Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (5 page)

FOURTEEN

“Don't make us hurt you,” Worthy said.

“Don't worry about that,” Clint said. “It won't happen.”

“Hey, friend,” Reyes said, “we're three and you're one. We'll beat you into the ground.”

Clint smiled and said, “You won't get that close.”

The three men fanned out a bit—but to Clint's satisfaction, not enough.

* * * 

A man ran into the Old Southern and said, “Showdown in the public square.”

“Who?” the bartender asked.

“Don't know,” he said. “Three locals—Worthy and a couple of his boys—and one stranger.”

Suddenly, men were running for the windows and doors to take a look. Hickok was standing at the bar alone, then decided to walk to the door and have a look. When he got there, several men stood aside to make room.

He looked out the door down toward the public square, then stepped outside to have a better look, while the others remained inside.

“This should be good,” he said.

“This isn't a good idea, boy,” Clint said.

“That's what you say,” Leo Worthy said. “We say different.”

“What's this about?” Clint asked. “I've never seen you boys before.”

“I told you,” Worthy said. “It's about you leavin' town.”

“There's no way I can talk you out of this?” Clint asked.

“I think he scared, boss,” Reyes said.

“You're right,” Clint said. “I'm scared I'm going to have to kill three men I don't know for some reason I don't know.”

“He ain't scared, Leo,” Murphy said.

“Listen to the man, Leo,” Clint said. “You can't scare me away, and I'm not going to let you hurt me. So what's next?”

Worthy did not like the fact that Clint Adams was trying to face him and his partners down. The square was empty, but he knew people were watching. If they backed down, they'd lose face, and who the hell was this jasper anyway but a stranger who had come to town to dally with their women?

“You got two choices, friend,” he said. “Mount up and leave, or slap leather.”

Clint thought about avoiding the fight by saddling up and leaving, but it went against the grain. Besides, the spokesman was wearing Confederate colors, and the war was still fresh.

“I'm not leaving,” Clint said, “so I leave the rest to you.”

“Leo—” Murphy started, but Worth cut him off.

“He ain't makin' us back down in our own town,” Worthy said, and went for his gun.

The move was slow. Clint could clearly see it. Also, as the other two men reached for their pistols, it was as if they were all moving in slow motion.

Clint drew his Army Colt and cleanly shot all three men through the thickest parts of their bodies. They all crumpled to the ground.

From down the street, Wild Bill Hickok watched the action, saw the three men fall, and shook his head.

“That boy is quick,” he said.

He turned and went back inside to the bar.

* * * 

“Just stand fast, friend,” a voice said from behind Clint.

Clint froze, the gun still in his hand.

“You a friend of theirs, or law?” he asked.

“I'm law, and I got my gun on you,” the man said. “Drop it and turn around.”

“If you don't mind, I'm going to turn first,” Clint said, “and make sure you're wearing a badge. If you are, I'll drop my gun. No problem. This was a clear case of self-defense.”

“Turn real easy, then,” the lawman said.

“Just don't get nervous,” Clint said, then when he turned and saw the badge on the man's chest, he added, “Sheriff,” and dropped his gun.

FIFTEEN

The sheriff turned the key in the lock of the cell door and then backed away.

“Okay,” he told Clint, “now you can take your hands off your head.”

Clint lowered his hands.

“Go ahead, sit down.”

Clint sat on the cot.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about out there?” the lawman asked.

“I have no idea,” Clint said. “You should know.”

“Why me?” the lawman asked. “Why should I know?”

“They seemed to be local,” Clint said. “They wanted me to leave town.”

“Why?”

“They didn't say.”

“How long have you been in town?”

“You don't know?”

“Why would I know?”

“You're the law,” Clint said. “I thought you'd know when strangers came to town.”

“You know how long I been the sheriff here?”

Clint studied the man. He was sixty, with a belly hanging over his belt. He had unruly gray hair and a gray beard.

“Probably twenty years.”

“Pretty near,” the man said. “Nothin' ever happens here.”

“What about Wild Bill Hickok?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he's in town.”

“I know that,” the Sheriff said. “I know Hickok's in town. In fact, I'd expect this kind of thing to happen with him, but all he does is play poker.”

“Look,” Clint said, “there must be some witnesses you can talk to. They'll tell you I had no choice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the lawman said. “Well, if that's true, you've got nothin' to worry about. Look, I gotta go and get those bodies taken care of, see who those boys were.”

“One of them was named Leo.”

“Leo?” the sheriff said. “Jesus, that musta been Leo Worthy.”

“Who's he?”

“Local, like you said,” the sheriff said. “He was always lookin' for trouble.”

“Well,” Clint said, “today he found it.”

“Yeah, he sure did,” the sheriff said, “but so did you.”

“Look—”

“Just settle in, son,” the sheriff said. “I'm gonna take care of the bodies and look for some of those witnesses you mentioned.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And I'll get you somethin' to eat.”

“Good.”

The lawman left, and Clint leaned back against the wall. The window was right above him, so he stood on the cot and looked out. He could see the square from there. It seemed you could see the public square from everywhere in that town.

He watched while the sheriff directed some men to remove the bodies, and before long the square was empty again.

He turned around, climbed down, and sat on the cot with his back against the wall. He'd shot those men in self-defense. Somebody would testify to that fact. He had nothing to worry about.

Nothing.

* * * 

The sheriff brought Clint some dinner that night, breakfast the next day, and dinner again the next night.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I've been in here a whole day already. How are you coming with those witnesses?”

“Still lookin',” the sheriff said. “Seems like not too many people want to come forward.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Well,” the lawman said, “you're a stranger, and those boys were local.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Well, somebody must be willing to talk.”

“Like I said,” the sheriff said. “I'm still lookin'.”

The sheriff started to leave the cell block as Clint removed the napkin from over his food.

“Hey!”

“What now?” the lawman asked.

“What's your name?”

The lawman hesitated, then said, “Sunshine.”

“What?”

“That's my name,” the lawman said with a shrug. “Sheriff Andy Sunshine.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “Sheriff Sunshine.”

“I'll be back later for the tray.”

Clint waved as the lawman went out.

Sunshine.

SIXTEEN

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

“Wait a minute,” Mark Silvester said.

“I thought we said no questions until the end,” Clint reminded him.

“Yes, but you have to let me have this one,” the writer said. He had taken out a notebook when Clint started talking, and now he was looking up from it.

“Okay, what?”

“Sunshine?”

“That was the man's name.”

“And why are you telling me all this stuff about you?” Silvester said. “I thought this was about Wild Bill.”

“It is,” Clint said. “Just let me finish.”

“Okay,” Silvester said, “finish.”

“Let's get some more coffee first.”

He gestured to the waiter.

* * * 

Wells was already there when Dawkins entered the saloon. He had ordered two brandies, but no cheese and bread.

As Dawkins sat down, Wells said, “You found him already.”

“How do you know that?”

“You've got a self-satisfied look on your face,” Wells said. “My guess is you're not a very good poker player. No poker face.”

Dawkins picked up his brandy and said, “I don't have time for games.”

“Only work, huh?” Wells asked.

“That's right.”

“Boring life.”

“I drink brandy,” Dawkins said, “I eat well, and I read.”

“When you're not working.”

“Which is hardly ever.”

“I know what you mean,” Wells said.

A waiter came and set down a plate of cheese and bread, this time along with some meats.

“I hope you don't mind this for breakfast,” Wells said.

“Not at all.” Dawkins reached for some meat and cheese, put them on a slice of bread, and took a bite.

Wells did the same.

“Okay,” Wells said, “so what've you got?”

“I've got a need to get paid.”

Wells stared at Dawkins, who kept chewing.

“But you did find him, right?”

“Right.”

Wells reached into his jacket, took out an envelope, and passed it over to Dawkins, who stuck it in his jacket.

“You aren't going to count it?”

“I trust you, Wells,” Dawkins said.

Wells took more meat, cheese, and bread.

“Hey, next time we'll get some fruit, too.”

“Fuck that,” Dawkins said. “Next time we'll go for steaks.”

“There's going to be a next time?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you still need me.”

“I do?”

Dawkins nodded.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Wells said. “Where's my man and why do I still need you?”

“Your writer is staying at the Denver House Hotel,” Dawkins said.

“Where's that?”

“Just a few blocks east of here.”

Wells waited, finally asked, “And?”

“And when I saw him, he wasn't alone.”

“Who was he with?”

“Fella named Clint Adams,” Dawkins said.

“Clint—wait,” Wells said. “Isn't that . . . the Gunsmith?”

“That's right.” Dawkins popped a piece of cheese into his mouth.

“What were they doing?”

“Near as I could figure,” Dawkins said, “they were having breakfast.”

“No, I mean . . . what are they doing together?” Wells asked.

“I don't know,” Dawkins said. “Maybe that's why you still need me, though.”

SEVENTEEN

S
PRINGFIELD,
M
ISSOURI
J
ULY
1865

The bad blood between Dave Tutt and Wild Bill Hickok festered for two more days after Tutt walked away with Hickok's watch. Tutt had not returned to the Old Southern, but Hickok continued to play poker there. And he continued to win.

Clint watched life in Springfield go by from his cell window. He was still waiting for the sheriff to either find a witness, or charge him with something. He was pretty sure Sunshine was going to have to let him go soon.

Not that the food was bad. It all came from the same café, and it was delicious. However, he
was
being charged for a hotel room he wasn't using.

He finished his breakfast and laid the checkerboard cloth napkin back over the tray, stuck it near the front of the cell so the sheriff could retrieve it. He had not seen a deputy in the two days he'd been in the cell.

* * * 

Sheriff Sunshine entered the Old Southern and walked to the bar.

“Sheriff,” the bartender said.

“Beer,” Sunshine said.

“Comin' up.”

When the bartender brought the beer, Sunshine said, “Come on, Walt.”

“What, Sheriff?”

“You were watching what happened down in the square, weren't you?”

“No, sir,” the bartender said.

“And you don't know anybody else who was?” Sunshine said. “Your customers?”

“Nope.”

“Walt, Walt,” Sunshine said, “you're tellin' me this whole place didn't belly up to those windows to watch the action?”

“Maybe they did,” Walt said, “but I ain't got no names for you.”

Walt looked over at the poker game, where Hickok was raking in another pot. Even though Hickok's mood had changed, the bartender was still smarting from the way the man had spoken to him the other day.

“You might ask Hickok, though.”

Sunshine turned and looked over at the poker table.

“Why Hickok?”

“Well, like you said,” the bartender replied, “everybody bellied up to the window and door to watch, but Hickok? He stepped outside. He got the best look of anyone.”

“Why didn't you tell me that before now?” Sunshine asked.

Walt shrugged and said, “I just remembered.”

Sunshine frowned, looked over at Hickok again.

“He winnin'?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Walt said, “ever since Dave Tutt left the game two days ago.”

“He hasn't been back?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It's got somethin' to do with a watch.”

Sunshine nodded, rubbed his hand over the lower portion of his face, then picked up his beer and walked over to the poker game.

* * * 

Hickok dropped his three kings down on the table and raked in his pot. As he did so, he felt someone stop alongside the table. When he looked up, he saw the sheriff.

“Sunshine,” he said.

“Bill,” the sheriff said, “you mind if we talk a minute?”

“Why, sure thing, Sheriff,” Hickok said good-naturedly “These boys can use a break anyway.”

He stood up and walked to the bar. Sunshine followed.

“Beer, Walt,” Hickok said.

“Sure thing, Mr. Hickok.”

Aw, come on, Walt,” Hickok said. “You can call me Bill, you know?”

“Yes, sir. Sheriff?”

“Sure,” Sunshine said, “I'll have another.”

When they both had beers, Hickok asked, “So what's this about, Sheriff?”

“Three men were killed in the public square two days ago,” the lawman said.

“That a fact?” Hickok asked. “I was right in here. I got plenty of witnesses.”

“I know that,” Sunshine said. “I got the man who did it in a cell.”

“You do? Why would you do that?”

“I got to find out what happened,” the sheriff said. “What I need is a witness. Somebody who saw what happened.”

Hickok nodded.

“Did you see what happened, Bill?”

Hickok took a quick look at the bartender, who suddenly found something interesting at the bottom of a glass.

“I saw it,” he said.

“Care to tell me?”

“Appeared to me to be a fair fight,” Hickok said, “if you can call three against one a fair fight.”

“You see who started it?”

“I'm gonna say the three pushed it, Sheriff,” Bill said. “I mean, what man in his right mind would start a fight with three men?”

“You see who drew first?”

“The three,” Hickok said, “and then that other fella dusted 'em. Whoo-whee! He was quick, I tell you.”

“You know who he is?”

“No, sir,” Hickok said. “And when it was over, I came right back in here for a drink. That's all I know, and it's the God's honest truth.”

“I believe ya, Bill.”

“Then I guess you better let that boy outta your jail,” Hickok said. “You mind if I go back to my game?”

“I don't mind at all, Bill,” Sunshine said, “and I thank ya.”

* * * 

Clint looked up when the sheriff came into the cell block. The man stuck his key into the door and opened it.

“You're free to go, son,” Sunshine said. “Come on out here and I'll give ya your gun.”

The sheriff turned and walked into his office. Clint picked up his hat and followed.

“I guess you found your witness,” he said.

“I did.” The sheriff opened a drawer, took out Clint's gun and holster, and set them on top. Then he took out a piece of paper.

“Sign here, please.”

Clint signed at the bottom, picked up his gun, and put it on.

“You mind if I ask who the witness was?”

Sunshine studied him for a minute, then said, “Wild Bill Hickok. He watched from the front of the saloon.”

“That was good enough for you?” Clint asked. “He couldn't have heard what was being said from there.”

“Well, like Bill put it,” Sunshine said. “why would one man pick a fight with three? And he says you outdrew them clean. Three men. That true?”

“True enough.”

“Bill says you're quick.”

“He must be right,” Clint said. “I'm still alive.”

“Well, look,” Sunshine said, “those boys probably have friends in town. In fact, I know they do. It might be a good idea for you to be on your way.”

“Can't do that, Sheriff.”

“Why not?”

“Those boys were put up to bracing me,” Clint said. “I want to find out by who.”

“That's only gonna cause more trouble, son.”

“Well, Sheriff, I'll do my best to avoid it, but somebody wanted me dead or gone. I'd like to find out who that was.”

“All right,” Sunshine said, “but when you find out, let me know, will you?”

“Sure thing. And will you do something for me?”

“If I can.”

“Tell me the name of the café you were feeding me from.”