by Bill Brooks
BILL BROOKS
LAW FOR HIRE:
PROTECTING HICKOK
For Michael Shohl,
who still believes there are books
yet to be written.
Contents
Prologue
Wild Bill was down to just his socks when the…
Chapter 1
His name was Teddy Blue and he was cut from…
Chapter 2
With a worried hand she wrote the letter:
Chapter 3
It had risen from the ashes of a terrible fire…
Chapter 4
Colorado Charley Utter felt fateful the day he met Wild…
Chapter 5
It was near evening and snowing when the train pulled…
Chapter 6
Bill went to see the fortune-teller, Madam Moustache. She had…
Chapter 7
Cheyenne seemed like a cruel place flung up at the…
Chapter 8
“I am the woman who loved Phil Coe,” she said.
Chapter 9
He found her there in the kitchen, the morning light…
Chapter 10
Teddy paused briefly before heading toward town. Kathleen Bonney was…
Chapter 11
Teddy watched the dove take half a dozen more miners…
Chapter 12
Charley rejoined Bill, said, “That young lady knows how to…
Chapter 13
Teddy awoke to the knocking at the door.
Chapter 14
Paris Bass arrived in Abilene on such a blustery day…
Chapter 15
Charley shook Bill by the boots until his eyes popped…
Chapter 16
Temptation comes in its many forms, and Bill wasn’t sure…
Chapter 17
A cardinal, its blaze of red feathers, stood perched on…
Chapter 18
Bill awoke with his eyes aching him fiercely. It took…
Chapter 19
Nearly two months had expired since Paris Bass had left…
Chapter 20
Teddy found Hickok easily enough—he was sitting at a table…
Chapter 21
Two days of domesticity and Charley was feeling as restless…
Chapter 22
Teddy was having coffee alone with his thoughts there in…
Chapter 23
Teddy was in the courtroom when the deputies brought William…
Chapter 24
The bullet whistled through the twilight and struck Charley’s horse…
Chapter 25
They drank until the dice quit rolling, until the roulette…
Chapter 26
Bill was picking out Charley a horse among a corral…
Chapter 27
Jeff Carr thought what a cruel joke it was that…
Chapter 28
Jeff Carr got himself plenty drunk after the funeral. Some…
Chapter 29
Charley went to pick up his and Bill’s mail the…
Chapter 30
It was a hot day, even for the Gulch. Charley…
About the Author
Other Books by Bill Brooks
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Wild Bill was down to just his socks when the commotion started.
“Lord God almighty,” said Squirrel Tooth Alice, who was lying on the bed with a rose between her teeth. One of the thorns pricked her lip, and a drop of blood bright red as a ruby formed upon the small sweet mouth Bill had intended on kissing.
Bill went to the window and looked down onto Main Street, his bare hams pale in the glow of a dozen candles Alice had lighted to set the mood. Bill was her favorite customer, and she only charged him half the going rate because he was the most famous man in all of Kansas, and because he was handsome as a racehorse, and because he was the city marshal.
“It’s a bunch of knothead cowboys shooting off their pistols,” Bill said. “I’ll have to go down and tame them before they kill some innocent.”
“Couldn’t it wait just a little until you and me finished our business, honey?”
“Why, those yahoos could kill half the decent citizens of Abilene in the time it would take us to derive our pleasure, Alice. The town fathers don’t pay me to fornicate.”
Bill tugged on his drawers, then his checkered pants and silk shirt, the whole while half regretting he had taken the job of Abilene’s peace officer because it could be mighty inconvenient at such times. And the pay sure wasn’t up to the standards of a man of his talents or tastes. If it wasn’t for poker games and getting paid two bits each for shooting stray dogs, he’d practically be penniless.
Bill pulled both his revolvers from out of his boots, where he liked to keep them when undressed; otherwise he wore them tied to his waist by a red sash. But he did not deem it necessary to wear the red sash just to go tame a few knothead cowboys.
A stray bullet wanged off the metal sign of the bicycle shop next door and shattered the window glass where Bill had been standing seconds earlier. Alice noticed that Bill never even ducked, or showed any sign of excitement other than his member having deflated when he first looked out and saw trouble brewing on the street.
Bill stomped his feet down inside his boots and threw Alice a forlorn look.
“If it ain’t one damn thing, it’s another,” he said, and went out the door, an ivory-handled pistol in each hand—the Navy Colts given him by the citizens of Hays for cleaning up their town just before they fired him. Even had his name inscribed on the back-straps: J. B. Hickok.
Alice quickly wrapped herself in a midnight-blue silk kimono and rushed to the window. It would prove to be the best seat in the house. She was careful not to step on any of the broken glass that had fallen into the room from the exploded window and cut her pretty feet. She always felt a certain erotic thrill when she saw men fighting or shooting off their guns at one another. She couldn’t explain it, not even to Bill. There was just something about all that masculine violence that got her feeling feverish.
In a few moments she saw Bill stroll out the front door of her bawdy house and stalk across the street toward the rowdy cowboys. They were laughing and firing off their pistols and shoving one another, and some were swearing like they didn’t know how not to. Alice felt her blood ripple with intrigue and figured by the time Bill finished his business with the bunch of yahoos, she’d be about ready to ride him all night. And Bill could take it too. Not like a lot of those young bucks who came swinging in her door wearing their greasy chaps and big hats and crowing like banty roosters about what great lovers they were and how long it had been since they’d been with a woman and how the fairer gals should stand aside so as not to suffer heart attacks. Some of those waddies would barely get it in a gal before they popped off like a cheap firecracker. Some she barely had to get undressed for—just a kiss and a touch often did the trick.
The cowboys as a lot weren’t worth a tinker’s damn as lovers, but they sure were easy money. And as long as she had a lover like Bill to take care of her more womanly nature, there was no need to be niggardly in her attitude toward the cowboys.
Buttery light lay on the street from all the rowdy establishments along Texas Street: saloons and gambling halls and the opera house, bordellos and dope dens. That section of Abilene known as the Devil’s Addition turned into a regular Sodom and Gomorrah once the sun set, which it did every night.
Alice could hear the rinky-tink-tink of a piano being played badly. It had to be the professor—Three Finger Karl, a Dutchman who’d arrived the year previous claiming he’d been a concert pianist in Vienna until he lost a couple of fingers to a jealous ax-wielding
husband of one of his female students.
The town was full up with folks like the professor: gamblers, pimps, drummers, buffalo hunters, cowboys, and charlatans of every ilk. Castouts from regular society: fortune seekers and dreamers. Abilene had become a regular circus, and Alice loved every second of the wicked nights and the loose life she’d chosen.
She saw Bill stroll to within about twenty paces of the collected cowboys. He looked like a prince—in fact, the dime novels written by that drunken hack Ned Buntline had labeled him Prince of the Pistoleers—a nom de plume he abhorred when sober.
“Makes me sound like some sort of prissy fool,” Bill complained on several occasions. “Those cowboys will think I’ve come to kiss them rather than arrest them…”
Bill standing there in the middle of the street with his long cinnamon curls hanging from under his hat to down past his broad shoulders, a pistol in each elegant hand, hardly appeared the nasty foe he could be when riled, aroused, or threatened.
Alice heard his somewhat lilting voice call to the cowboys:
“You fellers not able to read?”
One of them stepped forward, a man taller than Bill and clearly a cowboy by the way he was dressed: dusty Stetson with the front brim pinned back, bib shirt that looked like it was stained with blood and a few other things, and of course those greasy chaps.
The cowboy said, “Read? Why, you some sort of schoolmarm come to teach us?”
“Signs posted either end of town,” Bill said calmly, “says firearms prohibited. You fellers know what that word means—prohibited?”
“Why of course we do, we ain’t some ignorant trash!”
Bill said, “You must be the mouth for this lot.”
“I’m Phil Goddamn Coe, you must know. And what’s it to you?”
Alice could feel that familiar tingling sensation just above her knees, and it was moving upward to that special place Bill liked to call her beaver pelt.
“You don’t check your weapons, Phil Goddamn Coe,” Bill said, “I’ll sure as damn hell show you what’s it to me.”
The cowboys surged a few steps toward Bill, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Then Phil Coe did a stupid thing: he drew his pistol and snapped off a shot in Bill’s direction. Alice felt herself get all squirmy. Bill simply turned his body sideways to his adversary and brought his arm straight out—the Navy Colt aimed like an accusatory finger at the cowboy—and bang! bang! shot him twice through his body.
Even from as far away as she was, Squirrel Tooth Alice could see the dust fly out of the cowboy’s shirt—or what looked like dust but probably was more Phil’s innards along with some bone and blood.
“There’s two pills for you,” Bill said calmly. “Take your medicine Mr. Phil Goddamn Coe.”
It was like Bill had shot them all—for they all fell a step or two backward and watched their leader twist around like a fish dangling at the end of a line, then fall facedown in the street.
“I still got plenty of doctoring left in me, any of you other fellers want an appointment!” Bill said, his voice rising like that of an opera singer. His blood was up, and Alice knew when his blood was up, whether it was because of fornicating or fighting, Bill’s voice could get as high as a girl’s.
A shadow came running up from Bill’s right. He spun and shot the shadow as easily as he had the cowboy, and the shadow dropped like a stone even as the echo of Bill’s pistol carried out onto the prairie.
Then it got so quiet you could almost hear the stars moving around in the night sky.
Bill stood there, arms out wide, a Navy pistol in each hand, the one in his right still curling smoke. The other, he swept back and forth, and the crowd of cowboys shrank into the shadows until there was only Bill and two corpses on the street.
Alice was pretty sure she’d had a screaming meemy.
Bill walked over to the last man he shot and turned him over. He lay nearly directly under Alice’s window.
She saw Bill bend and look closer then stand again, and something seemed to cause him to sag—some invisible weight like the hand of God pressing down on him.
“Oh,” she heard him say. “Oh.”
In a few moments he came into the room. Alice had already removed her kimono in anticipation that Bill would be as ready as she was. But he wasn’t. The lamplight flickered across his face, creating deep shadows and making his nose look longer than it was. Bill sat on the edge of the bed and did not say anything.
Alice said, “Well, they had it coming, Bill. No use to fret. The world is full of cowboys, and the loss of two is hardly a great disaster.”
“No,” Bill said. “Mike didn’t have it coming.”
“Mike?”
“Williams,” he said.
Mike Williams had been Bill’s deputy until a few minutes ago. Now he was a cooling corpse.
“I didn’t know,” Bill said several times. “I didn’t know it was him.”
Alice tried her best to console him, but Bill had lost his lust, and after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, he patted her shoulder and said, “I guess I’ll go to the chink’s,” and stood and left.
The only amusement Alice would find this night was her pet squirrel, Henry. It was hardly what she’d hoped for.
And while Bill went off to the chink’s to dance with the harlot, opium, the late Phil Goddamn Coe did get delivered down in Texas in a fairly ripened state of decomposition, in spite of the ice put inside his lead-lined coffin at every opportunity. From Abilene to anyplace in Texas by wagon was a hell of a long way to go.
And once delivered thus by an unhappy old vaquero who could no longer earn his trade aback a horse, and thus resigned to errands and chores gringos would pay him to do—including the transportation of dead cowboys—a certain woman whose heart lay broke within her bosom took delivery and paid the vaquero fifty dollars upon demand and a handbill.
“Gracias,” said he, feeling now ready for a few drinks in the local saloons of El Paso.
“Oh, Phil. I will avenge you,” said she, “even if it takes all the rest of my life to do it.”
For she was a woman wronged, in her mind—short-changed in the arena of love by one Wild Bill, Prince of the Pistoleers—and far past her prime to find another she loved as much as Mr. Coe.
Chapter 1
His name was Teddy Blue and he was cut from the cloth of wanderer. Born of breeding, his father was a Chicago lawyer and personal friend of the late President Lincoln. His brother had become a captain in the Chicago Police Department on his way up the ladder of success, as they say, until gunned down in a seedy bordello on that city’s South Side. The murder broke a certain resolve in the younger man’s heart. He told his father he was dropping out of law school.
“I forbid it,” the patriarch said. “It’s foolish and uncalled for.”
“I want to go away for a while. Find out who I am, where I belong.”
“You belong here.”
But he was his own man now and they both knew it.
“Finish law school then go find out who you are,” the father urged, for he was a man who had known such feelings in his own youth, had sailed the seas to China and fell in love with a dark-skinned woman in Marrakesh. He understood the urgency of youth, but hoped now that his only surviving son would take the more direct route to his ultimate destiny.
But instead, the boy walked the streets at night feeling lost, angry. He stood outside the house with its many windows and watched his parents move about like shadows within and felt their sense of loss as well. He wasn’t sure where he would go when he went. He half wished the war was still going on so he could join the battle. He stayed aimless throughout the winter, tasted snow on his tongue, got drunk, consorted with the low crowd in the harbor bars, fought and lost his virginity to a woman named Sadie. Then one evening he went on a lark to Nixon’s Amphitheater and saw three of the West’s most famous frontiersmen performing badly—Buffalo Bill Cody, Texas Jack Omohundro, and Wild Bill Hickok�
�and it stirred something deep and primeval in him and he began thinking about the West. By the spring he’d gone to Texas. And by the end of the next summer he’d helped take a thousand longhorn cattle north to Kansas.
The letter of his father’s suicide came General Delivery, at the end of his last cattle drive to Ellsworth, Kansas. He read it and it filled him with a sorrow that surprised him. The news had come too late for him to do much but get pie-eyed drunk with an old saddle tramp named John Sears who had taught him to shoot a pistol well enough to make men cautious of him.
“You going back, or what?” Sears said. They were in copper bathtubs big as small boats, full to sloshing over with soapy water and two fat whores.
“I don’t know,” Teddy said. “I feel like an outlaw.”
“You ain’t done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I went country on ’em, John.”
“Shit, you did what anybody with hot red blood would have done.”
“The old man wanted me to stay and become a lawyer. I already had two years in college.”
John shifted his stogie, spoke around it as one of the fat whores washed his hair then rubbed her big bosoms all around his head.
“Which one?” he said.
“Which one what?”
“Which college did you go to?”
“Harvard.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“I heard of it.”
“You have?”
“Hell, I ain’t ignorant, in spite of what you might think.”
“I never said you were—I just figured you were always out here in this country.”