Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “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 . . .”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  DENVER, COLORADO

  THE PRESENT

  Mark Silvester looked up from his notes as he realized Clint Adams had stopped speaking.

  “So he let you take the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought it back to Cheyenne?”

  “Of course,” Clint said. “Mark, this was all about Bill’s sense of justice.”

  “For the people of Cheyenne?”

  “For the depositors of that bank, for the relatives of the people who were killed, and for that young boy.”

  “The young boy,” Silvester said. “I never realized Wild Bill Hickok was that sentimental.”

  “It had nothing to do with sentiment,” Clint said. “Weren’t you listening? It had to do with justice.”

  Silvester looked around, then closed his notebook.

  “You have more stories, of course,” he said.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I do, but that’s it for now.”

  “But . . . we’ve only just begun.”

  “We can get back to it later,” Clint said. “I understand Sam Clemens is in town and I want to see him.”

  “Mark Twain?” Silvester said. “You know Mark Twain?”

  “Yes, we’re friends.”

  Silvester jumped to his feet.

  “May I come with
you?”

  “For what?”

  “Why, to meet him.”

  “What would you say to him?” Clint asked.

  “That he’s a genius,” Silvester said. “That I have enjoyed all his work.”

  “He’d probably appreciate that,” Clint said.

  “You mean, coming from another writer?”

  “I mean coming from anyone,” Clint said. “All right, come along.”

  * * *

  That night Dawkins watched the woman named Carla get dressed. He was lying naked on his bed.

  “So let me get this straight,” she said, brushing her hair while looking in his mirror.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Clint Adams is in town,” she said. “The Gunsmith. And you want me to find out what he’s doing here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we’re working for a man from New York named John Wells?”

  “Right again.”

  “Jeff,” she said, looking at him in the mirror, “do we know who this man is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do we know?”

  “That he has money to spend. Lots of it.”

  “And he wants you to find out why the Gunsmith is in Denver?”

  “No,” Dawkins said, “he doesn’t care about the Gunsmith.” He lay back on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and looked down, admiring his own flat stomach. “He’s concerned with the writer, Silvester.”

  “The writer who is interviewing the Gunsmith.”

  “Who is apparently interviewing the Gunsmith,” Dawkins said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  She finished with her hair, stood, straightened her dress, looked at herself critically n the mirror, then walked to the bed and sat next to him.

  “Why don’t you take that dress off?” he suggested.

  “I just put it back on.”

  He glanced down at the sheet that covered his groin, and the tent pole that was sticking up. She smiled, took hold of his penis through the tent, and stroked it.

  “You’re not done,” she said.

  “Not by a long shot.”

  She sighed.

  “I’m not taking my dress off again,” she said, “but . . .”

  She removed the sheet from his hard cock, stroked it with her hand, then leaned over and took it into her mouth. Dawkins closed his eyes and enjoyed it while she sucked him . . .

  * * *

  Later, she put the finishing touches to her face, once again examining herself in the mirror.

  “Where do I find him?”

  “The Denver House Hotel.”

  “He has good taste.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  “Flatterer,” she said, moving away from the mirror. She did not approach the bed again. “You’re covering the expenses, right?”

  “Right. Come over here,” he said.

  “No,” she said, “I’m safer over here.” She picked up her handbag. “How far do you want me to go to get the information?”

  “You’re a professional,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

  She reached into her bag and took out a small .32 caliber revolver.

  “Think I’ll need this?”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t want you to kill him, just find out what he’s doing here.”

  She put the gun back and said, “All right.”

  “Just keep me informed on your progress,” he said.

  “What will you tell Mr. Wells?”

  “That I’m making progress.”

  “And will you tell him about me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, all right,” she said, walking to the door. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “Do that.”

  She went out the door and he got out of the bed, looked down at his well-toned naked body. His penis was at half-mast. That wasn’t good, since Carla was gone. He decided to go and take a bath.

  A cold one.

  * * *

  Carla caught a cab in front of Jeff Dawkins’s building, gave the driver her home address. She had to pack a bag—one bag—to take with her to the Denver House Hotel. She’d get settled in her room, and then find a way to meet the Gunsmith. If everything she had heard about him was true, that wouldn’t be at all difficult.

  She was pleasantly fatigued from the sex with Dawkins, but found herself very curious about Clint Adams, wondering what she’d have to do with him—to him—to get him to talk to her.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Samuel Clemens—or Mark Twain—was in town only for the one day, making a presentation at the university. Afterward, he met Clint for dinner, and Clint brought Mark Silvester along.

  Twain and Silvester talked all through the meal—well, actually, they argued, as they each had different opinions on what the most valuable works of literature were over the past few years. The only one they agreed on was Twain’s Tom Sawyer.

  They said good-bye to Twain in front of the restaurant, and then Twain caught a cab to the train station. Clint and Silvester took a cab back to the Denver House Hotel.

  “I can’t thank you enough for taking me along, Mr. Adams,” the young writer said. “That was the thrill of my life.”

  “Even though the two of you argued for most of the time we were together?”

  “Oh, that,” Silvester said. “Well, I do tend to have . . . strong opinions.”

  “And so does Twain. He liked you.”

  “Really? You really think so?”

  “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have argued—”

  “Debated.”

  “—debated with you.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  The cab stopped in front of the hotel, and they got out.

  “Where can we talk now?” Silvester asked.

  “Um, I was thinking about having a drink and then going to my room to read before turning in.”

  “B-But . . . you have lots more stories to tell, right?”

  “I have more,” Clint admitted, “but we have plenty of time.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Silvester said. “I mean, I have plenty of time before my deadline. My publisher has given me a lot of time to get this book right.”

  “That’s good,” Clint said. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “For breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you, uh, going to the bar now?”

  “I am.”

  “I could use a drink,” Silvester said. “I mean, before I go back to my hotel.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One drink.”

  “Oh, sure,” Silvester said. “One drink.”

  * * *

  Carla thought that the likeliest place to meet Clint Adams would either be in the hotel dining room, or the bar. Since it was late, after dinnertime, she decided to go to the bar and have a drink.

  While she was sitting there alone, she was approached by four different men who wanted to join her, buy her a drink. She turned them all away.

  Dawkins had described Clint Adams to her, which was why she noticed him as soon as he came into the room. And he had a younger man with him, who she assumed was the young New York writer.

  She finished her brandy, hoping that the Gunsmith would notice her empty glass.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint and Silvester sat a table at the far end of the crowded room, but Clint still noticed the woman sitting with an empty glass.

  When the waiter came over and took their order, Clint said, “And bring that lady whatever she was drinking.”


  The waiter turned and looked to where he was pointing.

  “She’s drinking brandy,” the waiter, “but take my advice and save yourself some trouble.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s already rejected four men,” he said, “and coldly.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “maybe the fifth time will be the charm.”

  The waiter shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. You want me to tell her who sent the drink?”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “No, let’s leave her guessing.”

  The waiter smiled and said, “That’s nice,” approvingly, and walked away.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell her who bought the drink?” Silvester asked.

  “Because she’s already turned away four men,” Clint said. “This will make her curious about number five.”

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “Yes, she is,” Clint said. “That’s why after your drink, you’re going to get lost.”

  “Huh? Why—oh, I get it.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “I knew a big-time New York writer like you wouldn’t need me to spell it out.”

  * * *

  The waiter came along and set down their drinks, then went over to the woman and put her drink down in front of her. While Clint watched, she frowned up at the waiter and asked him a question. The waiter shook his head, said something, and walked away.

  “She’s curious,” Silvester said. “It worked.”

  “Yeah, it worked,” Clint said. “Drink up.”

  Silvester drank his beer down, and stood up.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “I’ll meet you down here for breakfast in the morning.”

  “Early?”

  Clint looked past him at the woman and said, “Maybe not too early.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” Silvester said. “How about nine o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  Silvester nodded, and then left.

  * * *

  Carla knew the drink had come from the Gunsmith. She had already turned away four suitors in plain sight of everyone, so who else would try? She watched as the young writer left, and Clint looked over at her. She could have raised the glass to him, letting him know she knew it was from him, but she decided to play dumb.