by Bill Brooks
He would have thought after that day in El Paso that he would have all but forgotten the woman who loved Phil Coe. But instead she’d clung to his mind, most especially so on those long prairie nights encamped on lonely stretches of land by moonlit streams. He’d heard her name spoken in the stars and in the wind.
She called to him in his sleep, and twice he awoke and thought he saw her there beyond the dying coals of his fire.
He tried hard to decipher what it was about her that made her follow him. What sort of woman would save her money for five, six years just to pay to see a man dead? She had the same Devil’s soul in her that he had in him. Fate had brought them together, and fate would reunite them.
He knew after he’d shot the harlot in Abilene that he would not stop until he killed the famous Wild Bill. And once he did this thing, he would return to El Paso and take up with this Olive, with this woman who loved so strongly nothing could keep her from loving, not even death itself.
So there he was in those waning hours when the last of the sun lit the snowcapped peaks of the mountains at whose base sprawled the city of Denver. He had ridden as far as he would ride. He would sell his horse, take the train to Cheyenne and do what he had in mind, and then he would leave that country, go home to El Paso and take up with the woman, and that would be the end of his killing.
The air without the sun in it turned cold quickly. And he knew that a man could get caught in that open high country by a sudden snowstorm and freeze to death, and it held no appeal to him. He rode down the last slope of loose shale, glad that things would soon come to an end.
He took a modest room in a hotel near downtown where the clatter of horse trolleys rang against the cobblestone streets and brick warehouses. He divested himself of his riding clothes, putting on fresh, then went and found a restaurant to take his supper and ate roasted elk and boiled potatoes, washing it down with a nice claret.
He saw a woman across the way watching him. She sat under a large hat and was with a man wearing a necktie. They were both large people. Spoiled no doubt by wealth, he thought. A banker and his missus out for the evening. Fatted calves who will not matter in the end days. Their existence is temporary and they will pass through this life without consequence. They will live in their expensive home and entertain their friends and bear children and then die and be buried, like everyone else. They will be no better off than Phil Coe or the harlot I shot in Abilene, or any of a thousand others like them.
He stared at the woman until she turned her eyes away, then finished his claret and walked out into the black cold evening.
His thoughts again turned to Olive and to El Paso with its warm southerly winds that brought the smell of the Rio Grande into his room at night. It was a place and a way of life that had made him forget his past for the most part. He had not killed anyone in an entire year before the woman came to him and hired him to go and kill Hickok. He tried not to think of her now as he walked in and out of the shadows created by street lamps and night turned black as pitch.
Paris Bass sensed rather than saw the two figures emerging from the shadows.
The smaller of the two stepped out to block his progress while the other scurried around behind him. He saw the sap raised high, smelled the stink of desperation in them even as he heard them shuffling into position.
Too late for them when they saw the flash of something silver in his hand—the barrel of the pocket pistol he’d used to shoot the whore. He fired once into the chest of the man in front of him. The force of the slug lifted the fellow off his feet and dropped him to the curb. Wheeling about, he punched the barrel of the pistol into the slablike hardness of other man’s body and pulled the trigger again, causing the man to fold in half, dropping to his knees, grabbing for something to hold him up, then toppling onto his side.
Paris Bass stopped near the man, leaned in close, his face just inches away. He could smell the acrid breath, see that look of astonishment in his eyes.
“You’re in a bad way, my friend,” he whispered to the man. “What is your name?”
“Otto…Schmidt…” The words came out guttural, choked with rising blood.
Paris Bass took the book from his pocket and wrote the man’s name in it.
“And who’s the other one?”
The man’s eyes darted to his fallen companion, saw only a pair of heavy black shoes angled like a V pointing toward the heavens. He tried to speak but found it difficult. He swallowed the blood back down when he felt the cold steel of the revolver’s barrel against his temple.
“His name?” Paris repeated.
“Karl…that’s my brother…Karl.”
Paris nodded and wrote that name in the book—Karl Schmidt—Killed this day, September 14th, Denver. He would fill in the details later.
The man watched as Paris rose and walked over to the body of his brother. He saw the bright flash of light at almost the same time he heard the shot. Then he saw the man turn and walk back to where he was lying, saw the man’s boots inches from his nose and turned his head in time to see the white flash again.
Paris Bass returned to his hotel room and removed his coat, taking first the pistol from his pocket then setting it atop the dresser so he might clean it and replace the spent shells. Next to these he set a cheap brass watch and a lead sap and several silver dollars—some stained with blood. These he’d taken from the dead men. In the corner stood the hand-tooled scabbard with the Schutzen sporting rifle and its long brass scope—the primary tool of his trade. He didn’t much care for pistol work, he decided.
He took out his Book of the Dead and wrote a short paragraph below the most recent names.
Two fools, petty criminals, hardly deserving of a bullet, tasted mine this pleasant evening and experienced perhaps the greatest consignment conceivable. Oh, I doubt the lads were quite prepared. But, truly this pair know what I do not. I could see it in their eyes, that look that comes just before the moment of death—that sweet bliss. The spirit knows what the flesh cannot, and I envy them this. Surely I am like the concubine to those poor devils and other like them—the one they seek when they have fallen into ruin. The one who gives them the fatal kiss.
Well, neither of them were comparable to Wild Bill, he thought, putting aside his pen, seeking the sleep he prayed would come before the tortuous headache flamed and burned inside his skull. To help the matter, he swallowed two cocaine pills and it did the trick.
Chapter 20
Teddy found Hickok easily enough—he was sitting at a table in the Gold Room with Buffalo Bill. He wasn’t sure if he should interfere with their conversation. Standing behind Cody was Texas Jack. Jack looked like an Eastern dude, dressed the way he was in a suit of black broadcloth, paper collar, and standing under a sugar loaf hat. Others approached the table, shook hands with the trio and offered to buy them drinks, even though there were several filled shot glasses on the table already and one or two unopened bottles of champagne.
Teddy decided he’d wait for a bit for some of the others to settle down, and give Bill and Cody and Texas Jack a chance to talk. He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. It was then that he noticed the dark-eyed man he’d seen talking to Jeff Carr earlier in Carr’s office. The man picked up his glass and offered a casual salute to Teddy, who wasn’t sure why.
He looked around for Hank Rain’s partner—Ned Loyal. Surely Ned knew about the shooting by now and might well be seeking to take his revenge. But then again, Ned could just as easily have figured that maybe Cheyenne wasn’t as easy pickings as it seemed. Teddy had no proof that Ned was there to kill Hickok, or no proof that he wasn’t. Either way, he needed to keep a sharp eye for Loyal.
He stood nursing his drink and watching the trio of frontiersmen. He had to admit, they seemed to have a certain aura about them that other men did not have. He knew he would never be their equal, nor was he sure that he ever wanted to be.
“That was a hell of a shooting,” the dark-eyed man said, suddenly standing next to him.
<
br /> Teddy turned, his hand reaching in under his coat. The man held forth an open palm.
“You’ll get no trouble from me, friend. Name’s Masterson. Most call me Bat.”
“It wasn’t my idea, what took place earlier,” Teddy said.
“I know that. I was there. That damn fool has been looking to get himself killed for three years and he finally done it. Here’s to Hank Rain and his latest success.” Masterson raised his glass then threw back his whiskey.
“I saw you earlier today talking to Jeff Carr,” Teddy reminded him.
“I was looking for work. Heard Jeff might be hiring on new deputies. Unfortunately for me, he wasn’t. I half thought about going to the goldfields, but I doubt I’d be much good at mining. I think I’ll swing down to Abilene. Good friend of mine is the city marshal down there. Earp, you ever heard of him?”
“No. But I’ve been to Abilene, and it can’t be much of a town to be tamed these days.”
“Bad enough still.”
“If you’d been wearing a badge this morning and could have stopped it…” Teddy said.
“I don’t think nothing would have turned out different than it did, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Were you down in Kansas when Bill was the law?”
“No, later.”
“A man that can keep a cool head the way you did ought to consider taking up the law as a profession.”
“I’ve no interest in the law,” Teddy said.
“I can appreciate that. I’ve little interest in it myself, except a feller can usually find himself a job in it if he’s cut from the right cloth. Anyway, just thought you might be interested to know that Hank used to run with a gun name of Ned Loyal. You might want to keep an eye out for him. He’s a back-shooter mostly. And because of that, he might outlive us all. Keep to the shadows my friend.”
Masterson set his glass upside down on the oak, touched the brim of his bowler, and started to leave.
“A question,” Teddy said.
“What’s that?”
“You ever hear of John Sears?”
Bat smiled. “Yeah. Him you’ll want to stay clear of.”
Teddy watched as Bat Masterson pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared. Teddy turned his attention back to the table where Bill sat with Cody and Texas Jack.
“Me and Jack are putting together a new combination,” Cody was saying, both he and Jack sloppy drunk with smiles on their red faces. Cody was especially in good spirits.
“Count me out,” Bill said.
“I got married to Josephine,” Jack said. “You know she’s all about show business, and so am I now. No more wrangling those sharp horns or eating dust on the plains for me.”
“You’ve become dandified,” Bill said, “but I don’t blame you. Josephine’s a fine woman. Why I got married myself.”
Cody expressed surprise. “I never thought you’d have a lasso tossed around you Bill. Who was it?”
“Agnes Lake. She owns a circus.”
Cody whistled, said, “What ever happened to men like us that we got tamed so?”
They all drank a rueful drink, but deep in their hearts they were not disappointed in the men they’d become as much as they were disappointed in the men they’d once been and were no longer.
Teddy approached the table, said to Bill, “I’d like to talk to you when you’re through here.”
Hickok glanced up from under the broad sweep of his hat brim.
“Fellers, this here’s my most recently acquired pard, Teddy Blue. He’s already saved my skin once.”
Teddy felt embarrassment down to his toes.
Cody tugged him by the sleeve, said, “Glad to meet yer. Sit and have a drink with us and tell us how you saved old Bill’s hide.”
“I appreciate the invitation, gents, but I really must be somewhere. Perhaps another time.”
Teddy could see Bill watching him closely. He didn’t want to offend, but he had no true desire to sit around and swap stories with men of such brotherhood—not tonight he didn’t.
“I reckon the three of us will be here till the sun comes up tomorrow,” Bill said. “Come look me up when you’re ready.”
Teddy nodded, glad that Bill would have Cody and Texas Jack as companions for this night and that it was unlikely anyone would try him with those two in attendance.
It was still relatively early, and he made his way to the jail fully prepared to face the wrath of Jeff Carr. But he had a legal right as the kid’s lawyer to speak with him, and Carr would have to put aside their differences whether he liked it or not.
As it turned out, Jeff Carr wasn’t there. In his place was one of his deputies, an older man who yawned a lot as he sat with his heels propped atop Carr’s desk reading the Police Gazette.
Teddy explained the reason for his presence, and the deputy said, “Go on back,” acting indifferent, not even bothering to ask him for his pistol. The thought occurred to him how easy it would be to just break the kid out of jail. But it was a thought not born in logic.
The kid lay facedown on his cot.
“You doing okay?”
He did not move.
“William…”
“What?”
“Sit up, boy. Look at me.”
The kid eased himself up. Teddy could see his eyes were rimmed red.
“The judge will be in Friday…two more days. Can you last that long?”
“She came to see me today.”
“Your mother?”
“I hated her seeing me this way.”
“She doesn’t think less of you.”
“I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“You shot a man, kid.”
“You shot one too. I heard them talking about it earlier. What’s the difference between you and me?”
“Probably not much.”
“I need to get out of this place.”
“Sit tight until I can talk to the judge.”
“Talk…” the kid said. “Ain’t you about sick to death of talk? I sure as hell am.”
Teddy said, “Here,” and handed him the sack of tobacco and papers and matches he’d bought earlier. “Maybe this will help some.”
The kid came off the cot and took them. “It’s decent of you,” he said.
“You need anything else?”
“Just some freedom.”
Teddy left the jail and headed back to the boardinghouse. Kathleen wasn’t there in the kitchen and she wasn’t in the dining room, nor the parlor. He knocked on her door. She opened it slightly, looked at him through the narrow space.
“I just left seeing William.”
“Oh,” she said, and tears coursed her cheeks.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said, and closed the door.
He felt a lot more hurt by her action than he thought he would.
Texas Jack fell out about four in the morning, but Cody was still going strong trying to promote with Bill the idea of a new combination show to take east.
“I’m thinking of taking the whole shebang to Europe—England maybe, to see the Queen. What do you think of that? Wouldn’t you like to see what’s on the other side of that big water before you go off to your heavenly home, old pard?”
Bill shook his head. “I’m fearful of deep water.”
“Why, they got sailing ships big as this whole saloon. You’d not even know you were on the water.”
“Yes, I would. I’d just look over the rail and there she’d be, and lots of her—a lot more than I’d care for. I came close once to drowning on the Red River, and that about ruined me on deep water.”
“Well, how about going with us just as far as back East again—would you go that far? I’m thinking of including live buffalo—a whole herd of ’em.”
“Buffalo is mighty tough to train to do tricks,” Bill said. “They got little brains.”
Cody laughed from all the booze and because he just naturally found Bill funny. Bill was a straigh
t shooter and a straight talker and said what was in his heart and in his mind without any attempt to be humorous; it just came out that way.
“Boy howdy,” Cody said, slapping his thigh. “What do you think of my new clothes? Had them done by Sioux squaw.”
“You always were a fancy cuss.”
“Ned says I’m so fancy looking he’s tempted to marry me.”
Bill smiled. “I’d keep a close eye on him—he’d marry a mule when he’s drunk, which is about most of the time.”
“Will you at least sleep on the idea of joining me and Jack?”
They both looked over at Jack, who had his head laid on a table with his eyes closed, probably dreaming of Josephine Morlacchi, his recent bride.
“You boys are the showmen, not me,” Bill said. “Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“Sure,” Cody said, leaning close.
The Gold Room was abandoned except for the trio and one bartender who mopped the floor.
“My eyes is near gone,” Bill said.
Cody peered into Bill’s eyes as though trying to judge the degree of blindness Bill was suffering from.
“There’s some good doctors back East. Come back with me and Jack and see one of them New York City medicos. You don’t have to work the boards if you’re against it. But Jesus, old son, you can’t stay in these frontier towns. Not if your eyes is gone. It ain’t safe.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Bill said. “I’m going up to the Black Hills soon’s the weather breaks. I’m going to put together a stake for me and Agnes.”
“I just can’t feature you working a pick and shovel, Bill.”
“Picture cards. Me and Charley are going to set up an establishment. He’ll run the liquor and girls and I’ll run the gambling. It’s what I do best anymore—picture cards is.”
