, but you can call me Clint.”

“Here comes the waiter,” she said.

They had drinks, talked awhile as the place started to empty out.

Finally she asked, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“No,” he said, “go ahead.”

“Your name is familiar to me,” she said. “Clint Adams. Are you the man they call . . . the Gunsmith?”

“I am.”

“Well . . . you're famous.”

“Fame isn't all it's made out to be,” he said.

“Really? You don't like being famous?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“It makes some people want to try to kill me.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Carla did not want to seem too easy, so she did not go back to Clint's room with him that night. She did, however, allow him to walk her to her door and kiss her good night.

“Thank you for the drinks,” she said. “And the conversation.”

“Thank you for making me a hero,” he said.

She used her key to unlock her door, then turned and said, “Why don't we have breakfast together tomorrow morning?”

“I'm sort of committed for breakfast,” he said. “What about lunch? I know a nice place.”

“All right,” she said. “Lunch.”

“I'll knock on your door at noon.”

“Why don't I just meet you in the lobby?” she asked.

“All right,” he said. “The lobby at noon.”

She kissed him again, a lingering kiss, then went into her room.

He heard her lock the door.

* * * 

Carla made herself comfortable in her room, satisfied that she had made good, strong contact with the Gunsmith. He'd be sniffing around her now as long as she wanted him to. She'd be able to get the information Dawkins wanted easily, but she was also going to satisfy her own curiosity at the same time.

* * * 

Clint went to his own room on the floor above, undressed, and got into bed with a Mark Twain book. He liked Carla Mercer, found her beautiful, and liked the way her kisses tasted.

He was also suspicious. He had some questions to ask the saloon staff the next day.

* * * 

Dawkins met Wells that night, in the same saloon they'd been using.

“How's it going?” Wells asked.

“I'm making progress,” Dawkins said.

“What kind of progress?”

“Adams and the writer spent a lot of time together today.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, first, having breakfast,” Dawkins said. “And then in the park.”

“In the park?”

“Talking.”

“So is Silvester interviewing the Gunsmith?” Wells asked.

“That's what I'm trying to find out for you, Wells,” Dawkins said. “You want a drink?”

“Just one,” Wells said. “Then I'm going to turn in.”

Dawkins waved over a waiter.

* * * 

Mark Silvester made his way to his hotel, a small, cheap establishment a few blocks from the Denver House. The neighborhood changed quite a bit in just those few blocks.

The Mayberry Hotel was just about what he could afford for this trip.

He entered his room and put his notebooks down on the rickety desk. He sat on the bed, which squeaked beneath him. He hadn't expected to meet Mark Twain that day. That was an added bonus to what he was in town to do.

He got up and walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, which was empty except for the gun. He took it out, held it, looked at it, then put it back in the drawer. Not yet. Not just yet.