Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “Well . . . that seems okay. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “you pay for all drinks and meals for as long as I’m talking.”

  “That’s fair, too,” Silvester said. “My publisher will cover it.”

  “Good.”

  The waiter came with their plates and set them down.

  “Anything else, sir?” he asked Clint.

  “No, this is fine. Thanks.”

  The waiter left and Clint cut into his steak. Silvester covered his flapjacks with molasses and cut a huge hunk from the stack.

  “You wanna start talking?” he asked.

  “I’m going to tell you things about Hickok you may not know,” Clint said.

  “That’s good.”

  “They could be things nobody knows,” Clint said. “You’re going to believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “There are a lot of tall tales connected to Hickok, and me, and others.”

  “Like Bat Masterson? Wyatt Earp?”

  “That’s right.”

  “All friends of yours, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Silvester was excited about the book he and Clint would write about the Gunsmith, and all the people he knew. But that would come only after this Hickok book was done.

  Clint poured some more coffee.

  “I’m going to tell you about the first time I saw Hickok.”

  “The first time you met?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What do you mean, kind of?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I was there, I saw what happened, but he didn’t know I was there. At least, he didn’t remember. When I saw him six years later in Hays City, he thought we met buffalo hunting.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him otherwise?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “Let me tell you the story.”

  “All right,” Silvester said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  * * *

  Dawkins watched as Silvester met a man in the lobby of the Denver House Hotel. He didn’t know who the man was. He watched them go into the hotel dining room, made sure they had ordered food and would be there for some time.

  He walked across the lobby to the front desk. Very often the best way to find out something was the easiest way—by asking.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a guest.”

  “Name?”

  “Mark Silvester.”

  “Oh, the writer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, he is staying here,” the clerk said. “He’s writing a book.”

  “Is he in his room now?”

  “No, sir,” the clerk said. “I just saw him go into the dining room with Mr. Adams.”

  “Adams?”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “Clint Adams.”

  Dawkins stared at the man.

  “The Clint Adams?”

  “Well,” the clerk said, looking around, “we’re not supposed to say, but yes, sir.” He lowered his voice. “The Gunsmith.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Dawkins asked. He was really asking himself that question, but the clerk offered an answer.

  “He always stays here when he comes to Denver.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well . . .” Dawkins said.

  “I’m sure you can join them for breakfast if you like,” the clerk said.

  “Yes, well,” Dawkins said, “maybe I’ll check and see if they’re discussing business. I wouldn’t want to interrupt them.”

  “Maybe,” the clerk said, “Mr. Silvester is going to write a book about the Gunsmith.”

  “Yes,” Dawkins said, “maybe . . .”

  NINE

  SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI

  JULY 1865

  When James Butler Hickok mustered out of the Army after the Civil War, he went to Springfield, Missouri, where, for a time in 1862, he had served as a detective on their police force. During the war, he had been a wagon master and, some say, a spy. At the time he got out, he had been working as a scout. When he got to Springfield, all he did was gamble.

  Clint Adams spent most of his time during the war serving under Allan Pinkerton in the Secret Service. Somehow, he mustered out and also ended up in Springfield. At the time, James was already being called “Wild Bill,” although no one seemed to know the reason why. Clint Adams, had not yet grown into his moniker, “The Gunsmith.”

  Not just yet anyway . . .

  * * *

  Davis K. Tutt had served in the Confederacy, but even though the war was over, while he and Hickok played poker in Springfield, bad feelings still festered. About two years earlier, when Hickok was in Springfield, he’d had an affair with one of Tutt’s sisters. A child resulted, and Tutt swore vengeance on Hickok. Although they’d encountered each other during the war—albeit on opposite sides—no violence ever resulted. But the bad feelings were firmly in place by the time Clint Adams rode into Springfield in July.

  Hickok had been there a month, pretty much lying about, playing poker and not doing anything else, except maybe some trick shooting for wagers.

  Clint was doing his drinking in an entirely different saloon than Tutt and Hickok, which was why he didn’t cross paths with them during his first week in town.

  * * *

  The blond girl’s name was Kathy McCoy. Clint had met her while she was working in her daddy’s mercantile. That first afternoon she snuck out from work and met him in a nearby barn, where they became acquainted on a huge mound of hay.

  Now they were in his hotel room, and he was peeling her cotton dress off her pale-skinned body. Her breasts were small mounds tipped with pink nipples. He sucked them into his mouth so hard he almost took the whole breast.

  She giggled, rubbed her little tits in his face as he pulled the dress all the way down to the floor. He filled his hands with her taut butt cheeks, lifted her, and carried her to his bed.

  “I ain’t been with many boys before, Clint,” the eighteen-year-old said to him.

  “Well, you’re not with a boy now, Miss Kathy,” Clint said. “You’re with a man.”

  She pushed herself into a seated position and unbuttoned his trousers, which then dropped to the floor. He’d removed his boots a while ago, and now his drawers followed to the floor. He kicked them away and was naked, his cock standing out and demanding attention.

  “You killed men in the war, Clint?”

  “I did,” he said.

  She ran her fingernails over his chest and belly.

  “I ain’t never been with a man who killed other men,” she said.

  As boastful as any young man then, Clint said. “I killed men before the war, too.”

  “What’s it like? she asked.

  “What’s what like?”

  “Killin’ a man?”

  He studied her pretty face for a moment, the wide blue eyes and full red lips.

  “It’s not something you forget,” he said.

  “No matter how many you killed?”

  “No matter.”

  “Even in the war?”

  “In a war, you don’t always see the faces of the men you kill,” Clint said. “They’re off in the distance.”

  She looked down at his cock, then took it in her hands.

  “I’m sure glad your tallywacker ain’t off in the distance.”

  He laughed and said, “My tallywacker is very glad to be in your hands, Miss Kathy.”

  “How about my mouth?” she asked, giving him a lascivious look with those beautiful eyes.

  “You ever done th
at before?” he asked.

  “I ain’t never Frenched no boy,” she said, petting his cock, “but you’re so pretty, I just want to.”

  “Well then, you go ahead, girl,” he said. “Have at it.”

  He’d had some girls do that to him during the war, but they were professionals. Once he got out of the war, he swore he’d have no more whores, not ever. He only wanted to be with girls, or women, who wanted to be with him.

  Like this one. She wanted him, and he wanted her just as bad.

  TEN

  James Butler Hickok’s poke had been whittled down to nothing. He was a good poker player, but a good poker player can do just so much with bad cards. And he had been getting bad cards for days.

  But while he was technically a good poker player, like most gamblers he didn’t know when to quit. He could have laid off, stopped playing for a while, and waited out the bad luck, but he kept pushing and pushing, and now he was down to . . .

  “This watch,” he said, showing it to Dave Tutt, his opponent in the hand.

  “Lemme see,” Tutt said.

  Hickok handed the watch across the table to Tutt, who examined it.

  “You accept the wager?” Hickok asked.

  “Sure, Bill,” Tutt said, handing the watch back, “I’ll accept the wager.”

  “Then you’re called, Dave Tutt,” Hickok said, setting the watch in the center of the table.

  * * *

  Kathy leaned forward carefully, kissed the swollen tip of Clint’s penis. It was warm against her lips. She kissed it again, then stuck her tongue out to lick it. She leaned forward, pressed the hard column of flesh against her cheeks. She nuzzled him for a while, then, with a deep breath, opened her mouth and took him inside.

  Her mouth was hot and wet, and Clint fought the urge to spurt immediately. She began to suck him then, moving her head back and forth, sliding his cock wetly in and out of her mouth.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned as she suckled him.

  He reached down and put his hand on the back of her head, left it there while she continued to work on him.

  Finally, she released him and said, “Is that as almighty pleasant for you as it is for me?”

  “More, girl,” he said, “much more. Now you get up on that bed and spread those pretty legs for me.”

  Giggling, she flopped onto her back on the bed and did as he asked, spreading her legs wide.

  Clint got on the bed with her. His intention was to poke her right away, but when he caught sight of that pale pubic patch of hair, he had the urge to bury his face in there.

  Some of the whores had offered to let him “eat” them, but he had never tried it. This girl, however, was so lovely, and he could see the wetness nestled in there, her own juices.

  He went without any tentativeness. The hair was light and feathery, and when he delved into it with his tongue, the taste of her was both sweet and tart. As he licked her and she became wetter and wetter, her scent filled his nostrils, and he realized that sex could be about all the senses.

  He slid his hands beneath her to cup her neat buttocks and lift her off the mattress a bit so he could get at her even more. She gasped and moaned and thrashed beneath him and then suddenly he felt her body go as taut as a bow—and then she exploded beneath him, almost screaming.

  Before she could settle down, he mounted her and thrust himself into her, and she gasped, her eyes going wide, and clutched him to her as her body was again wracked by spasms of pleasure. He continued to hammer in and out of her until his own explosion came, and he erupted into her in painful spurts . . .

  * * *

  Across the street, Wild Bill Hickok spread his cards on the table with hope that his luck had changed, but his hopes were quickly dashed when Dave Tutt spread a bigger full house on the table.

  “Sorry, Bill,” Tutt said, raking in the pot, which included Bill’s watch.

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Hickok said, pushing his chair back. “Good luck to you, gents.”

  He walked away from the poker table, his back stiff, as he tried to control the unreasoning anger he felt. At the bar he said to the bartender, “Beer.”

  “Comin’ up, Bill.”

  As the bartender put the beer down in front of him, Hickok grabbed his wrist and asked, “Are we friends?”

  “Uh,” the bartender said, blinking, wondering what the proper answer was. “Uh, no, Bill.”

  “That’s right,” Hickok said. “So why the hell are you callin’ me Bill? Only my friends call me Bill.”

  “Uh, s-sorry, M-Mr. Hickok.”

  Hickok released the man’s wrist and the bartender quickly scurried down to the other end of the bar. In all the time Hickok had been playing poker there over the last month, he’d never been so disturbed over losing.

  ELEVEN

  “Where are you goin’?” Kathy asked Clint as he got dressed.

  “I need a drink,” he said. “You drained me dry that time.”

  “Well,” she said, rolling onto her stomach, “when are you comin’ back?”

  He looked at her, lying there on her tummy with her feet in the air, admired the line of her back as it led down to her butt. He felt a bit of a twitch in his crotch then, but he really did have a craving for a beer.

  “I won’t be long,” he told her.

  She rolled onto her back then, her little tits poking up at the ceiling, and said, “Then I’ll wait.”

  “Okay,” he said, “that’s a good idea.”

  She giggled and folded her arms over her breasts.

  “Don’t take too long,” she said, “or I might start without you.”

  The thought of that almost made him drop his pants again, but he hurried out of the room before that could happen.

  * * *

  Instead of going to the saloon he had been patronizing since his arrival in town, he simply stopped at the one closest to his hotel. It was the one where Hickok and Tutt were playing, in the Old Southern Hotel on South Street, just a block from the public square.

  As he entered, he saw one table with a poker game in process, but really no other gambling going on. Still, the other tables were full, and the bar was busy.

  He made room for himself at the bar and said to the bartender, “Beer.”

  “Yessir.”

  For some reason the bartender seemed nervous when he brought him his beer.

  “Your hand is shaking,” Clint observed.

  “Yessir,” the man said. “It’s Bill Hickok.”

  “Wild Bill Hickok?”

  “Yessir. He’s been losing at poker, and he’s in a foul mood. And he’s drinkin’.”

  “Where is he?” Clint asked.

  “Look down the bar, feller with the long hair and mustache.”

  Clint looked and saw a morose-looking Wild Bill Hickok.

  “Maybe you should introduce yerself,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah, he’d want to meet me,” Clint said. “Or maybe you just want somebody to take his mind off you?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” the bartender muttered. “Not really.”

  “I’ll stay right here and drink my beer, thank you,” Clint said.

  “Suit yerself.”

  The bartender moved on but didn’t go anywhere near Hickok.

  * * *

  Losing was not the thing that was bothering Hickok. Losing his prized Waltham watch was what ailed him. Also, the fact that Tutt was seeing Susannah Moore, who had been waiting for Hickok to return from the war to resume their relationship. But a recent argument had apparently driven her into Dave’s arms. In retaliation, Hickok had taken up with another one of Dave Tutt’s sisters. The bad feeling between the two men was festering, and now Tutt had Hickok’s watch.

 
But not for long.

  Hickok finished his beer, and decided to rejoin the game.

  * * *

  As Clint watched, Hickok walked over to the poker table and sat down. Unknown to him, Wild Bill had a stash of cash inside his jacket, which he had determined was not for poker. But the situation dictated a change of tactics.

  All Clint knew was that Hickok laid some cash on the table and said, “Deal me in!”

  “Good to have you back, Bill,” Tutt said.

  “I’m gonna win back my watch,” Hickok said.

  “You’re welcome to try,” Tutt said.

  Clint called the bartender over.

  “What’s this about a watch?”

  “That feller is Dave Tutt,” the bartender said. “He won a hand that included Hickok’s watch.”

  “And Hickok wants it back.”

  “I suppose,” the bartender said, “I’m just glad he left my bar and went back to the game.”

  “I’ll have another beer,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up, mister.”

  With his new beer in hand, Clint turned and leaned against the bar to watch the proceedings at the table, promptly forgetting about the girl in his bed.

  TWELVE

  Hickok’s luck changed.

  He started to win, but he was taking money from everybody at the table except Dave Tutt. Before long, he was a hundred dollars ahead, but his watch was still sitting in front of Tutt.

  And to rub salt into the wound, Tutt began loaning money to other players at the table, so they could continue to play against Hickok. Hickok was sure Tutt was trying to get his goat, but he was determined that would not be the case. At least when he was beating everyone else, he was taking some of Tutt’s loaned money.

  * * *

  “Tutt’s really rubbin’ it in,” a man standing next to Clint said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s not only loaning money to the other players, but he’s keeping Bill’s watch right out in view. He ain’t got no intention of putting it into the pot.”

  “Why would he provoke a man like Hickok?”

  “Tutt ain’t afraid of Hickok. They got a history.”

  The man went on to explain to Clint about the women, and went on to add that Hickok had also killed a friend of Tutt’s at some time in the past.