Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (8 page)

Part 2

TWENTY-SEVEN

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

Clint told Silvester about the time he spent with Hickok in Abilene as one of his deputies.

“The next year, eighteen seventy-two, Bill and I got together a couple of times, once just to hunt buffalo, and another time to hunt two men.”

“Oh,” Silvester said, “I want to hear about hunting the men. I didn't know you were a bounty hunter.”

“I never was,” Clint said. “This was a special case.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I'll tell you . . .”

TWENTY-EIGHT

R
AWLINS,
M
ISSOURI
A
UTUMN
1872

Clint marveled at the paleness of the brunette's skin as she disrobed in front of him. Her breasts were full and heavy, with dark nipples. She was a chubby girl, with a succulent butt and thighs, and a dense tangle of black pubic hair.

“I've been waitin' for this ever since you came to town,” she said.

“Well,” he said, “then I won't keep you waiting.”

She was about five years older than Clint, had the kind of lush body that would go to fat by the time she reached forty. At the moment, however, she was perfectly built for bed.

She slid onto Clint's hotel bed and waited while he got undressed. When he was naked, his erect penis stuck straight out at her, vibrating like a divining rod finding water.

He moved to the bed, kicking his trousers away as they clutched at his ankles, almost tripping him up. She giggled as he did a dance step to stay on his feet, and then he was right by the bed and she was reaching out to grasp his penis.

And there was a knock at the door.

Clint looked at the door and said, “Wha—”

“Don't answer it,” she hissed at him, tightening her grip on his cock.

Clint looked at her and realized he didn't remember her name.

“Honey,” he said, “it could be important.”

“No,” she said, holding on to his cock even tighter. “I won't let you.”

He reached out, slid his gun from the holster hanging on the bedpost.

“You wouldn't—” she started, her eyes going wide.

“No, I wouldn't shoot you,” he said, “but I might shoot whoever it is pounding on the door.”

For whoever it was in the hall was, indeed, now pounding on the door.

“Clint!” a man's voice called. “Clint, goddamnit!”

“Oh, crap,” Clint said, recognizing the voice.

“Clint,” the woman said as his prick slid from her grasp.

“Sorry, honey . . .”

He went to the door, slammed it open, and said, “What?” to Wild Bill Hickok.

Hickok paused just for a moment to look at Clint, then past him at the woman in his bed.

“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” he said to her, then looked at Clint and added, “Get dressed. I need you.”

“Bill—”

“You'll be back,” Hickok told him. “She'll be waitin'.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, slamming the door.

* * * 

When Clint got to the lobby, Hickok was waiting there for him.

“Clint, boy!” he said, slapping Clint on the back. “Good to see you.”

“Bill,” Clint said, “I wish I could say the same.”

“Looks like you're makin' a name for yourself, huh?” Hickok asked. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's the newspapers,” Clint said, “not me.”

“Well, looks to me like it's gonna stick,” Hickok said, “so you better get used to it.”

Actually, they'd been calling Clint “the Gunsmith” for a couple of years now, and try as he might, Clint could not ignore it. And Hickok was right. It was going to stick.

“What's so important I had to leave a hot, willing woman in my bed?”

“And she was just bursting, wasn't she?” Hickok asked. “Like a ripe fruit.”

“You're making it worse, Bill,” Clint said. “What's going on?”

“I need you.”

“For what?”

“A hunt.”

“You need me to hunt buffalo?”

“No, not buffalo.”

“Then what? A wolf?”

“Not a wolf,” Hickok said. “Somethin' more dangerous.”

“What's more dangerous than a wolf?” Clint asked.

“A man,” Hickok said. “Actually, five men.”

“What'd they do?”

“Robbed a bank in Cheyenne, killed the sheriff, his deputies, a couple of tellers and depositors, and a kid.”

“A kid?”

Hickok nodded.

“A twelve-year-old boy who was in the street when they escaped.”

“What'd they do, shoot him?”

Hickok shook his head and said, “They rode him down, Clint. Trampled him.”

“Sons of bitches,” Clint said.

“Are you with me?”

Clint had two images in his mind, the naked woman in his bed and the trampled boy in the streets of Cheyenne.

“I'm with you.”

TWENTY-NINE

As they rode out of Rawlins, Hickok briefed Clint on the gang.

“Their name's Jenkins,” he said. “The leader is the older brother, Rafe Jenkins.”

“Brothers? All of them?”

“Yeah, all five,” Hickok said. “They fancy themselves the James boys, but they ain't near what Jesse and Frank are.”

Both Hickok and Clint knew the James boys personally. In fact, Clint's big black gelding, Duke, had been given to him by Jesse.

“The Jenkins boys are brutal, with not a trace of decency among 'em.”

“How old are they?”

“Rafe is forty, I think,” Hickok said. “Then there's Orville, Ben, Charlie, and the young one, George, is only about nineteen. Orville and Ben are in their thirties, and Ben's in his twenties.”

“What about their parents? Could they be going to see them?”

“Their parents are dead,” Hickok said. “Those boys ain't got a home to go to, so they're on the run.”

“Why don't you have a posse, Bill?”

“Wasn't nobody would go after them.”

“And why you?” Clint asked. “You aren't wearing a badge.”

“They wanted to swear me in, but I didn't want to waste the time,” Hickok said. “When I saw that boy trampled in the street . . .” Wild Bill just shook his head.

“Okay,” Clint said, “I understand.”

“So you'll be with me for as long as it takes?”

“Why not?” Clint asked.

“I appreciate that, Clint,” Hickok said. “You and Charlie Sutter are the only two men I trust to watch my back.”

“Where is Charlie?”

“I ain't sure,” Hickok said. “I was supposed to meet him in Cheyenne, but he hadn't shown when the robbery took place.”

“So when they tell him you took off after the Jenkins gang, he'll come after you, right?”

“I would think so.”

“Maybe he'll catch up to us, and then we'll be three against five.”

“You and me, we can handle them,” Hickok said.

“They any good with guns?”

“They're free with 'em,” Hickok said. “They like usin' 'em, pistols and rifles.”

“But are they any good?”

“They've killed enough men,” Hickok said. “Seems like they can hit what they shoot at. But you and me, we can hit anythin'.”

Clint studied his friend, specifically his eyes. There were some moments in Abilene when Hickok seemed to be having some problems with his eyes. In fact, the night he accidentally shot his deputy, Mike Williams, Clint thought it was because he didn't recognize the man until it was too late.

He almost asked Hickok about the problem, but decided against it. He knew his friend was sensitive on the subject.

“Bill, did you track the men this far?”

“I did,” Hickok said. “They didn't come through town, but I was so close to Rawlins I thought I'd stop, pick up some supplies.”

“That what you got in that burlap sack?”

The sack was hanging from Hickok's saddle horn.

“Yup. When I travel light, I just put a few things in a sack—coffee, jerky—and some extra cartridges in my saddlebag.”

“Makes sense.” It was a practice Clint would use in years to come, Not the only thing he'd ever learned from Wild Bill Hickok.

“We should be able to pick up the trail ahead,” Hickok said. “They swung wide of the town, probably figured the news had already reached here, this close to Cheyenne.”

“How did you know I was in town?” Clint asked.

“I told you,” Hickok said, “you're gettin' pretty well known. I heard a couple of men in the mercantile talkin' about you. Didn't take me long to find out what hotel you were in.”

“And if I hadn't been in town, you would've kept on tracking those boys alone?”

“That's right,” Hickok said. “I'm mad enough to keep trackin' them myself, but when I heard you were in town, I figured I'd ask you for your help.”

“Ask?” Clint said. “Is that what you did?”

“I didn't exactly force you, now, did I?”

“No, you didn't force me,” Clint said. “But the way you told the story, you didn't really give me much of a choice . . . did you?”

* * * 

Ahead of them, the Jenkins gang had camped to split the take from the bank in Cheyenne . . .

Rafe Jenkins took the money out of the bank bags, counted it out, and handed some to his brother, Orville. It was the same amount he'd given to Ben, Charlie, and George.

“That's all?”

“It's what I give the others,” Rafe said. “They didn't squawk.”

“They don't live the way I do,” Orville said.

“That's because they ain't as foolish as you,” Rafe said. “They do what I tell 'em.”

“You ain't but four years older than me, Rafe,” Orville said. “I ain't gotta do what you tell me to do.”

Rafe stood tall and said, “You do as long as I run this gang.”

Orville tried to match his brother, but he couldn't. For one thing, Rafe was two inches taller, and twenty pounds heavier. He finally let his shoulders slump.

“You wanna change things, Orville?” Rafe asked. He looked at the other brothers. “You boys wanna change things? Make Orville the leader?”

“Hell, no,” Ben said. “Orville ain't smart enough to lead us, Rafe.”

“Like you said,” Charlie chimed in. “He's too stubborn.”

Rafe looked at his youngest brother.

“What about you, George?”

“I'm with you, Rafe,” George said. “You know that.”

Rafe looked at Orville again.

“What've you got to say?”

“Nothin',” Orville said. “I ain't sayin' nothin'.”

“Then put that money away and start supper.”

“We stayin' here, Rafe?” Charlie said. “What about a posse?”

“That town ain't gonna raise a posse, not without a lawman to lead it,” Rafe said. “But we'll take turns keepin' watch, just in case. You set it up, Charlie.”

“You gonna watch, too, Rafe?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, “all of us'll take turns.”

“Okay,” Charlie said.

“George, get some wood. We're gonna want to keep the fire goin'.”

“Yes, Rafe.”

“Ben and Orville, you take care of the horses.”

“What're you gonna do?” Orville asked.

“Me? I'm gonna take care of the rest of this money.”

Rafe had put the remainder of the money into one bag. Orville eyed the bag, then turned to go and take care of the horses with his brother Ben.

* * * 

The next few days were tense for the brothers. Rafe insisted on carrying the rest of the money, and calling all the shots. All of his brothers except for Orville were content to let him.

At one point, on the fourth day, Orville sidled up next to Ben.

“This ain't right, you know,” he said.

“What ain't?”

“The way Rafe's hangin' on to all that money.”

“Rafe's the leader, Orville,” Ben said.

“Well, he don't hafta be, ya know.”

Ben looked at Orville.

“If you wanna take over, Orville, you're gonna hafta make that play alone.”

“Come on, Ben,” Orville said. “You and me could take 'im.”

“And then what?” Ben asked. “Kill 'im?”

“No, I don't wanna kill 'im,” Orville said. “He's our brother. I just wanna take over.”

“Not me,” Ben said. “You're gonna have to do that yerself.”

“Fine! Just keep yer mouth shut.”

“I ain't gonna say a word.”

Orville slowed, allowed Ben to ride ahead of him, then rode up to his brother Charlie.

“This ain't right, ya know . . .”

* * * 

Hickok and Clint made camp themselves at the end of the fifth day. Clint took care of the horses while Hickok made the fire and started their supper.

They sat around the fire, eating beans with some beef jerky mixed in, and some coffee. Suddenly, Hickok raised his head and sniffed the air.

“What is it?”

“Bacon,” he said. “I smell bacon.”

“We're not cooking bacon,” Clint said.

“No, we ain't,” Hickok said. “But somebody is. Somebody upwind of us. That means ahead of us.”

“Could be coming from somebody's house.”

“Or another camp.”

“But it doesn't have to be the Jenkins camp.”

“No, it don't,” Hickok said. “But somebody's cookin, and they're ahead of us. If we don't come to a house tomorrow, we'll know it was somebody makin' camp. And maybe we'll find that camp.”

“And maybe something there will tell us if it was the Jenkins gang or not.”

“Maybe.”

“But Bill, the smell of bacon travels a long way.”

“I know.”

Hickok squinted at that point, rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

“Why don't you get some sleep, Bill?” Clint suggested. “I'll stand first watch.”

“Probably ain't nobody comin' up behind us,” Hickok said, “but it won't do no harm to stand watch.”

Clint studied his friend. The usually well-cared-for mustache and long hair were more bedraggled than Clint had ever seen them before. And Hickok's fine clothes were covered by a layer of trail dust. He was wearing his favorite guns, a pair of 1851 Navy Colts.

“I think I'm gonna clean my guns before I turn in,” Hickok said. “What're you wearin' these days?”

“A Colt I modified myself,” Clint said. “It fires double action now, instead of single.”

“Double action?”

“You don't have to cock it before firing,” Clint said, removing his gun from his holster. “You just have to pull the trigger.”

“Can I see that?”

Clint passed his gun over to Hickok, who unloaded it, then checked the action.

“I'll be,” Hickok said. “Sure saves a second or two not havin' to cock it.”

“That's what I figured,” Clint said.

Hickok reloaded the gun and handed it back. Clint holstered it.

Hickok went and sat on his bedroll, took his guns out, broke them apart and cleaned them, and then reassembled them.

Clint made another pot of coffee while he watched Hickok reholster his Colts.

“Want another cup before you turn in?” Clint asked.

“Sure, why not?”

Hickok came back to the fire and Clint poured two cups, handed his friend one.

“You make good trail coffee,” Hickok said. “Good and strong.”

“I figure whatever I don't drink I can always use to clean my gun,” Clint said, laughing.

Hickok finished his cup of coffee, dumped the dregs into the fire, causing it to flare, and laid the cup aside.

“Wake me in four hours,” he said.

“I will,” Clint said, pouring himself another cup.

“Jesus,” Hickok said, lying down on his bedroll, “that coffee might keep me awake all night.”

But in moments he was snoring.