Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853)

by Roberts, J. R.

  The six soldiers suddenly rushed him, and Hickok went down in a sea of blue uniforms. He tried to get to his gun, but they had his arms pinned to his sides.

  Clint moved then, rushing to Hickok’s aid, but before he could reach the action, the corporal pulled his gun, pressed it to Hickok’s temple, and pulled the trigger.

  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. One man, Private John Kile, was shot through the torso and went down. Corporal Jerry Lonergan, who’d instigated the whole mess, was shot in the wrist and the knee.

  “That’s enough!” Clint shouted to the remaining soldiers.

  They all froze before they could draw their guns.

  “Just stand fast,” Hickok said. “My new friend and me are leaving. Don’t follow. Tend to your wounded, take them back to Fort Hays. I’m not gonna arrest any of you.”

  “Us?” Lonergan said from the floor, his face etched with pain. “You’re the one’s gonna end up in the stockade, Hickok!”

  “We’ll see. Adios.” He looked at Clint. “You ready, friend?”

  “I’m ready.”

  They backed out of the saloon together. Outside they both quickly replaced the spent cartridges in their guns with fresh ones, just in case.

  “Thanks for the help,” Hickok said.

  “I didn’t like the odds.”

  “I didn’t either.” 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.”

  “Why don’t we go to another saloon for a beer?” Hickok said. “Before those soldiers come out.”

  “I never did get the cold beer I was after.”

  “Well, come on, then,” Hickok said. “I’m buyin’.”

  FOUR

  Hickok took Clint to a smaller saloon, with fewer people in it, less chance of trouble.

  “Two cold beers,” he told the bartender.

  “Comin’ up, Bill.”

  “Are you known in every saloon in town?” Clint asked.

  “Most,” Hickok said.

  The bartender brought their beers. They grabbed them and faced each other.

  “Have we met before?” Hickok said.

  “Briefly,” Clint said.

  “I remember,” Hickok said. “Oklahoma Territory. We were hunting buffalo at the time, right?”

  “Right,” Clint lied.

  “Well,” Hickok said, raising his mug, “I’m glad we’ve met more formally this time. I appreciate the assistance.”

  “I didn’t move fast enough,” Clint said. “You’re lucky that gun misfired.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t move fast enough either,” Hickok said. “For men like you and me, that usually means the end. Unless you’re lucky.”

  “You think there’ll be trouble with the Army?”

  “I’ve helped the Army more times than I can count,” Hickok said. “Don’t worry. I’ll work things out with them.”

  “I can testify for you if you want,” Clint said.

  “Forget it,” Hickok said. “You’re passin’ through, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So,” Hickok said, “just keep passin’. But I owe you.”

  “No problem,” Clint said. “You ever need any more help, just give me a holler.”

  “I’ll do that,” Hickok said with a smile. “I been known to get myself in a tight spot or two. Be nice to be able to call on a gun I can count on.”

  “You got it.”

  “That wagon across from the saloon yours?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “So the Gunsmith, it ain’t just a name?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I really am a gunsmith.”

  “Must come in handy.”

  “It has, a time or two,” Clint said.

  “Look,” Hickok said, “if you ain’t in a rush, I know a small place with good steaks.”

  “No rush,” Clint said, “but don’t you want to get out of town?”

  “Naw,” Hickok said. “This badge means I got to be around here from time to time. Here, Topeka. The trouble with those soldiers ain’t gonna change my job. I told you, I got friends in the Army.” They finished their beers. “Come on, a steak sounds good right now.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “but I’ve got to pick up some supplies I ordered first.”

  “No problem.”

  * * *

  Hickok led Clint to a small café. They got a table in the back and ordered two steak dinners. Clint had been in town less than an hour and had found trouble already. He was wondering if he was tempting fate, but who could refuse a steak with Wild Bill Hickok?

  They talked while they ate, mostly Hickok telling stories. He was only a few years older than Clint, but he had been Wild Bill longer than Clint had been the Gunsmith. He had stories, and he had advice, and the two formed a lasting friendship right there and then . . .

  FIVE

  DENVER, COLORADO

  THE PRESENT

  When Clint returned to the hotel, he found a message waiting for him at the desk from Talbot Roper. He wanted Clint to meet him for dinner at the Dakota Steak House at six.

  Clint looked around the lobby, didn’t see the writer, Silvester, waiting for him, but there was something else for him at the desk.

  “Mr. Silvester asked me to give you this, sir,” the clerk said. It was a leather briefcase containing a book and a sheaf of papers. Silvester’s book on Jesse James and some handwritten chapters on Wild Bill Hickok. The young man had written quite a bit of his new book already.

  “Thank you.”

  Clint took it to his room and read until he left to meet Roper for dinner.

  * * *

  Roper was waiting at a table when Clint got there.

  “Look at you,” Clint said as they shook hands. “That suit would cost a cowboy three months’ wages.”

  “I’m not a cowboy,” Roper said. “I’ve got to look good for my clients. Good to see you, Clint.”

  “You, too, Tal.”

  They sat down, told a waiter to bring them two steak dinners and beer.

  “What brings you to Denver?”

  “What brings me anywhere?” Clint asked. “I’ve got to be somewhere. Thought I’d come and say hello. What have you been up to?”

  The two men exchanged news of events that had transpired in their lives since they’d last seen each other, pausing only to let the waiter set down their food.

  Finally, Clint got to the story of the writer who was working on a book about Wild Bill Hickok.

  “There have been books about Hickok before,” Roper pointed out.

  “Dime novels and penny dreadfuls,” Clint said. “This is supposed to be a work of literary worth.”

  “And the truth?”

  “He says.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “What he has so far.”

  “Is it true?”

  “As far as it goes.”

  “And well written?”

  “Who am I to say, but not bad.”

  “You and Mark T
wain are friends,” Roper said. “I put a lot of stock in your opinion.”

  “It reads okay.”

  “But it could use some insight from somebody who knew Bill, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, you thinking of giving the young man your insight?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “You going to ask my opinion?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “Well, if you were to ask,” Roper said, “I’d say if the book is going to be published anyway, it might as well be as accurate as it can be.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Roper laughed and sat back.

  “Then you had your mind made up before you came here, didn’t you?”

  “Pretty much, I guess.”

  “Well then, eat your steak,” Roper said, “and let’s get another beer.”

  * * *

  During dinner, Roper told Clint he had to leave town for a case.

  “Can you talk about it?”

  “I could,” Roper said, “but I won’t.”

  “You always did set a lot of store by your ethics.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Roper said. “You’re probably the most ethical man I know.”

  “My own ethics maybe,” Clint said.

  “That’s all a man’s got,” Roper said.

  When they’d finished, Roper insisted on paying the bill.

  “My town,” he said.

  “That’s not fair,” Clint said. “I don’t have a town.”

  “You can pay anytime we eat dinner outside of Denver. How’s that for fair?”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  In front of the restaurant, the two men shook hands and Roper said, “I’ll look forward to reading that book. What’s the writer’s name?”

  “Mark Silvester.”

  “Make sure he tells the real story, Clint.”

  “I will,” Clint said. “Yeah, I’ve pretty much decided that I will. Thanks, Tal.”

  SIX

  Clint walked back to his hotel, found Mark Silvester sitting in the lobby, impatiently tapping his fingers on his knees. When he saw Clint, he stood and quickly approached him.

  “Mr. Adams, the clerk said you picked up the briefcase I left for you.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you read my work?”

  “Most of it.” In truth, he had paged through the book on Jesse James then read the entire manuscript on Hickok.

  “And what did you think, sir? I am, of course, particularly interested in your opinion of the manuscript.”

  “It’s passable.”

  “The story, or the writing?”

  “Both.”

  “Passable . . .” Silvester repeated. “I’m given to understand you know Mark Twain?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you call him a friend?”

  “I have that right, and privilege,” Clint said.

  “Then I suppose ‘passable’ from you is a compliment,” Silvester said. “In any case, I’ll take it as such.”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said.

  “Have you decided if you’re going to help me, sir?” Silvester asked.

  “I’ve almost made up my mind, Mr. Silvester.”

  “Almost?”

  “I just need the rest of the night,” Clint said. “Why don’t you meet me down here for breakfast in the morning, and we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “I’ll do that. Will you bring my manuscript with you?”

  “I will.”

  “My publisher is pushing me for a finished product.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Mr. Silvester,” Clint said, “and then you’ll be able to let your publisher know when you’ll be finished.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Adams,” the respectful young man said. “Whatever you decide, I thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Clint said. “Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Clint left the young man standing there and went to this room.

  * * *

  Mark Silvester waited for Clint to leave the lobby, then slapped his knee with glee. He had him! He knew he had him. This would be the best book about Wild Bill Hickok ever written.

  And then after that, he’d approach Clint Adams to write a book about the Gunsmith himself.

  * * *

  Clint went to his room, took off the clothes he’d worn to have dinner with his friend, and donned a pair of Levi’s. He picked up the leather pouch that held Mr. Silvester’s manuscript and took it to an armchair with him. He’d just about decided to go ahead and help Silvester write as accurate an account of Hickok’s life as he could, but he needed to go through the young man’s work one more time.

  He read into the night, and came away with the realization that the writer had respect for his subject. That pleased him.

  He set the manuscript aside and got himself ready for bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about what stories he should tell the young man. What stories would best describe the true nature of his dead friend, James Butler Hickok?

  SEVEN

  Down the street from the Denver House Hotel was a small, clean, well-appointed saloon called McDowell’s. A man in a brown bowler entered, looked around, and saw another man in a blue suit with a yellow rose in his lapel. He was sitting alone, drinking brandy.

  “Jeff Dawkins?” he asked, approaching the table.

  Dawkins looked up, sipped his brandy, and said, “Have a seat.”

  The man sat down, put his hat on the chair next to him. He was wearing a long coat with a brown suit beneath it.

  “You’re John Wells?”

  “I am.”

  Dawkins waved for the bartender, who came over immediately.

  “What’ll you have?” Dawkins asked.

  “Oh, uh, is that brandy you’re having?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Bring the food as well,” Dawkins said.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Dawkins.”

  “Food?” Wells asked.

  “I wanted to wait ’til you arrived,” Dawkins said. “You must be hungry after your trip.”

  “I ate on the train, but that was some time ago. Thanks.”

  Dawkins was in his forties, broad shouldered and handsome, with steel gray eyes and large hands. Wells was tall, thin, almost homely, about the same age. His clothes were from New York, more expensive than Dawkins’s, but Dawkins wore his better.

  “I’m told you have this town at your disposal,” Wells said.

  “No more or less than you have New York.”

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Wells said.

  The bartender returned with a brandy and a plate laden with cheese and bread. Wells was surprised. He’d expected meat.

  “Nothing like cheese and bread with good brandy,” Dawkins said.

  “I agree.”

  Wells cut some cheese and bread, put it in his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with the brandy.

  “It’s all very good,” he said.

  “Glad you like it,” Dawkins said. “It can’t possibly be the same quality you’re used to in New York.”

  “Still,” Wells said, nibbling on more cheese, “it’ll do.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Dawkins said. “Now, what can I do for you? The telegram I received only said that you need help.”

  “I followed a man here,” Wells said. “His name is Mark Silvester.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A writer.”

  “A writer?” Dawkins asked. “What, a journalist?”
<
br />   “That, and more. He writes books.”

  “Ah,” Dawkins said. “I like books.”

  “Really?” Wells asked. “You read?”

  “Is that a surprise? This is not the sticks, you know. It may not be New York—”

  “Don’t take offense,” Wells said. “I read, myself. I’m halfway through Le Morte d’Arthur.”

  “Ah, Sir Thomas Malory,” Dawkins said. “King Arthur. That was very good. I’m reading some Dickens now, myself. David Copperfield.”

  “There you go,” Wells said. “We’re very much alike, it seems.”

  Dawkins lifted his brandy glass to Wells, who did the same. They drank,

  “Now,” Dawkins said, “tell me what you need from me.”

  And Wells started his story . . .

  EIGHT

  Clint came down to the lobby the next morning, found the writer, Silvester, waiting for him in the lobby. He was so clean shaven and scrubbed that he squeaked.

  “I’m ready,” the writer said.

  “Let’s eat,” Clint said.

  “Where?”

  “The dining room here is fine,” Clint said. “They serve a good breakfast.”

  They went in, got seated, and ordered their food. Clint ordered steak and eggs, while Silvester ordered flapjacks with bacon. The waiter left them with coffee.

  “Where should we start?” Silvester asked.

  “Some rules.”

  “What kind of rules?”

  “The kind you have to follow.”

  “And that means you don’t?”

  “They’re my rules,” Clint said, “for you.”

  “All right,” Silvester said, sipping his coffee, “what are they?”

  “First, no talking while I’m talking,” Clint said. “That means no questions. Save them for the end.”

  “Fine.”

  “Second, I get final approval over what you write.”

  “You’re not a writer,” Silvester said. “And I’ve written quite a lot already.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “I’ve read it, remember? Not bad. But I’m talking about what you write from what I tell you.”

  “Oh,” Silvester said, “from this point on, you mean.”

  “Yes.”