by Bill Brooks
“I’m not bothering nobody,” he claimed.
They expressed concern for his welfare when they saw he had his shotgun lying there atop the table. He told them to go to hell. Instead, they simply turned and left.
He sat alone. He drank alone. No one dared approach him.
The scent of wet earth caused him to ache. The thought of going home to an empty house was worse than anything imaginable. The silence of rooms where nobody moved about, of being in bed alone—all of it egged him on toward a mean drunk.
He was still there drinking when the Preacher went up the alley, across the vacant lots, and off toward the trees that overlooked the transient camp. He was there when the sky shaded from the dusty rose to the deeper purple that brought with it a sprinkling of stars.
Paris Bass settled himself down at the edge of the treeline. The light was fading fast. In the distance he could see the encampment’s fires in the same way he saw them back in the war. He would leave for the enemy’s camps just at dusk, the way he’d left the town tonight. He would work his way behind the enemy’s lines, hoping to pick off an officer. And if not an officer, than any man he saw. It made no difference to him, really. But his own commanders favored shooting officers, and so he shot them when he could. He’d made it a practice to do his sniping at night, something only he chose to do. The other sharpshooters stayed behind, waited until daylight. But he chose to go it alone, to make the darkness his ally, to come close to it and bring it close to him. The others saw night as a time of mourning, of licking their wounds, a time to feel safe, but not Paris Bass.
The jagged edges of the headache gnawed at him still, mangled his power to concentrate fully. He shucked the rifle from its scabbard. He’d missed his mark twice in a row. He would not miss it again.
Hickok was the one who wore the big pancake hat, the only one like it in all of camp. He would stand near the fire once it got dark and cold enough and hold his hands forth and warm them. For that was just naturally what men did—even the fair princes were not immune to certain comforts.
Paris Bass placed the barrel of his custom-made rifle with its long brass scope—the same one he’d used in the war—over the trunk of a fallen gum tree. Through the scope’s eyepiece the campfire seemed hardly more than a few feet away, a dancing blaze in the soft blackness. Wind riffled through the upper branches of the pines. He shifted the rifle left to right to take in the scene. Saw two men, their backs to the campfire. One was shorter than the other. That would be Charley Utter. The taller man moved away from the campfire into the shadows. Hickok. Paris Bass waited, his breathing shallow, steady. He tasted the wind, adjusted for it. It was just a matter of waiting for the shot now.
Teddy moved quickly across the vacant lots once he saw Paris Bass enter the stand of trees. He knew if he got the chance, he would have to kill the man, perhaps without even a warning. His mind questioned whether he could do it. Was that how it had been with the man or men who had killed his brother? Without warning? But this was different, he told himself.
He went swiftly and silently like a shadow among shadows, the light all but gone now. The woods seemed to hold a deeper darkness still when he slipped into them. He guessed the direction of the camp and made his way as stealthily as possible.
Having raged all he could within, Jeff Carr rose from his table in Frenchy’s, started to leave out of the bar, paused for a moment to look at the dark stain on the floor beneath the strategically placed table. Ned Loyal would always be part of Frenchy’s until somebody tore it down, or until the last living witness was himself dead. Men would talk about how Jeff Carr blew a man in half with the double barrel, would tell about the gambler killed by the stray bullet and the dove shot through the leg and how she charged ten cents to look at the scar. The story would get distorted with each telling, and over time it might be ten men killed, a dozen doves shot in various places in their bodies. And the dove who was shot would grow old and still show her scar, only no man would pay to see it after a while.
In his mind, Ned Loyal was just part of the garbage needed to get rid of, and that’s what he done—his job: human trash collector.
Well, there was some more trash needed gotten rid of, and he knew exactly where to find it.
He stormed out the swinging doors of Frenchy’s and stalked off toward the tent city. If they wouldn’t leave on their own, he’d by God see they left by his will. He had the shotgun swinging low in his right hand, liked the weight of it, hated the fact he had to carry it at all.
Teddy moved along at a careful crouch now, hoping to catch a glimpse of some movement or hear a sound there at the opposite end of the wood. The woods seemed a tomb of silence.
Down in camp, Bill was saying, “I oughter go make water.”
Charley said, “I don’t think you should walk up to them trees this time of night.”
“Hell,” Bill said. “When a man has to make water, he has to make water…”
The tall man came into view, the pancake hat unmistakable. All that long hair falling out from under it.
Paris Bass brought his finger against the cold curve of the trigger, took a deep breath, let half of it out, held the rest.
Teddy heard the sound of a hammer being cocked, slithered toward it.
Bill turned away from the light just as Charley stood from his game of cards.
“I don’t think you oughter—”
There was a sharp crack. Teddy saw the muzzle flash of the rifle and fired his pistol into a space just behind. His own muzzle flash night-blinded him. For a long aching moment the world stopped turning.
Jeff Carr walked into camp ready to kill anyone who took umbrage with his presence. He near hoped somebody would. A shot rang out, then another, both at some distance. A stir went through the camp, curses, campers scurrying like rats. He figured somebody was killed. Then he saw Colorado Charley laid out, Bill kneeling next to him with a lamp near his bloody face. Jeff felt confused, deprived, leveled his shotgun at Bill, said, “Don’t fucking move.”
Bill looked at him with a calm countenance, said, “Somebody shot my pard. Was it you?”
Paris Bass felt the bullet bite in between his ribs. He tried to twist away from it, the rifle forgotten, left still there across the tree trunk. He smelled the wet earth, the places where men had gone to piss and drop their drawers. He clawed through his clothes to find the derringer. The pain in his side wasn’t half as bad as the one in his brain that flared and exploded now like heat lightning.
“Who’s there!” he cried.
He felt something in his pocket, tore it free. It was the small Bible, not the pistol, but it had a comfort to it the pistol did not have. He brought it to his face, pressed it against his eyes, prayed that the pain in his head would stop. It did not.
Then the shadow of a man loomed over him.
“Don’t make me finish you,” the man said.
“Go ahead, take away this cup from me.”
Teddy struck a match. The light flared and he saw the face of Paris Bass, the Bible pressed to his forehead. He saw too the derringer there by his pocket and picked it up.
“It’s over,” he said.
The man began speaking strangely—a jumble of incoherent words tumbled from his mouth. Teddy had heard of such things, of reverent men speaking in “tongues.” It was eerie and sad somehow; for it may as well been a madness, and not a religion at all, that the man was given to. Teddy felt through the man’s clothes for more weapons, found the book instead and took it from him.
Charley revived on his own, opened his eyes, wiped blood from his face and said, “If I’m dead, why ain’t I seeing angels instead of you two?”
Bill smiled, said, “Hell, how you know we ain’t dead too?”
Jeff Carr, a little more sober now than he was when he walked into their camp, said, “I want you boys out of my town by tomorrow.”
“I thought I told you once not to try and buffalo me,” Bill said.
Charley raised a hand, said to C
arr, “We’ll be gone out of your prairie dog town tomorrow, Sheriff…” then passed out again.
Jeff Carr helped Bill get Charley to the doctor’s office, where his scalp was washed free of blood and the doctor could see that the bullet had only plowed a neat furrow across Charley’s scalp, missing by a good inch of blowing out his brains.
When the doctor announced that Charley was going to live, Charley promised God he would never again fornicate with doves and that he would spend the rest of his days doing good deeds and watching after his pard, Wild Bill. Amen.
“The good Lord has seen fit to spare me, boys. I’m turning over a new leaf. No more liquor or women or cards for me. Here, Doc, you can have these,” Charley said, handing the doctor his deck of cards.
The doctor looked at the nude illustrations.
Charley quickly said, “I was thinking of becoming a medico myself once, thought those cards might help in my study of the human anatomy.”
Jeff Carr was in his office nursing a bad head and bitter heart when the door opened.
The man in black wore a bloody shirt and held his side. The one behind him was the one Carr never did trust to be who he said he was, or more accurately, never said who he was.
“Lock this man up,” Teddy said.
“For what? Looks like somebody shot him, and I’m guessing it would be you.”
Teddy tossed the leather-bound book on Carr’s desk—Book of the Dead.
“Read it and you’ll know why you need to put him under arrest.”
Later, Carr put the book down, his face twisted in anger, still red and blotchy from the liquor he’d drank earlier, but his mind clear now.
“Son of a bitch was the one who shot Molly,” he said, rising, reaching for the shotgun.
“You going to shoot him in his cell, unarmed?” Teddy said.
“You goddamn right.”
“Don’t do it. Let the law hang him.”
“She wasn’t married to the law, she was married to me.”
“Either way he’ll get dead.”
“It’s my duty!”
“No, the law is your duty.”
“What the hell would you know about it?”
Teddy thought of Horace, dying while upholding the law. Maybe it was a stupid thing to do. Why should he care whether Jeff Carr took his revenge out on Paris Bass?
“Fine, you want to shoot him like that, go ahead. You think that’s what your wife would want you to do, then do it. But I’ll tell you this, if you kill him and there’s a trial, I’ll testify against you.”
“Your word don’t mean horse shit in this town.”
Teddy took the Pinkerton’s badge from inside his pocket and showed it to Jeff Carr.
“I came here to protect someone. I guess that’s what you’ve spent your whole life trying to do, up until now. You kill that man back there, what makes you any different than him?”
Carr pushed past Teddy and stalked toward the cells. Teddy followed him.
Paris Bass looked up, his eyes bleary and rimmed red, the pain in his head crushing. He saw the sheriff shove the barrels of his shotgun through the bars.
“Get ready to die, you son of a bitch.”
“Go ahead, do me that kindness.”
Jeff Carr was caught off guard when Paris Bass fell to his knees, clasped his hands together and begged to be killed.
“Please, please, please…Kill me!”
He thumbed back the hammers.
“Please, dear Jesus, please, please shoot me!”
Carr’s hands began to shake, the barrels of his shotgun clattering against the steel bars.
“Go ahead…Oh, damn you, go ahead!”
Carr felt a hand on his shoulder, a kindly hand.
“He’s going to die either way,” Teddy said, then turned and walked out.
Chapter 29
Charley went to pick up his and Bill’s mail the next day, a bandage wrapped around his head that made it hard to set his hat on straight. He was hoping he’d find a letter from his loving wife and daughters, and he did. But also there was a letter from Agnes to Bill, and Charley had a bad feeling over it.
The feeling was confirmed when Bill finished reading the letter back in camp. He held it between his graceful fingers like a butterfly’s wing, the wind toying with it.
“You should have told me, Charley.”
“Told you what, Bill?”
“About that Blue feller.”
“What about him?”
Charley had that sinking feeling like he’d swallowed putrid meat.
“Who he was…” Bill said.
“Who is he?”
Bill shook his head, his hair falling about his face in such a sad, sad way, Charley thought. Bill looked a lot like what Charley imagined Jesus looked like, and it was as if it was Jesus sitting across from him instead of Bill—Bill/Jesus admonishing him with an accusing look of betrayal in those sad, sad eyes.
Tapping a forefinger on Agnes’s blue cursive, Bill said, “Pinkerton’s sent him to protect me. Alice hired ’em…Said you went along with her wishes. You knew all this time, Charley. I’m sorely disappointed in you…”
“Ah, Bill…”
“No. Don’t try and wiggle out of it. Just admit you knew and promise me you won’t ever pull nothing like this again.”
“I was just—”
Bill cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t doubt your intentions were well placed, as were those of my darling wife. But it is a hell of a thing for a man to learn that those he loves and trusts conspired against him, that they think him incapable of taking care of himself. It makes me feel old and foolish, Charley, and I won’t be made to feel such. Go find that feller for me and bring him to camp.”
Charley found Teddy eating breakfast in the American Café.
“I’ve got bad news,” he said. “Bill wants to see you.”
“He found out, didn’t he?”
Charley nodded. For once he was all run out of words.
Bill was bent low, his face near the paper on which he was writing Agnes a letter. He seemed to Teddy a study of a man who could have been almost anything—a banker, lawyer, statesman. He was dressed in his usual fine attire and his hair was golden red under the morning sun.
Teddy and Charley stood there until Bill finished then looked up.
“Boys, you done me a wrongful thing trying to do me a rightful one. I’ll forgive you this time because maybe you saved my sorry hide. I just wrote my Agnes a letter stating the same.”
Charley coughed nervously and Bill rested his gaze on him for a moment before shifting it to Teddy. Teddy held his stare.
“You were a good pard, old son,” Bill said, “as far as it went. But this is the end of the trail for you and me. Charley and me are going to Deadwood today and you’ll be staying behind. Somebody wants to corral Wild Bill, they’ll just have to try. I don’t need a Pinkerton man changing my diaper. No offense, but I’d feel mighty put out if I was to see you strolling the streets of Deadwood.”
Teddy thought to argue his case, or rather that of Bill’s wife, Agnes. He had come to like Wild Bill. Like and admire him. He understood in that moment, as those sad eyes stared into his, that no man can alter another’s destiny, no matter how hard they try or think they can.
If Bill were going to live, it would be through the grace of a greater power than his own, or that of his darling Agnes, or even Allan Pinkerton’s detective agency. And if he was going to be assassinated, then such had been written in the stars a long time before any of them ever existed.
Teddy stepped forward and offered Bill his hand, and Bill shook it firmly, and the understanding between them was complete.
“What you going to do now, old son?” Charley said to Teddy as Bill went off toward the woods.
“Go back to Chicago, I guess. File my last report.”
“After that?”
Teddy shrugged. “I was thinking about New Mexico.”
“I’d
sorta like to go there myself after Bill and me make our fortunes in Deadwood.”
“I thought you wanted to go to Alaska?”
“Too cold, too far away from my wife and daughters.”
Teddy watched Bill there in the distance, walking to the trees, proud and tall and seemingly unfazed by anything that had happened in the previous days.
“It would be a great shame if he doesn’t live to be a very old man,” Teddy said.
“I don’t think he’d want it that way,” Charley replied.
“Why not?”
“Bill could never stand not being what he once was.”
Teddy saw Bill enter the trees, and then he was gone.
Chapter 30
Agnes Darling, if fate decides we should never see each other again, if some greater hand should put me under, I will use my last breath to whisper your name. And whisper it still as I try and swim to the other shore.
Yr. Loving husband, J.B. Hickok
—Wild Bill—
August 1, 1876
It was a hot day, even for the Gulch. Charley had commented on the weather: “It never got this hot in August in Colorado. This heat will make a man gamy as a badger.”
Bill favored the warm weather because his rheumatism had gotten worse in the last few years and the heat made him feel generally better.
“I’m going to go down to play some cards,” Bill said. “I feel lucky today.”
Bill had purchased himself a new Prince Albert coat and now shrugged it on and said, “How do I look, old son?”
“Like you was the prince that coat was made for.”
“Prince of the Pistoleers,” Bill said mockingly.
It was just past the noon hour when Bill entered the cool interior of Nutall and Mann’s Number 10. Bill was glad to be out of the sun’s bright glare, and removed his dark spectacles and slipped them into an inside pocket. Harry Young was behind the bar. Like everyone else, he saw his future in Deadwood, and Bill shook hands with him and ordered a cocktail.
