Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (9 page)

THIRTY

Hickok woke Clint in the morning with his foot and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Not as good as yours, but it'll have to do,” he said.

“What's for breakfast?” Clint asked.

“Jerky,” Hickok said, “and you can eat it while we ride. Come on, I want to make up some ground today.”

Clint got up, drank his coffee while Hickok kicked the fire out.

“You think they'll continue to stay away from towns?” Clint asked.

“I hope so,” Hickok said. “I'd like to catch them out in the open, but I doubt it. The brothers like their pleasures. They'll be lookin' to send their money on whiskey and women.”

“Well, if they keep going north, we might find them in Billings or Bozeman,” Clint said.

“If they keep goin' north,” Hickok said. “Come on, let's get the horses and get going.”

* * * 

After a couple of hours, they came to a camp that had not yet gone cold.

“This looks like it,” Hickok said, dismounting. He walked the camp, studying the ground. “I count five different sets of boots.”

In a different part of the camp Clint said, “And five horses.”

They met at the still warm campfire.

“We're about five or six hours behind,” Hickok said.

“How can we be that close?”

“They're in no hurry,” Hickok said. “They killed the law in Cheyenne, so they know there's no posse after them.”

“But they don't know about you.”

“They don't know about us,” Hickok pointed out. “Let's mount up.”

They climbed up on their horses and continued to travel south, following the easy trail the five Jenkins Brothers were leaving.

“They'll be surprised when we catch up to them,” Clint said.

“I hope so,” Hickok said. “Even if they're not expecting a posse, I think they'll still be posting a watch. Just to be on the safe side.”

“I think we can keep them from seeing us coming.”

“If we keep a sharp eye and spot them first.”

It was an opening for Clint to ask Hickok about his eyes, but he didn't take it.

“Don't worry,” he said instead, “I'll spot them first.”

“I'm countin' on you to do it,” Hickok said.

THIRTY-ONE

Clint had been letting Hickok do the tracking, but at one point on the eighth day, he noticed that they had lost the trail.

“Bill—”

“I know,” Hickok said. He reined in and looked at the sky. “I guess you noticed I may be havin' some trouble with my eyes.”

“I suspected . . .”

“And you didn't say anything?”

“Well . . . I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me.”

Hickok looked at his younger friend.

“It ain't fair, I know,” he said. “Before I asked you to come along with me on this hunt, I shoulda told you.”

“Bill, if you tell me you can still hit what you shoot at, I trust you.”

“I'm gonna check with a doctor as soon as we're done,” Hickok said. “Maybe he'll fit me with some spectacles.”

“That should help.”

“But you of all people know what would happen if the word got around.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “gunhands would be coming out of the woodwork to try you.”

“So even if I get glasses, I gotta be careful where I wear 'em.”

“Well,” Clint said, “you can worry about that later. What do you want to do now?”

“We better backtrack until you can pick up the trail that I lost.”

“Fine,” Clint said.

They turned their horses and started back the way they had come . . .

* * * 

They lost about a day on the gang, but eventually Clint picked up their trail again.

“They're going northeast,” Clint said.

“Bozeman, not Billings,” Hickok said.

“I agree,” Clint said. “Unless they're headed for Helena.”

“You know,” Hickok said, “we could double our pace and try to catch up to them, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“I know a shortcut to Helena,” Hickok said. “We could be there waitin' for them.”

“That would catch them off guard,” Clint said. “If they expect anybody, it's from behind, not ahead.”

“If we do that, Charlie won't ever catch up to us in time,” Hickok pointed out.

“I pretty much figured it was us, Bill.”

“Yeah, I know. So whataya say?”

“Let's find that shortcut.”

“You trust me to find it?”

“You're not blind, Bill,” Clint said. “You lead, and I'll follow.”

* * * 

Ten days after they left Rawlins, they reached Bozeman. Smaller than Helena and Billings, Bozeman was larger than Rawlins had been. It was late afternoon and the streets were still busy. Music and loud voices were coming from several saloons.

“Lively town,” Clint said.

“We better check in with the law, tell them what we're doin',” Hickok said.

“There's the sheriff's office right there,” Clint said, pointing.

They tied their horses outside the sheriff's office and entered. Clint was willing to let Hickok do all the talking.

The sheriff, an experienced man in his fifties, listened to what Hickok had to say, then said, “You ain't wearin' badges.”

“That's right,” Hickok said.

“Then you ain't an official posse.”

“No, we ain't,” Hickok said. “I told you, they killed the law in Cheyenne. There ain't no posse.”

“Then there's nothin' I can do for you, Mr. Hickok,” the sheriff said. “I know who you are, of course—and you, Mr. Adams—but if you ain't wearin' badges, I can't help you apprehend this gang.”

“We don't want your help, Sheriff,” Hickok said. “In fact, we'd be obliged if you'd just stay out of the way.”

“Look,” the man said, “this gang—if they really are a gang—ain't wanted in this town, or this county. If you make a move on them, and somebody gets killed, I'm gonna have to lock the two of you up.”

“Maybe you didn't hear what I said,” Hickok replied. “They robbed a bank, killed the law, and killed a kid.”

“So you say,” the sheriff said. “I ain't got any word on such an incident in Cheyenne.”

“Well,” Hickok said, “send a telegram. I'm tellin' you the truth, and if the Jenkins boys ride into your town, we're gonna take 'em.”

“Hickok—”

“And if you ain't gonna help,” Hickok said, “then stay out of the way.”

He turned and stormed out of the office.

“You better calm your friend down,” the sheriff told Clint.

“If I was you, I'd take his advice.”

“What advice is that?”

“Send a telegram to Cheyenne,” Clint said. “You'll get all the information you need.”

“Now look—”

“And one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“If I was you,” Clint said, “I'd do what Bill said and stay out of the way.”

THIRTY-TWO

Clint found Hickok standing outside.

“The man's an idiot.”

“Maybe he'll send that telegram,” Clint said.

“Whether he does or not,” Hickok said, “we're takin' that gang the minute they ride in.”

“If they ride in.”

“I saw a café down the street,” Hickok said. “Let's get somethin' to eat while we're waitin'.”

“Suits me.”

Going against the grain, they got a table in the window so they could watch the street while they ate.

With a steak dinner each in front of them, they watched the street while they chewed. They didn't see the gang ride in, and they didn't see the sheriff leave his office.

“That moron ain't even gonna check with Cheyenne,” Hickok said.

“Like you said,” Clint replied, “we're just going to do what we've got to do, and deal with him later.”

“You can say that again.”

After they finished eating, they decided to take their horses to the livery stable. Whether the gang appeared or not, they were going to have to spend the night.

They chose a hotel, and while Clint took the horses to the livery, Hickok sat on a wooden chair in front of the hotel so he could keep an eye on the street.

Clint returned with both their rifles and saddlebags. He went inside, got two rooms, then stowed their gear in each, and came back down to join Hickok.

“Well,” Clint said, sitting next to his friend, “I guess this is better than tracking them across Wyoming.”

“You said it,” Hickok said. “Sit here and wait for them to just come riding right into our arms.”

“How do you want to play this when they show up?” Clint asked.

“That's easy,” Hickok said. “We take 'em.”

“Yeah, but how?” Clint asked. “Get the drop on them?”

Hickok pointed and said, “No, we take 'em right out there in the street.”

“They could all end up dead, Bill.”

“If they don't give up.”

Neither of them discussed the possibility that it might be them who ended up dead.

That was not an option.

* * * 

They did come.

They still had not seen the sheriff come out of his office, but as dusk came, so did five riders, coming right down the center of the main street.

“Bill,” Clint said.

“I see 'em,” Hickok said. “I ain't blind yet.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“Just sit tight,” Hickok said. “Let's see what they do.”

There was a saloon right across the street. It was not surprising to see the men rein in their horses in front of the place.

* * * 

“One drink,” Rafe Jenkins called out to his brothers, “then we take care of the horses and get some hotel rooms.”

“One drink?” Orville asked. “How about one bottle?”

“Orville, if you ain't gonna do as I say,” Rafe said, “then you ain't goin' into the saloon.”

“You can't stop me from goin' into the saloon, Rafe,” Orville shouted.

“But we can,” Wild Bill Hickok said.

The five brothers turned to see who had spoken. They saw Hickok in the center of the street, recognizable because of his mustache and hair, the brace of Navy Colts he wore. Alongside him was another man they didn't recognize.

“Hickok,” Rafe said.

The Jenkins boys knew Hickok was in Cheyenne when they hit the bank, but it never occurred to Rafe that Wild Bill would take out after them.

“What are you doin' here?” Rafe asked.

“Waitin' for you and your brothers,” Hickok said.

“And who's that with ya?”

“Oh, meet my friend, Clint Adams.”

“Adams,” Rafe said.

“Jeez,” young George said, “it's the Gunsmith, Rafe.”

“I know who he is, George,” Rafe said. “What do you boys want?”

“We're takin' you back to Cheyenne to stand trial,” Hickok said. “You killed a lot of people during the bank robbery, including a young boy.”

“That wasn't our fault,” Orville said. “He got in the way. He shouldn't've been in the street.”

Orville was the one who had ridden the boy down.

“You boys shouldn't've been robbin' the bank,” Hickok said.

“I know who you both are,” Rafe said, “but you're still only two against five, Bill. Why don't you walk away?”

“And why don't you call me Mr. Hickok?” Hickok said. “We ain't friends, so you ain't got the right to call me Bill.”

Clint kept quiet the entire time, but he kept his eyes on Rafe Jenkins. The others would move when he did—except maybe the one called Orville. He seemed to be the wild card in the deck.

“Well, okay, Mr. Hickok, what do we gotta do to make you and your friend go away?”

“We ain't goin' away,” Hickok said. “Drop your guns and come along quiet-like.”

Rafe squinted at Hickok and Clint and then said, “I don't see no badges on you fellas.”

“No badges,” Hickok said, “just guns. It's all we need.”

THIRTY-THREE

“How you wanna do this, Mr. Hickok?” Rafe asked.

“The choice is yours, Jenkins,” Hickok said. “Yours and your brothers. Why don't you give them a vote?”

“I ain't gotta,” Rafe said. “My brothers go along with me.”

“Then we'll do it right here in the street,” Hickok said.

“You ain't got the law on your side, Hickok,” Rafe said. “This ain't right.”

“This is right, Jenkins,” Hickok said. “That's why we're here, to do the right thing, for those people you killed. For that young boy.”

“Jesus, is this about some kid?” Rafe asked.

“This is about justice,” Hickok said.

“Do we get to move away from our horses?” Rafe asked.

“Spread out all you want, Rafe,” Hickok said. “From the looks on the faces of your brothers, you've already lost.”

Rafe smiled, then laughed.

“You ain't gonna get me with that, Hickok,” Rafe said. “I don't gotta look at my brothers to know they're with me. You know why? Because we're brothers.”

“Do it, then,” Hickok said.

Rafe moved away from his horse, under the watchful eye of Clint. As he did, so did his brothers, even Orville, who didn't seem happy.

The brothers moved out into the center of the street, which had emptied out quickly.

Hickok and Clint also moved, and before long, all seven men were in the middle of the street. The five Jenkins Brothers had spread out, putting more than an arm's length between each one.

Hickok and Clint stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder. It didn't matter who took who, because they were both going to fire their guns until they were empty.

* * * 

Across the street a door opened, and the sheriff stepped out to watch the proceedings. Maybe he intended to arrest the survivors, but Clint knew that Wild Bill Hickok had no intention of being arrested for what was about to happen. When the shooting was over, he knew the sheriff had better choose his course of action very carefully.

* * * 

Rafe Jenkins made the first move. If he was the fastest of the brothers, then Clint knew the Jenkins boys were in trouble.

But he wasn't the fastest. For as Rafe's hand went for his gun, Clint saw the young one, George, go for his—and he was fast. It was too bad he had decided to follow his brother's lead.

He was fast, but not fast enough.

Clint drew and shot George first. The boy had cleared leather, but that was it.

Hickok drew both his Colts and began to fire. He put two shots into Rafe Jenkins before the man could draw his gun.

After that, Hickok and Clint's shots melded together, and the rest of the Jenkins boys danced in the streets like marionettes. Then they fell to the ground as if their strings had been cut.

Quickly, Clint and Hickok reloaded, but there was no need.

* * * 

The sheriff stepped into the street and walked over to the five fallen brothers. He checked each body carefully. Then he walked over to Clint and Hickok, who had holstered their guns.

“They're all dead,” the lawman said.

“They called it,” Hickok said.

The sheriff nodded, walked over to the horses, where he found a bank bag tied to one of them. He opened it, took out a stack of money with a bank band on it.

“They all probably have some in their pockets, too,” Hickok said. “We'll need all of it, Sheriff. We're takin' it back to Cheyenne.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is.”

“And how do I know you boys ain't just gonna take it?” the lawman asked. “You aren't wearin' no badges. Am I just supposed to let you ride out with this money?”

“You are,” Hickok said.

“Why?” the sheriff asked.

“Because you can't stop us, Sheriff.”

The sheriff and Hickok glared at each other.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “we rode a long way to catch these men and take that money back where it belongs. It's got blood on it, and I've got no use for that kind of money.”

The sheriff looked at both of them, then turned away, saying, “I better fetch the undertaker . . .”