by Bill Brooks
“I feel lucky today,” Bill said.
“That’s a fine coat you have on, Bill.” Harry examined the satin trim along the coat’s lapels.
“It’s like the one I got married in. Only I wore a hole in the sleeve of that one.”
Carl Mann, one of the owners of the saloon, sat at a table playing poker with Charlie Rich and William Massie—an old riverboat captain. Bill knew all three. Carl waved Bill over to join them, which Bill was more than happy to do.
“Charlie, you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to sit on that stool,” Bill said. Charlie held the stool that kept his back to the wall, something Bill favored.
“Take the empty one,” Charlie said. “Nobody’s going to assassinate you in this place.”
Bill didn’t care for it much but took the seat because he had a good feeling in him that he’d win big at cards today. From where he sat, he had a good view of the front door; he could see whoever came and went, and so did not feel his usual caution.
“I feel lucky, boys,” Bill said. “Deal them picture cards.”
Several hands later, Bill was cleaned out.
Bill called to Harry Young behind the bar, “Bring me some pocket checks, Harry.”
Harry brought Bill fifteen dollars worth of checks.
“Luck’s gone cold on you as a whore’s heart, Bill,” Harry said teasingly.
“Like old love,” Bill said, “gone but not forgotten and soon will return.”
The front door opened and a smallish nondescript man entered and went to the far end of the bar just a few steps from the table. Bill took notice of him, then washed him out of his mind, because the first three cards Captain Massie dealt him were aces.
“You broke me on that last hand, old son…” Bill started to say to the Captain.
Perhaps a split second of recognition fell into Bill’s consciousness—the shadow of someone suddenly behind him, the touch of cold metal brushing against his hair, the warm breath of another against his neck.
Death struck sudden as a lightning bolt is sudden—a flash, a crash, then silence.
Bill’s head jerked forward, his limbs stiffened, his fingers locked. And for what seemed like long seconds nothing but the acrid smoke and the confused looks of the others permeated the room. A hole below Bill’s right cheek leaked blood. It was as though they were observing a painting—Still Life in Death.
Then the Prince of Pistoleers fell back and toppled sideways to the floor. No words of wisdom from his petulant lips did any of them hear; no grunt, nor groan, nor curse—not even his wife’s name did he speak.
Bill was dead.
It was only later that Harry Young, mopping up the bloody floor, saw the cards spilled from Bill’s fingers—a winning hand of aces and eights.
Bill’s luck had changed again, from bad to good—too late, too late.
There was a knock at the front door, and Teddy laid aside his Shakespeare to answer it. All the furniture in the house stood under dust covers except for the bed where Teddy slept, the dining room table, and the sofa and chair in the parlor where he read. That was the way she’d left it—his libertine mother and her English poet lover—and that’s the way it would remain as far as he was concerned.
He opened the door to find George Bangs standing there.
“May I come in?”
Teddy led him into the parlor. George looked around with either a look of amusement or bemusement on his face—it was hard to tell.
“I can see now why you chose not to take another case for us,” he said. “Surrounded by luxury, why would you ever want to work for common wages?”
“This house is still my mother’s,” Teddy said. “I’m only living in it while she’s off to Europe.”
The windows were open and a gentle warm breeze came in from the lake.
Teddy led George into the parlor.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
George waved his hand. “Allan doesn’t like for his employees to partake of hard spirits.”
Teddy indicated the sofa, and George sat on it. Teddy sat in his chair by the window with its tall panes of leaded glass.
“Don’t tell me you were just in the neighborhood and decided to drop in,” Teddy said.
“No, actually, I didn’t know if you’d seen this,” George said, taking a copy of the Inter-Ocean newspaper from under his arm and handing it across to Teddy.
Teddy began reading the article at the newspaper’s fold, but the words did not resonate until:
…in a handsome coffin covered with black cloth and richly mounted with silver ornaments, lay Wild Bill, a picture of perfect repose. His long chestnut hair, evenly parted over his marble brow, hung in waving ringlets over the broad shoulders; his face was cleanly shaved excepting the drooping moustache, which shaded a mouth in death that almost seemed to smile, but which in life was unusually grave; the arms were folded over the still breast, which enclosed a heart which had beat with regular pulsations amid the most startling scenes of blood and violence. The corpse was clad in a complete dress suit of black broadcloth, new underclothing and white linen shirt; beside him in the coffin lay his trusty rifle, which the deceased prized above all other things, and which was to be buried with him in compliance with an often expressed desire.
Teddy looked up.
“Some things can’t be helped,” George said.
“I think he knew.”
“That he was going to be killed?”
“That it didn’t matter any longer to him.”
“Hell of a way to end such a glorified career.”
Teddy shook his head, looked out at the bright, late autumn day, at the chestnuts lining both sides of Lakeshore Drive, at the children playing in the park across the street. Life went on no matter what, the world hardly paused to take a breath, and all men were equal in death. He knew, like the days themselves, that all would soon come to an end, that there’d be a change of seasons.
“Break the rules once and have a drink with me, George, and let me tell you about Wild Bill and Colorado Charley Utter and all the rest…”
“There’s something else I have to tell you, Teddy.”
“Well, it’s a days for news. What is it?”
“We found your brother’s killer.”
Teddy shook his head. It had been what he wanted. It was why he became a Pinkerton. But now that the information was so close, he felt that his ride wasn’t at its conclusion, but at its beginning.
About the Author
BILL BROOKS is an author of Western fiction who has written ten novels. He lives in North Carolina.
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LAW FOR HIRE: DEFENDING CODY
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LAW FOR HIRE: PROTECTING HICKOK. Copyright © 2003 by Bill Brooks. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition August 2007 ISBN 9780061748257
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