Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853)
Page 1
Legends Never Die
There was a click.
The gun misfired.
And Clint was on them.
He grabbed the two men by the backs of their collars, one in each hand, and yanked them off. With his foot, he kicked another aside. Able to move now, Hickok scrambled out from beneath the rest of them before the corporal could fire again. He jumped to his feet and drew his gun.
Clint drew and fired once. He hit one soldier in the shoulder, spinning him around.
Hickok fired three times in quick succession.
They backed out of the saloon together. Outside, they both quickly replaced the spent cartridges in their guns with fresh ones, just in case.
Hickok holstered his gun. He put his hand out. “James Butler Hickok, but my friends call me Bill.”
Clint shook his hand and said, “Clint Adams.”
“Wait,” Hickok said. “I’ve heard of you.”
Clint smiled.
“I’ve heard of you, too.”
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JAMES BUTLER HICKOK
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60185-3
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / April 2013
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Contents
Legends Never Die
Title Page
Copyright
Part 1
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
Part 2
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
Part 1
ONE
DENVER, COLORADO
THE PRESENT
It was a little more difficult to stop someone tracking you on the streets of Denver than it was on the trail, but Clint Adams was experienced enough in both environments to know when he was being followed.
He had checked into the Denver House Hotel the day before, tried to make contact with his friend Talbot Roper, only to find that the private detective—the best one in the country—was out of town on a case, but would be back the following day.
He left the hotel the night before to have dinner in a nearby steak house, and became aware of the fact that he was being followed.
He returned to the hotel, his tail following him to the door, but no farther. He saw one man, rather innocent looking, who didn’t seem to mean him any harm. Nevertheless, he stuck a straight-backed wooden chair beneath his doorknob, just in case.
* * *
The next morning he came down for breakfast in the hotel dining room, looked around to see if his tail had decided to come inside the building. He didn’t see him anywhere, so Clint went in and ordered himself a steak-and-eggs breakfast.
“Nice to see you with us again, Mr. Adams,” the waiter said when he took his order.
Clint didn’t remember the waiter’s name, but said, “Thank you.”
He was halfway finished with his breakfast when a man came through the doorway, stopped just inside. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a derby hat. Clint knew this was the man who had followed him the night before. He watched as the man’s eyes scanned the room and finally fell on him. Now it remained to be seen if the man was going to make some sort of move, or simply back out and follow Clint again when he left.
To Clint’s satisfaction, the man removed his bowler and started across the room to him.
“Mr. Adams?” Without his hat, Clint could see his hair was thinning, though the man seemed to be only in his late thirties.
“That’s right.”
“May I talk to you, sir?”
“Tired of following me, are you?” Clint asked.
“I’m sorry about that,” the man said. “I was just curious about what you were doing in Denver. I thought I might find out by following you. I should have known you’d spot me. I apologize.”
“What’s this about?” Clint asked.
“I’m a writer, sir,” the man said. “My name’s M
ark Silvester. I’d like to talk to you about a book I’m writing.”
“I’ve been approached before by writers wanting to tell my story,” Clint said. “I’ll tell you what I told them—I’m not interested.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t make myself clear,” Silvester said. “I’m not writing a book about you. I’m writing it about Wild Bill Hickok.”
Clint studied the man for a few moments, then said, “Sit down. Have you had breakfast?”
“No, sir,” the writer said, sitting. “Not yet.”
“Order something,” Clint said, waving the waiter over.
“Thank you,” Silvester said. To the waiter he added, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint poured Silvester a cup of coffee from his pot, then went back to his breakfast.
“Tell me about this book you’re writing about Hickok,” he said.
“I’m trying to tell the real story,” Silvester said. “It’s about ten years since he was killed. A lot has been written about him, but it’s all different. All that stuff about him killing most of the men he killed by shooting them in the back. Is that true?”
“No!” Clint said. “Bill was no backshooter.”
“See? I need to talk to someone who knew him—and I mean, really knew him. I need the real story.”
Food came out of the Denver House kitchen fast. The waiter appeared with a steaming plate of steak and eggs for Silvester, who sat back in his chair to allow the man to set the plate down.
“Thanks,” he said as the waiter withdrew.
“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” Clint said.
“But I wanted to ask—”
“After breakfast,” Clint said. “We’ll talk after breakfast.”
TWO
Under normal circumstances, Clint didn’t mind talking about his friend Wild Bill Hickok.
The murder of Hickok by the backshooter Jack McCall had sent Clint into a tailspin. He had crawled into a bottle all those years ago, managed to crawl back out, but only after some desperate moments. It was not only that his friend had been killed, but the way he’d been killed. It was the way Clint had always been afraid he’d go. He wouldn’t mind dying on the trail, or in a gunfight, or even in bed with a woman, but he did not want to die at the hands of a coward, with a bullet in his back.
But he’d managed to put that fear, as well as the death of his friend, behind him. He never discussed Hickok’s death with people, but he was always ready to talk about the man’s life.
Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss it with a writer. Clint had a rule that he never gave interviews. The reason for that was that the things he said never ended up being written down quite the way he’d said them.
When Clint finished his breakfast, the writer was still plowing through his. Clint poured himself another cup of coffee, then called the waiter over and asked for another pot.
“Yes, sir.”
“You want anything else?” he asked Silvester.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
The waiter nodded and withdrew.
“What kind of writer are you?” Clint asked, even though the man was still chewing.
Silvester swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin before answering.
“I was a newspaperman for many years.”
“Where?”
“Philadelphia, and then New York.”
“And now?”
“Now I write books.”
“What was your last book?”
“I did a biography of Jesse James.”
“Do you have a copy of that with you?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I’d like to see it before I decide to talk to you. I knew Jesse.”
“I can get you a copy after breakfast.”
“Just leave it at the front desk with the clerk,” Clint said. “I’ll pick it up later today.”
“All right,” Silverster said. “When, uh, do you think you’ll be able to read it?”
“Overnight,” Clint said. “Why don’t we meet right back here tomorrow morning?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Now finish your breakfast.”
* * *
They left the dining room together and entered the lobby.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to run and get the book now?” Silvester asked.
“Are you staying in this hotel?”
“I sure am,” the writer said. “My publisher is paying the bill.”
“Well, good for you,” Clint said.
“So I’ll go on up and—”
“No,” Clint said. “Relax, son. I have to leave right now. Like I said, get the book and leave it with the desk clerk. I’ll pick it up when I come back later.”
“Well, okay, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Don’t forget,” Clint said. “Meet me here tomorrow morning for breakfast. And since your publisher is paying your way, it’ll be on you.”
“Yes, sir!”
Clint slapped the man on the back and went out the front door.
Mark Silvester watched the Gunsmith leave the hotel, then turned and ran across the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor.
* * *
Clint wasn’t going to go and find Tal Roper until later that evening, but he wanted to get away from the writer and do some thinking. Of course he was going to read the man’s Jesse James book, study it, and decide if he was good enough to write about James Butler Hickok. But beyond that, Clint had to determine if he was ready to examine Bill’s life, and his own part in the extraordinary—and short—life of Wild Bill.
Denver was a big city, with paved streets, parks, impressive architecture. He decided to simply walk the streets and let his mind go . . .
THREE
TOPEKA, KANSAS
JULY 1871
Clint Adams drove into Hays City, Kansas, on his gunsmithing wagon, with his horse tied to the back. The only thing on his mind was picking up some supplies he needed in order to keep on going. Where he was going was not important. After years as an unappreciated lawman, he had taken to the trail in his wagon, just to wander and ply his trade along the way, that of a gunsmith. His stops in towns were few, and usually for a visit to a general store, or a gunsmith shop. Today it was a general store for some coffee and beans he needed. He’d never been to Hays City before, but he had no interest in seeing the town, just buying what he needed and moving on.
He reined in his team in front of the store, set the break, and dropped down to the ground. He left his rifle where it was beneath the seat, but he was wearing his Colt in his holster, a gun he himself had modified from single to double action.
As he started walking in the door, two women appeared, and he stepped aside to allow them to pass. They were his age, late twenties, early thirties, wearing cotton dresses and bonnets to match, and they smiled at him as he touched the brim of his hat. If anything was able to make him stay in a town longer than he’d intended, it was a woman. He had a weakness for them, all sizes, shapes, and ages—and if his success rate was any measure, they had a weakness for him as well.
He entered the store, stopped in front of the clerk, and handed him a list. It was a short list.
“Be just a minute,” the man said. “We’ve got all of this.”
While Clint waited, he walked to the door, and saw the saloon across the street. He was struck by the sudden urge for a cold beer.
“I’ll be right back,” he called to the clerk. “I’m going across the street for a beer.”
“Fine,” the clerk said. “I’ll have everything ready when you come back.”
Clint left the store and crossed the street to
the Black Jack Saloon. Outside, tied to a hitching post, were half a dozen cavalry mounts.
He went inside the busy saloon and approached the bar. He managed to find a space large enough for himself and looked for the bartender. He was down at the other end, talking to a man with a graceful mustache beneath a somewhat oversized nose, and long hair.
“Bartender!” he called.
A few spaces down from him, the soldiers were drinking, slapping one another on the back, and also trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“Forget it, friend,” one of them said to him. “He’s busy at the end talking to Hickok.”
“Hickok?” Clint asked.
“Marshal Hickok,” another soldier said. “Big man—or so he thinks.”
“Hey, come on, bartender!” another soldier shouted.
“Be right there!” the barkeep called back.
But the soldiers didn’t like that. The ranking man, a corporal with two stripes, said, “I had enough of this.” He pushed away from the bar and started walking to the other end. The other men, all privates, followed.
“Goddamn you, Hickok, you ain’t the only man drinkin’ in here,” the corporal said.
“Maybe I’m the only one payin’ when I drink,” Hickok responded good-naturedly.
But the soldiers were already drunk and spoiling for a fight.
The corporal walked up to Hickok, put his hand against his chest, and pushed him.
“Stop hoggin’ the bartender.”
“Take it easy, Corporal—” the barkeep said.
Suddenly, all the men between Clint and action faded away from the bar.
“Don’t put your hands on me, soldier,” Hickok warned. “It ain’t healthy.”
“You think I’m afraid of you, Wild Bill?” the soldier asked, pronouncing Hickok’s sobriquet with great exaggeration.
“Sure you’re not,” Hickok said, “not with the whole Seventh Calvary behind you.”
“I don’t need the whole calvary to put a bullet in your brainpan.”
“Don’t try it, son,” Hickok said. He was wearing a Smith & Wesson .32 in a cross-draw holster at that time, a deputy marshal’s badge on his shirt. “It’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
What happened next was a surprise to everyone in the place, not the least of whom was Wild Bill Hickok.