He finally stood up and walked over to her.
“Ready for another?” he asked.
“Was this one from you?”
“It was.”
“I was wondering,” she said. “The waiter wouldn’t tell me.”
“I asked him not to.”
“Why not?”
“I was trying to be clever.”
“Ah,” she said, “you wanted me to be curious.”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she said, “everyone is watching to see if I’m going to let you sit down.”
“Are you?”
She studied him for a few moments, then said, “Yes. Please, have a seat.”
He sat across from her. Up close, he could see her eyes were hazel, her nose was straight, her lips were full, and her auburn hair was pinned up. She was wearing a dress that made it clear that she had proud breasts—or breasts to be proud of. Whichever way you wanted to look at it.
The waiter came over and Clint said, “Same again.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said with respect.
“You are now a hero in this place,” she said.
“To you?”
“To them.”
“I’d rather it be with you.”
“Well,” she said, “you never know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“My name is Clint Adams.”
“Carla,” she said. “Mercer.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Mercer.”
“You’re buying me a second drink,” she said. “You can call me Carla.”
“Well,” he said, “you haven’t bought me anything, but you can call me Clint.”
“Here comes the waiter,” she said.
They had drinks, talked awhile as the place started to empty out.
Finally she asked, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“No,” he said, “go ahead.”
“Your name is familiar to me,” she said. “Clint Adams. Are you the man they call . . . the Gunsmith?”
“I am.”
“Well . . . you’re famous.”
“Fame isn’t all it’s made out to be,” he said.
“Really? You don’t like being famous?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“It makes some people want to try to kill me.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Carla did not want to seem too easy, so she did not go back to Clint’s room with him that night. She did, however, allow him to walk her to her door and kiss her good night.
“Thank you for the drinks,” she said. “And the conversation.”
“Thank you for making me a hero,” he said.
She used her key to unlock her door, then turned and said, “Why don’t we have breakfast together tomorrow morning?”
“I’m sort of committed for breakfast,” he said. “What about lunch? I know a nice place.”
“All right,” she said. “Lunch.”
“I’ll knock on your door at noon.”
“Why don’t I just meet you in the lobby?” she asked.
“All right,” he said. “The lobby at noon.”
She kissed him again, a lingering kiss, then went into her room.
He heard her lock the door.
* * *
Carla made herself comfortable in her room, satisfied that she had made good, strong contact with the Gunsmith. He’d be sniffing around her now as long as she wanted him to. She’d be able to get the information Dawkins wanted easily, but she was also going to satisfy her own curiosity at the same time.
* * *
Clint went to his own room on the floor above, undressed, and got into bed with a Mark Twain book. He liked Carla Mercer, found her beautiful, and liked the way her kisses tasted.
He was also suspicious. He had some questions to ask the saloon staff the next day.
* * *
Dawkins met Wells that night, in the same saloon they’d been using.
“How’s it going?” Wells asked.
“I’m making progress,” Dawkins said.
“What kind of progress?”
“Adams and the writer spent a lot of time together today.”
“Doing what?”
“Well, first, having breakfast,” Dawkins said. “And then in the park.”
“In the park?”
“Talking.”
“So is Silvester interviewing the Gunsmith?” Wells asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out for you, Wells,” Dawkins said. “You want a drink?”
“Just one,” Wells said. “Then I’m going to turn in.”
Dawkins waved over a waiter.
* * *
Mark Silvester made his way to his hotel, a small, cheap establishment a few blocks from the Denver House. The neighborhood changed quite a bit in just those few blocks.
The Mayberry Hotel was just about what he could afford for this trip.
He entered his room and put his notebooks down on the rickety desk. He sat on the bed, which squeaked beneath him. He hadn’t expected to meet Mark Twain that day. That was an added bonus to what he was in town to do.
He got up and walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, which was empty except for the gun. He took it out, held it, looked at it, then put it back in the drawer. Not yet. Not just yet.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Clint came down to breakfast the next day, wishing he were meeting Carla Mercer and not the writer, Silvester.
As he entered the dining room, he saw Silvester sitting at the same table as the day before. Good for him, Clint thought.
He walked over and sat across from the young man.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You look tired.”
“I’m not sleeping real well,” Silvester said. “Otherwise I’m fine.”
“If you say so.”
The waiter came over and they ordered the same thing they’d had the day before. Clint poured himself a cup of coffee, then poured one for the kid. He had no way of knowing that Silvester hadn’t been able to sleep because of his squeaking mattress.
Silvester took out his notebooks and sorted through them, found the one he wanted, and put the others away. He sipped some coffee, then looked at Clint.
“What do you want to talk about today?” the writer asked.
“I gave that a lot of thought,” Clint said. “How about New York?”
“New York?” Silvester said. “That’s where I’m from.”
“I understand that.”
“No matter how many times you’ve been there,” the writer said, “there’s nothing you could tell me that I don’t know.”
“I could tell you about Hickok joining Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show in New York in eighteen seventy-four,” Clint said. “How old were you in eighteen seventy-four, Mark?”
“I, uh, was a kid.”
“Do you remember Hickok being with Buffalo Bill?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He traveled the East Coast with Cody,” Clint said. “They played New York, Philadelphia, Boston, they went to Maine . . .”
“How did Hickok do?”
“Well,” Clint said, “being onstage really wasn’t Bill’s thing, you understand. But he did his best . . .”
THIRTY-NINE
NEW YORK CITY: MANHATTAN
1874
Clint Adams sat in the audience and watched as Bill Hickok painfully delivered his lines. On top of his stilted speech, someone had put too much makeup on Hickok’s face, so he looked something like a clown. Of course, nobody dared mention it, or laug
h at him, not even Cody.
Hickok had invited Clint to New York to see his stage debut with Cody, and Clint was wishing he hadn’t accepted the invitation. Because when this was over, Hickok was going to ask him how he did. And up to now, Clint Adams had never told Wild Bill Hickok a lie.
“This is awful,” the girl sitting next to Clint said.
He had noticed her in the lobby, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she was sitting next to him.
“Shhh,” he said to her, “don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” she said, leaning closer to Clint so he could smell her, “but . . . he looks like a clown, doesn’t he?”
“They’ll just have to fix his makeup next time.”
She put her hand around his arm and leaned even closer.
“It’ll take more than that,” she said.
She was blond, under thirty, with pale, translucent skin, beautiful blue eyes, and a face that would have been perfect except for a couple of crooked teeth. Instead of spoiling the perfection, though, it made her even more attractive—to him anyway.
“He needs help delivering his lines,” she said.
“Are you an actress?” he asked.
“Actually, I am,” she said. “I’ve come to New York to try to get into a show.”
“Have you had any luck?”
“Not yet,” she said. “When I heard Buffalo Bill Cody was here with Wild Bill Hickok, I thought I’d come and see.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’m sure Bill will get better.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, I do,” Clint said. “He’s a good friend of mine. So is Cody.”
“Well,” she said, tightening her hold on his arm, “I guess that must mean you’re somebody, too.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, don’t be modest—”
Someone behind them shushed them and the girl leaned back into her seat.
The show was nearing its end when Clint noticed that Hickok was in some sort of distress. He was squinting, and trying to shield his eyes from the lights that were being beamed down from the rafters.
Finally, Bill pointed up and yelled, “Turn that blasted thing off! It’s blindin’ me.”
When the spotlight operator did not turn it off, Hickok drew one of his pistols and put the light out with one shot.
The audience reacted with gasps and screams, but no one vacated their seats. They would all tell their children they were there the night Wild Bill Hickok shot out the spotlight.
“And get me some whiskey,” Hickok shouted. “I ain’t drinkin’ this damned cold tea! It’s real whiskey or nothin’!”
The girl leaned into Clint again and said, “I’ve got to give him credit. He knows how to steal the spotlight.”
“Or shoot it out,” Clint said.
FORTY
After the show, Clint brought the girl backstage with him. Her name was Hannah, and she was eager to meet Cody, and Wild Bill Hickok, who—even if he was a bad actor—was a legend of the Old West.
There was a crowd backstage, but both Cody and Hickok stood out because of their flamboyance. Both had long hair and well-cared-for mustaches. Hickok appeared to have wiped the makeup off his face. Cody looked to still have his on, but it was more subdued than Hickok’s was.
Clint made his way through the crowd until he reached Cody.
“Clint!” Cody exclaimed. He grabbed him by the shoulders and embraced him. “You made it!”
“I wouldn’t have missed Bill’s debut, Cody. This is my friend, Hannah . . .”
“Wilson,” Hannah supplied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet such a lovely young lady,” Cody said. “What did you think of the show?”
“I think Wild Bill needs some help,” Hannah said.
Cody raised his eyebrows and looked at Clint.
“Hannah is an actress.”
“Is she now?”
“Oh, yes,” Hannah said. “I don’t mean to be insulting, but he didn’t seem to be very well prepared, did he?”
Cody looked around to see who might be listening. There was no much commotion that his conversation with Clint and Hannah was going unheard. He reached out, took hold of her arm, and walked her over to a corner. Clint followed.
“Miss Wilson, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Bill what you just told me.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t matter to him what I said,” she replied. “In fact, he stole the show when he shot out the spotlight.”
“Yes, he did,” Cody said. “But he wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“Why did he do that?” she asked.
Cody looked at Clint, who shook his head.
“I’m afraid that’s somethin’ I’ll have to ask him later, Miss Wilson,” Cody said. “Listen, would you mind if we talked again tomorrow?”
“You and I?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“Perhaps we could find somethin’ for you to do in the show.”
“Well, that would be marvelous.”
“Clint,” Cody said, “why don’t you get the lady a drink, and introduce her to Bill.”
“I’ll do that.”
Cody looked at Hannah again.
“Would you mind if I spoke to Clint for a moment?”
“Clint?”
Cody looked at Clint again.
“We only just met tonight,” Clint said. “I haven’t told her my name.”
“You haven’t? Why not?”
“Yes,” Hannah said, “why not?”
“Just hadn’t gotten around to it yet,” Clint said.
“We’ll be right back,” Cody said to her.
“I’ll wait here.”
Cody took Clint’s arm, walked him out of earshot of the young woman.
“What the hell?” Cody said to Clint.
“She was sitting next to me, making comments,” Clint said.
“Is she a good actress at least?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe we can find out,” Cody said. “Maybe she could work with Bill on his lines.”
“Maybe, but what about him shooting out lights?”
“I’ll have to talk to him about that,” Cody said. “But you know why he did that, don’t you?”
“His eyes.”
“Yes,” Cody said. “He won’t admit it, but his eyes are bothering him.”
“It’s been going on for a while,” Clint said.
“Maybe you could get him to see a doctor?”
“You know Bill as well as I do, Cody, maybe better,” Clint said.
“Well, just talk to him.”
“I’ll try.”
“And don’t let the young lady criticize him—at least, not tonight. I’ll talk to Bill tomorrow about his performance.”
“All right.”
“And for Chrissake, tell her your name,” Cody said. “Maybe that’ll distract her.”
* * *
“Clint . . . Adams?” Hannah asked moments later.
“Yes.”
“The Gunsmith?”
Clint nodded.
“So when I said you were somebody, I was right.”
“I suppose so.”
“My goodness,” she said, “I’m meeting all the legends tonight, aren’t I?”
“Speaking of which, let me introduce you to Hickok.”
“Aren’t you going to warn me?”
“About what?”
“Criticizing him,” she said. “I get the impression he wouldn’t take it too well.”
“Then I won’t do it.”
“That’s good,” Clint said. “Cody is going to talk to him about his performance tomorrow.”
“But I won’t tell him he was good either.”
“That’s fine.”
Clint took Hannah across the floor to where Hickok was surrounded by people and looking for help.
“Clint! Clint, boy!” he shouted. “Let my friend through here.”
The people parted and Clint approached, with Hannah in tow.
“Hey, Bill,” Clint said.
Hickok took Clint’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically.
“I’m glad you made it, pardner,” he said. “And who’s the pretty lady?”
“This is Hannah Wilson, Bill,” Clint said. “She was sitting next to me in the audience.”
“Well, little lady,” Hickok said, “I hope you didn’t get showered any with broken glass when I shot that light out.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said “I was quite impressed, though.”
“Were you how?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “One shot. That was very impressive.”
“A lot better than the rest of my performance, huh?” he asked.
“Well, uh . . .”
“That’s okay,” Hickok said. “I know how bad I was. And I looked damn silly.”
“Hey, Bill—”
“You ain’t gonna lie to me, are ya, pard?” Hickok asked.
“Have I ever?”
“Nope,” Hickok said, “and that’s how come I know you won’t now.”
“Well . . . you were pretty bad, Bill,” Clint said. “But all you need is some experience.”
“You think so, huh?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What do you think, young lady?”
“I think you can get better, Mr. Hickok,” she said, and then added, “A lot better.”
“Are you an expert?” he asked.
“I’m not an expert,” she said, “but I am an actress.”
“Well,” Hickok said, “maybe we should talk. You might have some advice for me.”
Cody came over at that moment and said, “Bill, I got some newspapermen here want to talk to you.”
“They wanna tell me how bad I was, too?” Hickok asked him.
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