Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (2 page)

TWO

Under normal circumstances, Clint didn't mind talking about his friend Wild Bill Hickok.

The murder of Hickok by the backshooter Jack McCall had sent Clint into a tailspin. He had crawled into a bottle all those years ago, managed to crawl back out, but only after some desperate moments. It was not only that his friend had been killed, but the way he'd been killed. It was the way Clint had always been afraid he'd go. He wouldn't mind dying on the trail, or in a gunfight, or even in bed with a woman, but he did not want to die at the hands of a coward, with a bullet in his back.

But he'd managed to put that fear, as well as the death of his friend, behind him. He never discussed Hickok's death with people, but he was always ready to talk about the man's life.

Still, he wasn't sure he wanted to discuss it with a writer. Clint had a rule that he never gave interviews. The reason for that was that the things he said never ended up being written down quite the way he'd said them.

When Clint finished his breakfast, the writer was still plowing through his. Clint poured himself another cup of coffee, then called the waiter over and asked for another pot.

“Yes, sir.”

“You want anything else?” he asked Silvester.

“No, I'm fine, thank you.”

The waiter nodded and withdrew.

“What kind of writer are you?” Clint asked, even though the man was still chewing.

Silvester swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin before answering.

“I was a newspaperman for many years.”

“Where?”

“Philadelphia, and then New York.”

“And now?”

“Now I write books.”

“What was your last book?”

“I did a biography of Jesse James.”

“Do you have a copy of that with you?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“I'd like to see it before I decide to talk to you. I knew Jesse.”

“I can get you a copy after breakfast.”

“Just leave it at the front desk with the clerk,” Clint said. “I'll pick it up later today.”

“All right,” Silverster said. “When, uh, do you think you'll be able to read it?”

“Overnight,” Clint said. “Why don't we meet right back here tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Now finish your breakfast.”

* * * 

They left the dining room together and entered the lobby.

“Are you sure you don't want me to run and get the book now?” Silvester asked.

“Are you staying in this hotel?”

“I sure am,” the writer said. “My publisher is paying the bill.”

“Well, good for you,” Clint said.

“So I'll go on up and—”

“No,” Clint said. “Relax, son. I have to leave right now. Like I said, get the book and leave it with the desk clerk. I'll pick it up when I come back later.”

“Well, okay, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Don't forget,” Clint said. “Meet me here tomorrow morning for breakfast. And since your publisher is paying your way, it'll be on you.”

“Yes, sir!”

Clint slapped the man on the back and went out the front door.

Mark Silvester watched the Gunsmith leave the hotel, then turned and ran across the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor.

* * * 

Clint wasn't going to go and find Tal Roper until later that evening, but he wanted to get away from the writer and do some thinking. Of course he was going to read the man's Jesse James book, study it, and decide if he was good enough to write about James Butler Hickok. But beyond that, Clint had to determine if he was ready to examine Bill's life, and his own part in the extraordinary—and short—life of Wild Bill.

Denver was a big city, with paved streets, parks, impressive architecture. He decided to simply walk the streets and let his mind go . . .

THREE

T
OPEKA,
K
ANSAS
J
ULY
1871

Clint Adams drove into Hays City, Kansas, on his gunsmithing wagon, with his horse tied to the back. The only thing on his mind was picking up some supplies he needed in order to keep on going. Where he was going was not important. After years as an unappreciated lawman, he had taken to the trail in his wagon, just to wander and ply his trade along the way, that of a gunsmith. His stops in towns were few, and usually for a visit to a general store, or a gunsmith shop. Today it was a general store for some coffee and beans he needed. He'd never been to Hays City before, but he had no interest in seeing the town, just buying what he needed and moving on.

He reined in his team in front of the store, set the break, and dropped down to the ground. He left his rifle where it was beneath the seat, but he was wearing his Colt in his holster, a gun he himself had modified from single to double action.

As he started walking in the door, two women appeared, and he stepped aside to allow them to pass. They were his age, late twenties, early thirties, wearing cotton dresses and bonnets to match, and they smiled at him as he touched the brim of his hat. If anything was able to make him stay in a town longer than he'd intended, it was a woman. He had a weakness for them, all sizes, shapes, and ages—and if his success rate was any measure, they had a weakness for him as well.

He entered the store, stopped in front of the clerk, and handed him a list. It was a short list.

“Be just a minute,” the man said. “We've got all of this.”

While Clint waited, he walked to the door, and saw the saloon across the street. He was struck by the sudden urge for a cold beer.

“I'll be right back,” he called to the clerk. “I'm going across the street for a beer.”

“Fine,” the clerk said. “I'll have everything ready when you come back.”

Clint left the store and crossed the street to the Black Jack Saloon. Outside, tied to a hitching post, were half a dozen cavalry mounts.

He went inside the busy saloon and approached the bar. He managed to find a space large enough for himself and looked for the bartender. He was down at the other end, talking to a man with a graceful mustache beneath a somewhat oversized nose, and long hair.

“Bartender!” he called.

A few spaces down from him, the soldiers were drinking, slapping one another on the back, and also trying to get the bartender's attention.

“Forget it, friend,” one of them said to him. “He's busy at the end talking to Hickok.”

“Hickok?” Clint asked.

“Marshal Hickok,” another soldier said. “Big man—or so he thinks.”

“Hey, come on, bartender!” another soldier shouted.

“Be right there!” the barkeep called back.

But the soldiers didn't like that. The ranking man, a corporal with two stripes, said, “I had enough of this.” He pushed away from the bar and started walking to the other end. The other men, all privates, followed.

“Goddamn you, Hickok, you ain't the only man drinkin' in here,” the corporal said.

“Maybe I'm the only one payin' when I drink,” Hickok responded good-naturedly.

But the soldiers were already drunk and spoiling for a fight.

The corporal walked up to Hickok, put his hand against his chest, and pushed him.

“Stop hoggin' the bartender.”

“Take it easy, Corporal—” the barkeep said.

Suddenly, all the men between Clint and action faded away from the bar.

“Don't put your hands on me, soldier,” Hickok warned. “It ain't healthy.”

“You think I'm afraid of you, Wild Bill?” the soldier asked, pronouncing Hickok's sobriquet with great exaggeration.

“Sure you're not,” Hickok said, “not with the whole Seventh Calvary behind you.”

“I don't need the whole calvary to put a bullet in your brainpan.”

“Don't try it, son,” Hickok said. He was wearing a Smith & Wesson .32 in a cross-draw holster at that time, a deputy marshal's badge on his shirt. “It'll be the last thing you ever do.”

What happened next was a surprise to everyone in the place, not the least of whom was Wild Bill Hickok.

The six soldiers suddenly rushed him, and Hickok went down in a sea of blue uniforms. He tried to get to his gun, but they had his arms pinned to his sides.

Clint moved then, rushing to Hickok's aid, but before he could reach the action, the corporal pulled his gun, pressed it to Hickok's temple, and pulled the trigger.

There was a click.

The gun misfired.

And Clint was on them.

He grabbed the two men by the backs of their collars, one in each hand, and yanked them off. With his foot, he kicked another aside. Able to move now, Hickok scrambled out from beneath the rest of them before the corporal could fire again. He jumped to his feet, and drew his gun.

Clint drew and fired once. He hit one soldier in the shoulder, spinning him around.

Hickok fired three times in quick succession. One man, Private John Kile, was shot through the torso and went down. Corporal Jerry Lonergan, who'd instigated the whole mess, was shot in the wrist and the knee.

“That's enough!” Clint shouted to the remaining soldiers.

They all froze before they could draw their guns.

“Just stand fast,” Hickok said. “My new friend and me are leaving. Don't follow. Tend to your wounded, take them back to Fort Hays. I'm not gonna arrest any of you.”

“Us?” Lonergan said from the floor, his face etched with pain. “You're the one's gonna end up in the stockade, Hickok!”

“We'll see.
Adios.
” He looked at Clint. “You ready, friend?”

“I'm ready.”

They backed out of the saloon together. Outside they both quickly replaced the spent cartridges in their guns with fresh ones, just in case.

“Thanks for the help,” Hickok said.

“I didn't like the odds.”

“I didn't either.” Hickok holstered his gun. He put his hand out. “James Butler Hickok, but my friends call me Bill.”

Clint shook his hand and said, “Clint Adams.”

“Wait,” Hickok said. “I've heard of you.”

Clint smiled.

“I've heard of you, too.”

“Why don't we go to another saloon for a beer?” Hickok said. “Before those soldiers come out.”

“I never did get the cold beer I was after.”

“Well, come on, then,” Hickok said. “I'm buyin'.”

FOUR

Hickok took Clint to a smaller saloon, with fewer people in it, less chance of trouble.

“Two cold beers,” he told the bartender.

“Comin' up, Bill.”

“Are you known in every saloon in town?” Clint asked.

“Most,” Hickok said.

The bartender brought their beers. They grabbed them and faced each other.

“Have we met before?” Hickok said.

“Briefly,” Clint said.

“I remember,” Hickok said. “Oklahoma Territory. We were hunting buffalo at the time, right?”

“Right,” Clint lied.

“Well,” Hickok said, raising his mug, “I'm glad we've met more formally this time. I appreciate the assistance.”

“I didn't move fast enough,” Clint said. “You're lucky that gun misfired.”

“Yeah, I didn't move fast enough either,” Hickok said. “For men like you and me, that usually means the end. Unless you're lucky.”

“You think there'll be trouble with the Army?”

“I've helped the Army more times than I can count,” Hickok said. “Don't worry. I'll work things out with them.”

“I can testify for you if you want,” Clint said.

“Forget it,” Hickok said. “You're passin' through, right?”

“That's right.”

“So,” Hickok said, “just keep passin'. But I owe you.”

“No problem,” Clint said. “You ever need any more help, just give me a holler.”

“I'll do that,” Hickok said with a smile. “I been known to get myself in a tight spot or two. Be nice to be able to call on a gun I can count on.”

“You got it.”

“That wagon across from the saloon yours?”

“It's mine.”

“So the Gunsmith, it ain't just a name?”

“No,” Clint said, “I really am a gunsmith.”

“Must come in handy.”

“It has, a time or two,” Clint said.

“Look,” Hickok said, “if you ain't in a rush, I know a small place with good steaks.”

“No rush,” Clint said, “but don't you want to get out of town?”

“Naw,” Hickok said. “This badge means I got to be around here from time to time. Here, Topeka. The trouble with those soldiers ain't gonna change my job. I told you, I got friends in the Army.” They finished their beers. “Come on, a steak sounds good right now.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “but I've got to pick up some supplies I ordered first.”

“No problem.”

* * * 

Hickok led Clint to a small café. They got a table in the back and ordered two steak dinners. Clint had been in town less than an hour and had found trouble already. He was wondering if he was tempting fate, but who could refuse a steak with Wild Bill Hickok?

They talked while they ate, mostly Hickok telling stories. He was only a few years older than Clint, but he had been Wild Bill longer than Clint had been the Gunsmith. He had stories, and he had advice, and the two formed a lasting friendship right there and then . . .

FIVE

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

When Clint returned to the hotel, he found a message waiting for him at the desk from Talbot Roper. He wanted Clint to meet him for dinner at the Dakota Steak House at six.

Clint looked around the lobby, didn't see the writer, Silvester, waiting for him, but there was something else for him at the desk.

“Mr. Silvester asked me to give you this, sir,” the clerk said. It was a leather briefcase containing a book and a sheaf of papers. Silvester's book on Jesse James and some handwritten chapters on Wild Bill Hickok. The young man had written quite a bit of his new book already.

“Thank you.”

Clint took it to his room and read until he left to meet Roper for dinner.

* * * 

Roper was waiting at a table when Clint got there.

“Look at you,” Clint said as they shook hands. “That suit would cost a cowboy three months' wages.”

“I'm not a cowboy,” Roper said. “I've got to look good for my clients. Good to see you, Clint.”

“You, too, Tal.”

They sat down, told a waiter to bring them two steak dinners and beer.

“What brings you to Denver?”

“What brings me anywhere?” Clint asked. “I've got to be somewhere. Thought I'd come and say hello. What have you been up to?”

The two men exchanged news of events that had transpired in their lives since they'd last seen each other, pausing only to let the waiter set down their food.

Finally, Clint got to the story of the writer who was working on a book about Wild Bill Hickok.

“There have been books about Hickok before,” Roper pointed out.

“Dime novels and penny dreadfuls,” Clint said. “This is supposed to be a work of literary worth.”

“And the truth?”

“He says.”

“Have you read it?”

“What he has so far.”

“Is it true?”

“As far as it goes.”

“And well written?”

“Who am I to say, but not bad.”

“You and Mark Twain are friends,” Roper said. “I put a lot of stock in your opinion.”

“It reads okay.”

“But it could use some insight from somebody who knew Bill, right?”

“Probably.”

“So, you thinking of giving the young man your insight?”

“I'm considering it.”

“You going to ask my opinion?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“Well, if you were to ask,” Roper said, “I'd say if the book is going to be published anyway, it might as well be as accurate as it can be.”

“That's what I was thinking.”

Roper laughed and sat back.

“Then you had your mind made up before you came here, didn't you?”

“Pretty much, I guess.”

“Well then, eat your steak,” Roper said, “and let's get another beer.”

* * * 

During dinner, Roper told Clint he had to leave town for a case.

“Can you talk about it?”

“I could,” Roper said, “but I won't.”

“You always did set a lot of store by your ethics.”

“Look who's talking,” Roper said. “You're probably the most ethical man I know.”

“My own ethics maybe,” Clint said.

“That's all a man's got,” Roper said.

When they'd finished, Roper insisted on paying the bill.

“My town,” he said.

“That's not fair,” Clint said. “I don't have a town.”

“You can pay anytime we eat dinner outside of Denver. How's that for fair?”

“It'll have to do.”

In front of the restaurant, the two men shook hands and Roper said, “I'll look forward to reading that book. What's the writer's name?”

“Mark Silvester.”

“Make sure he tells the real story, Clint.”

“I will,” Clint said. “Yeah, I've pretty much decided that I will. Thanks, Tal.”