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
SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI
JULY 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.”
&
nbsp; 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.”
EIGHTEEN
Clint left the jail and went back to his hotel. He needed a bath and a change of clothes. He told the clerk to get the bath ready, went up to his room to collect the clothes, then went back down.
He soaked in the tub for a while, getting the smell of the jail cell off his body, then got dressed and strapped on his gun. He went back to his room to leave the dirty clothes, but when he got there, he saw that the door was ajar. He tucked the clothes under his left arm, drew his gun with his right, and opened the door with his foot.
“The clerk said you were in the bath,” the woman said. “I thought I’d wait here.”
“Why leave the door ajar?”
“I wanted to warn you,” she said. “I didn’t want you to come in with your gun blazing.”
Clint closed the door, dropped the bundle of clothes on a chair, and holstered the gun. Then he looked at the woman.
Her name was Katherine McCoy, and she was Kathy’s mother. Clint figured her to be about thirty-eight, and if she was any indication, Kathy was going to be even more beautiful when she got older.
“Mrs. McCoy, you shouldn’t be here—”
“Come on, Clint,” she said, “you think I don’t know that you bring my daughter here?”
“How long have you known?”
“Since the day she came home with straw in her hair.”
“Oh, that.”
Katherine was sitting on the bed, and now she scooted back and drew her legs up so that her skirt fell away to reveal them.
“Do you think my daughter is beautiful, Clint?”
“Well, yeah, I do—”
“And me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“Mrs. McCoy—”
“Katherine,” she said. “Call me Katherine.”
“Katherine,” Clint said, “I’m pretty sure you know you’re a beautiful woman.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I’d like to know that a younger man still thinks I’m beautiful.”
“I think you’re very beautiful.”
“And I think you’re a very handsome young man,” she said. “Why don’t you come over here and sit beside me?’
Clint wanted to protest, wanted to put her out of his room, but she actually was very beautiful, and suddenly he was thinking about only one thing.
He sat next to her, but before she could say a word, he kissed her.
“Oh,” she said, pulling her head back to look at him. For a moment he thought she was going to protest, but suddenly she appeared to decide to stop playing games. She kissed him, hard, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, and then they were rolling about on the bed, pulling each other’s clothes off.
Mother and daughter had the same pale skin, the same downy pubic patch, but Katherine had more womanly curves than Kathy did. Her breasts and hips and butt were larger, they filled his hands—and on top of that, she was much more experienced.
She got Clint onto his back and swooped down onto his cock with her mouth. While Kathy was tentative, sucking him for the first time, Katherine had obviously done this before.
“Oh God,” she said, “look at this young, hard cock.” She sucked him all the way in, then let him slide wetly free. “And you are so sweet!”
She went back to sucking him . . .
* * *
“Why don’t you just give him back the watch?” Susannah Moore said to Dave Tutt.
“I won it fair and square.”
They were seated in the kitchen of her house, eating a lunch she had prepared for them.
“He puts a lot of store in that watch,” she said.
“I know he does.”
She stared at him across the table.
“And that’s why you’re keeping it, right? To upset him?”
“Look,” Tutt said, “he’s the one who threw it into the pot.”
“This is going to end badly, Dave,” she said.
“If it ends badly,” Tutt told her, “it won’t be about the watch, it’ll be about you.”
“I don’t want any fighting about me, Dave Tutt,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Susannah,” Tutt said. “Don’t worry.”
NINETEEN
Clint let Katherine ooh and ahhh and suck his cock until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and before he could ejaculate into her mouth, he pulled her off.
“What are you doing, you sweet boy?” she asked. “Is this what you do with my daughter?”
“I don’t want to talk about your daughter,” he growled. He flipped her onto her back and buried his face in her bush. God, she even smelled and tasted like her daughter.
This was the first time Clint had been with a mother and a daughter, and he found it exciting. Especially since Kathy could have shown up at any moment and knocked on the door. He wondered what Katherine would do if that happened. Hide under the bed? Go out the window? What if her husband—Kathy’s father—had been in the hall, knocking on the door? Then he’d have to go out the window.
He worked her into a frenzy with his mouth, lips, and tongue, then mounted her. Mother and daughter had probably never discussed being with a man, but apparently they liked to do the same things.
Clint liked them, too.
* * *
Later they lay together on the bed, her head on his shoulder.
“Have you been with many women older than you?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Many married women?”
“Not many,” he said. “I try not to.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“Well,” he said, “what am I supposed to do now?”
“About what?”
“About Kathy.”
“Oh, you can go on seeing Kathy. I’m not looking to get between you two.”
He looked down at her; she looked up at him.
“Then what was this about?”
�
��I told you,” she said, “a woman needs to be told sometimes that she’s still beautiful, and still desirable.”
“Your husband doesn’t tell you that?”
“Oh no,” she said. “He doesn’t tell me, and he doesn’t touch me.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not interested.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
He kissed her then, tenderly.
“Well,” she said, patting his stomach, “I better get going.”
“So soon?”
“I forgot how soon a young man revives,” she said.
“I don’t think you’d have any trouble keeping up with me.”
“Well,” she said, “my husband may not want to make love to me, or tell me I’m beautiful, but he will wonder where I am.”
“And where does he think you are?”
“Dress shopping.”
She stood up and he watched as she got dressed. It was something he would enjoy for years to come, watching women get dressed. After . . .
She walked to the bed fully dressed, leaned over, and kissed him.
“Keep treating my Kathy well,” she said. “There’s no reason she needs to know about this.”
“I agree.”
“Good-bye, Clint.”
He watched her walk out the door, wondered when he’d get the chance to do something like that again.
* * *
Hickok was sitting at a table in the Old Southern, drinking and stewing about Dave Tutt, and his watch.
“Bill?” somebody asked. “You wanna play some poker?”
Hickok looked up, then over at the table that was being set up for a game. He looked at the players, knew they’d be no competition for him.
“Not interested.”
“Not interested . . . in poker?” the man asked.
“You heard what I said, didn’t you?”
“Sure, Bill, sure,” the man said. “Sorry to bother you.”
The man walked back to the table, shaking his head and telling the men what Hickok had said. They were all aghast. When had Wild Bill Hickok ever turned down a game of poker?
Something must have really been bothering him.
Hickok was thinking about the watch, but then he started thinking about Susannah Moore.
“Walt,” he yelled, “another beer.”
“Comin’ up . . . Mr. Hickok,” the bartender said.
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 5