Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (14 page)

FIFTY

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

“That's it?”

Clint looked at Mark Silvester, who had a disappointed look on his face.

“What do you mean, that's it?”

“I thought you were gonna tell me something exciting,” the writer said. “Like who shot Cody.”

“I never found out who shot Cody,” Clint said, “or if they were actually shooting at Hickok.”

“Do you really think Cody arranged for that shot, to get Hickok to stay?”

“Maybe,” Clint said, “but Jack made a good point. The only three men who could have made that shot were on the street with him.”

“And Cody never found out after you left New York?”

“If he did, he never told me,” Clint said.

Silvester closed his notebook.

“You've got to have better stories than that one,” he said.

“Hickok shot another light out that night,” Clint told him. “Like a going-away present.”

Silvester opened his book and wrote that down.

“I've got to go,” Clint said, standing up.

“Where? Can I come?”

“No,” Clint said, “I have an appointment.”

“But we could talk some more on the way.”

Silvester followed Clint out to the hotel lobby.

“Look,” Clint said, “I'll meet you back here this evening. We'll go someplace and I'll tell you some good stories.”

“Okay,” Silvester said, “okay. What time?”

“Five.”

“I'll be here.”

Clint nodded, and went to his room.

Upstairs he started to think about what stories to tell Silvester next. The kid wanted some exciting stuff, but Clint wanted to tell him something that would show who the real Bill was.

He had an hour before he was supposed to meet Carla. He decided to make good use of the time.

FIFTY-ONE

Clint knocked on Carla's door at five minutes to noon. She opened the door and smiled at him. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress that covered her from her neck to her ankles, yet she might as well have been naked. It clung to her curves like a second skin, flaring only below the knees, and yet it would have been proper attire for a secretary in an office building.

“You came.”

“Did you think I wouldn't?”

“I didn't know,” she said. “I haven't dealt with many legends. I don't know if they keep their word.”

“This one does. Shall we go?”

She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.

“Lead the way, sir.”

* * * 

Clint took Carla to a small, expensive café down the street from the Denver House Hotel.

“I've never been here,” she said, looking around.

“The doorman told me about it,” he said. “He said that even a lot of the locals don't know about it.”

The restaurant was small and dark, which suited him. He asked the waiter if they could have a table in the back.

“Certainly, sir.”

He led them to a small table and left them with menus to peruse.

“Do legends have the money for expensive restaurants like these?” she asked.

“Some do,” he said.

They examined the menu and made their decisions. The waiter came and they ordered.

“So, tell me,” she said. “What's the Gunsmith doing in Denver?”

“I like Denver,” he said. “I have friends here.”

“Like that young fella at the hotel?”

“Which one?”

“The one I saw you with in the dining room,” she said. “He seems very . . . intense.”

“He is intense,” Clint said. “He's a writer.”

“Is he writing about you?”

“Would it be so unbelievable if he was?” Clint asked.

“Of course not,” she said. “I'm sure lots of people would like to read about the life of the Gunsmith.”

“I'm not all that sure I want to talk about it,” he said.

“So what are you telling him?” she asked.

“I don't want to talk about that now,” he said.

“Well then, what do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Let's talk about you.”

“I'm not so interesting,” she said.

“You are to me.”

“No,” she said, “I'm just a woman trying to get by.”

“Where are you from?”

“The East.”

“Where in the East?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“All right, then,” he said, “where are you going?”

“San Francisco.”

“To do what?”

She shrugged and said, “Whatever I have to do to survive.”

“What can you do?” he asked. “Sing? Dance?”

“Neither one,” she said. “But I do have sort of a specialty.”

What's that?”

“I look pretty good on a man's arm,” she said. “Usually a rich man's arm.”

* * * 

Over dinner Clint learned little more about Carla, and gave her the same amount about himself. Maybe it was time to fill her in on what he already knew.

“How about some dessert?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I'm very full. That was wonderful stew.”

“Yes, it was.” He waved no to the waiter, who withdrew.

“What would you like to do now?” she asked.

“Actually,” he said, “I'd like to talk to you about what you're really doing with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “You're not passing through Denver on your way to San Francisco. You live here. So what are you doing in the Denver House Hotel?”

She lifted her chin and said, “Why don't you tell me?”

“You were trying to meet me.”

“Well, aren't we full of ourselves?”

“No, I don't think so,” Clint said. “I think somebody sent you to meet me.”

“For what reason?”

“That I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe they're just trying to find out what I'm doing in Denver.”

“And what are you doing in Denver?”

“Maybe I'm just talking to a writer,” Clint said. “I take it you're not going to tell me who sent you?”

“What makes you think you know about me?”

“Carla Mercer,” he said. “You've been arrested a few times as a pickpocket and con woman. I don't know what you're doing these days. Maybe you're just trying to bamboozle men like me.”

“What kind of man do you think you are?”

“Apparently,” he said, “I'm the kind of man you think can be fooled by a pretty face.”

“Is that all you think I am?” she asked. “A pretty face?”

“I think you know you're a lot more than that, Carla,” Clint said.

“Well,” she said, “since I'm clearly not going to accomplish what I set out to, I guess I might as well go home.” She stood up.

“Let me walk you back to the hotel,” he said.

“I'm not going back to the hotel.”

“You have a room there,” he said. “You'll have to check out and settle your bill.”

She laughed.

“If I'm the pickpocket and con woman you say I am, why would I pause at walking away from a hotel bill?”

“Maybe to prove to me I'm wrong.” Actually, she'd be proving Rick Hartman wrong. Clint had sent a telegram to Rick in Labyrinth to see if he knew anything about a woman named Carla Mercer in Denver. He wondered why Carla was using her real name.

“You know what?” she said. “I think I will let you walk me back to the hotel.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Maybe just to confuse you a bit.”

* * * 

Clint walked Carla back to the Denver House, waited while she packed.

“We better go down and check out,” he said.

She turned and looked at him, then said, “It's a shame to waste this great big bed, don't you think? I mean, I could check out . . . after?”

He thought a moment, studied her. She was a beautiful woman—too beautiful to pass up.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said, taking her into his arms.

* * * 

The bed got quite a workout.

Clint peeled Carla naked, explored her body with his hands and mouth while she writhed beneath him. Then she undressed him and did the same. She teased his hard cock with her lips and tongue, then slid up on him and mounted him, dangling her pendulous breasts in his face while he nibbled on her nipples.

She rode him hard, but before she could finish, he flipped her over onto her back without pulling his cock out of her. She gasped as he got to his knees and began to drive himself in and out of her. He worked her as long as he could without coming, then withdrew.

“What—wait,” she said. “Why are you stopping?”

“I'm not stopping,” he said. “I'm making an adjustment.”

“What kind of adjustment?”

He slid down between her thighs and pressed his face to her wet, fragrant pussy.

“Oh,” she said as his tongue went to work, “that kind of adj—oooh.”

She reached down to wrap her fingers in his hair . . .

* * * 

Clint took her to the front desk to pay her bill. That done, he walked her outside.

“Are you going to be in trouble?” he asked.

“Not if you'll give me something. Even if it's a lie. Just something I can give to . . . well, something I can give.”

Clint studied her for a moment, then said, “I'm just telling tales to a writer, Carla. Just telling tales.”

She started away, then stopped.

“Are you just going to let me walk away?” she asked. “Without telling you who I work for?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“I do,” she said. “But I can't.”

“Then I'd have to torture you to get it out of you.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head and said, “I'm not going to do that.”

She nodded, and walked away.

* * * 

When Dawkins opened his door, he found Carla in the hall.

“Come on in,” he said.

She entered and he closed the door. He turned to face her.

“Find out something for me?” he asked her.

“Maybe.”

“You mean, you don't know?”

“He wasn't fooled, Jeff.”

“You couldn't fool him?”

“He's too smart,” she said. “Figured me out. Even found out what I am.”

“So I guess this is the first time you didn't do me any good, Carla.”

“Like I said, maybe.”

“What's that mean?”

“He told me what he's been doing,” she said. “All that remains is for you to believe him or not.”

“What did he say?”

“He's been telling that young writer tales,” she said.

“That's it?” he asked. “Just tales?”

She laughed and said, “Tall tales, I bet.”

Dawkins scratched his head.

“Don't reckon I can tell John Wells that and charge him for it,” Dawkins said.

“Well,” she said, “I'm sorry. That's all I managed to get. Oh, and you owe me for the hotel.”

“You mean . . . you paid the bill?”

She laughed and said, “Yeah, he got me to do that.”

“Seems like Mr. Adams had quite an effect on you, Carla.”

“Maybe that's the way it is with those legends,” she said.

“Yeah,” Dawkins said, “legends.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I'll meet with Wells tomorrow,” Dawkins said. “I think maybe it's time I find out what he really wants with that writer.”

“Maybe he's just looking for some tall tales, Jeff,” Carla said.

“I doubt that, Carla,” Dawkins said. “I really doubt that.”

FIFTY-TWO

Clint woke the next morning, wondering who was behind Carla and what his next move would be. He looked out his window at the doorways and rooftops across the street, didn't see anybody watching the hotel.

He got dressed and went down to the lobby, expecting to see young Silvester there, but the writer was nowhere to be seen. He went to the front desk.

“Have you seen Mr. Silvester today?” he asked.

“The writer? He was down here a little while ago. Looked like he was waiting for somebody.”

“Then where did he go?”

“Well, a man came into the lobby, talked to him, and they walked out together.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don't know. About fifteen minutes, I guess.”

“What did the man look like?”

“Tall fella in dark clothes. That was all I could see from here.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He headed for the door. Maybe the doorman could tell him more. He wondered if whoever had sent Carla after him had already made his next move.

* * * 

Down the street, in a small saloon, Jeff Dawkins was buying Mark Silvester a drink.

“It's a little early for drinking, isn't it?” Silvester asked.

“Not in Denver,” Dawkins said. “Not in the West. It's always time for a drink.”

The bartender brought them their drinks.

“So tell me, Mr. Dawkins,” Silvester said, “how did you know I was in Denver? And that I'd be at the Denver House?”

“Denver's my city, Mr. Silvester,” Dawkins said. “I heard there was a big-time writer in town from New York.”

“Well, I don't know how big-time I am,” Silvester said.

“Who else but a big-time writer would be writing a book about the Gunsmith?” he asked.

“Who says I'm writing a book about the Gunsmith?” Silvester asked.

“Well, you've been seen around town talking with Clint Adams, taking notes. It's assumed you've been taking notes for a book.”

“Well, I've been taking notes, all right,” Silvester said, “but not about Clint Adams.”

“Oh?”

“I'm writing a book about Wild Bill Hickok,” Silvester said.

“And Clint Adams is helping you with that?”

“Yes,” Silvester said. “He was good friends with Hickok. He knows a lot of stories.”

Dawkins thought about that. If Silvester was only talking to Adams about Hickok, what did that have to do with John Wells?

“Another drink, gents?” the bartender asked.

“Not for me,” Silvester said. “I have to go and meet Clint Adams in the lobby. I'm already late. Thank you for the drink.”

“Sure,” Dawkins said, “sure. Look, I'll be around. If there's anything I can do to help you, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dawkins,” Silvester said.

As the writer left, Dawkins said to the bartender, “Maybe I will have another drink.”

* * * 

All the doorman was able to tell Clint was that Mark Silvester had walked off down the street with a tall man in dark clothes.

“You didn't know who he was?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever seen him before?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Okay, thanks. If you see Mark Silvester, tell him I'm in the dining room, will you?”

* * * 

Clint was eating breakfast when Silvester walked in and joined him.

“Sorry I'm late.”

“You smell like whiskey.”

“I had a drink.”

“Kind of early, isn't it?”

“In the West? I thought it was always time for a drink.”

“Who told you that?”

“Fella named Dawkins.”

“That who you were drinking with?”

“Just one drink.”

“And what did he want to know?”

Silvester laughed.

“He thought I was writing a book about you.”

“And you told him different?”

“Sure, I told him I was writing about Hickok and you were helping me,” Silvester said. “Any reason I shouldn't have told him that?”

“I can think of a few.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't have any idea who the man was, do you?” Clint asked. “How did he know where to find you? Or that we've been talking?”

“He said he—”

“I'll tell you how,” Clint said. “He's been watching us.”

“But . . . why?”

“Maybe that's something you should've asked him while you two were drinking together.”

“One drink, I said.”

“Well, it's enough if you're not used to it,” Clint said. “You better get some food into your belly.” He waved for the waiter.

“Can we talk—”

“Later,” Clint said. “First you eat.”