“But Hickok’s reputation—”
“Tutt don’t care about that,” the man said. “If he can push Bill into a fight, he will.”
“How is Tutt with a gun?”
“He’s a fair hand, but if he can get Bill mad, he’ll have an advantage.”
That made sense to Clint. Drawing a gun in anger could affect a man’s performance. He had witnessed that firsthand in the past.
“Still seems like poking a sleeping tiger to me,” Clint said.
“Well,” the man said, “I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”
“I guess so.”
As Clint looked around, he saw that the majority of the house was now watching the poker game, and they were probably all poised to hit the floor if lead began to fly.
* * *
Hickok’s newfound luck was starting to grate on Tutt. No matter how much money he loaned to the other players, Hickok was taking it. Still, Tutt had the Waltham watch on the table in plain sight, and he could see Hickok looking at it.
When Hickok was about two hundred dollars ahead, Tutt could take it no more.
“Hey, Bill, it appears to me I remember a debt you owe me.”
“What debt?”
“Forty dollars,” Tutt said.
“From what?”
“Some horse tradin’ we did a while back. You remember, don’t ya?”
In point of fact, Hickok did remember.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Since you’re doin’ so good, how about payin’ me what you owe me?”
“I don’t welsh on a debt,” Hickok said. “Here’s your damn forty dollars.” He tossed the bills across the table to Tutt, who picked them up and pocketed them.
“Now can we play poker?” Hickok asked.
“Let’s play poker . . .” Tutt said.
* * *
But Dave Tutt couldn’t let it go. About half an hour later, with Hickok still winning, he brought up another debt. This one was a poker debt.
“Thirty-five dollars,” Tutt said, “from two days ago. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Hickok said. “But as I recall, it was twenty-five dollars.”
“No,” Tutt said, “it’s thirty-five.”
They were between hands and Hickok stuck his jaw out at Tutt.
“You’re tryin’ to flimflam me outta ten dollars, ain’tcha, Dave?”
“Well,” Tutt said, “if you’re feelin’ that way, I’ll just take my leave.”
He collected his money from the table, folded it, and stuck it into his pocket, then very deliberately picked up Hickok’s watch and stood up.
Hickok stood up so fast, his chair scooted back.
“You better put that watch back on the table, Dave,” he said.
“Why?” Tutt asked. “What’re you gonna do?”
“I ain’t gonna cause trouble in this house,” Hickok said. “It’s a good house, and I don’t want no innocent people gettin’ hurt.”
Dave Tutt gave Hickok an ugly smile, pocketed the watch, turned, and walked out of the place.
Hickok stood there a few moments, then sat down and said to the other players, “Let’s play poker, gents.”
THIRTEEN
Clint watched the poker game for a short time, but without Dave Tutt there loaning money to the other players, Hickok pretty much wiped them all out.
Hickok went back to the bar, and this time he was nice to the bartender. He seemed to be a man of moods. Clint walked down the bar, figuring to meet him while his mood was good.
“Mr. Hickok?” he said.
“Yeah?” Wild Bill asked without looking at him.
“I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m—”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, why do you want to introduce yourself?” Hickok asked. He still had not taken a good look at Clint.
“Well . . . you’re a famous man,” Clint said. “I, uh, just wanted to be friendly.”
“Well, friend,” Hickok said, actually throwing an arm around Clint’s shoulder without taking a good look at his face, “have a drink on me and then leave, because I ain’t lookin’ for no new friends.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said, tossing Hickok’s arm off him. “I don’t need a drink that bad.”
He turned and left. By the time Hickok finally looked at him, all he saw was his back going out the batwing doors.
“Was it something I said?” Bill asked the bartender.
* * *
Clint went back to the hotel, found that Kathy had gotten tired of waiting. He felt the bed. The sheets were cool. She hadn’t waited too long. They still smelled like her, though.
He walked to the window and looked out. Springfield was quiet. He could see the public square from his window, and there wasn’t much activity there.
Hickok had gotten under his skin. He’d ended up sounding like some awestruck kid, and that wasn’t the way he saw himself. He should have just stuck to himself, and left Wild Bill that way, too.
Maybe it was time to leave Springfield. The war was only a couple of months behind him. Pinkerton had wanted him to go into business with him—working for him, not with him. being one of his operatives. But Clint didn’t have any desire to be a detective. His friend Talbot Roper had agreed to work for Pinkerton, even though the two of them didn’t get along. But Clint knew what Roper’s plans were—learn all he could and then go into business for himself.
Clint didn’t have plans like that. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He still had most of his mustered-out pay in his pocket, wasn’t staying at the best hotel in town. He’d watched the money cross the poker table, thought briefly about gambling, but that wasn’t his game. If he was going to make money with something, it was going to be his ability with guns.
Guns.
He could shoot any gun—long or short—and hit what he was shooting at. And he could break any gun down and either put it back together, or fix it.
Guns.
That was what he knew.
That was how he was going to make his money.
For a while anyway.
He decided to go and find Kathy and make it up to her for leaving her alone for so long.
* * *
“There he is,” Leo Worthy said.
Worthy and two of his friends watched as Clint Adams came out of the hotel.
“He don’t look like much,” José Reyes said.
“Well, Kathy thinks he is,” Don Murphy said.
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Worthy said.
“What are we supposed to do?” Reyes asked. “Scare ’im, hurt ’im, or kill ’im?”
“It don’t matter,” Worthy said, “We get paid the same no matter what.”
“So what do we do?” Murphy asked. “How do we start?”
“Let’s start by scarin’ him,” Worthy said.
The three of them followed Clint, caught up to him by the time he got to the public square.
* * *
“Hold on there, friend,” somebody behind Clint yelled.
He turned, saw three men coming his way. They were all young, in their twenties, all armed. Two of them were wearing trail clothes, while the third man was sporting a Confederate jacket with three stripes on it, and matching kepi.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” one of them said, “you can leave town.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” the man said. “Leave . . . town.”
“Now why would I do that?” He’d been thinking about leaving town, and if they’d left him alone, he might have.
“Because we’re tellin’ you to.”
Cl
int turned so that he was facing the three men dead on.
“Leo,” Murphy said.
“What?”
“He don’t look scared.”
FOURTEEN
“Don’t make us hurt you,” Worthy said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Clint said. “It won’t happen.”
“Hey, friend,” Reyes said, “we’re three and you’re one. We’ll beat you into the ground.”
Clint smiled and said, “You won’t get that close.”
The three men fanned out a bit—but to Clint’s satisfaction, not enough.
* * *
A man ran into the Old Southern and said, “Showdown in the public square.”
“Who?” the bartender asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Three locals—Worthy and a couple of his boys—and one stranger.”
Suddenly, men were running for the windows and doors to take a look. Hickok was standing at the bar alone, then decided to walk to the door and have a look. When he got there, several men stood aside to make room.
He looked out the door down toward the public square, then stepped outside to have a better look, while the others remained inside.
“This should be good,” he said.
“This isn’t a good idea, boy,” Clint said.
“That’s what you say,” Leo Worthy said. “We say different.”
“What’s this about?” Clint asked. “I’ve never seen you boys before.”
“I told you,” Worthy said. “It’s about you leavin’ town.”
“There’s no way I can talk you out of this?” Clint asked.
“I think he scared, boss,” Reyes said.
“You’re right,” Clint said. “I’m scared I’m going to have to kill three men I don’t know for some reason I don’t know.”
“He ain’t scared, Leo,” Murphy said.
“Listen to the man, Leo,” Clint said. “You can’t scare me away, and I’m not going to let you hurt me. So what’s next?”
Worthy did not like the fact that Clint Adams was trying to face him and his partners down. The square was empty, but he knew people were watching. If they backed down, they’d lose face, and who the hell was this jasper anyway but a stranger who had come to town to dally with their women?
“You got two choices, friend,” he said. “Mount up and leave, or slap leather.”
Clint thought about avoiding the fight by saddling up and leaving, but it went against the grain. Besides, the spokesman was wearing Confederate colors, and the war was still fresh.
“I’m not leaving,” Clint said, “so I leave the rest to you.”
“Leo—” Murphy started, but Worth cut him off.
“He ain’t makin’ us back down in our own town,” Worthy said, and went for his gun.
The move was slow. Clint could clearly see it. Also, as the other two men reached for their pistols, it was as if they were all moving in slow motion.
Clint drew his Army Colt and cleanly shot all three men through the thickest parts of their bodies. They all crumpled to the ground.
From down the street, Wild Bill Hickok watched the action, saw the three men fall, and shook his head.
“That boy is quick,” he said.
He turned and went back inside to the bar.
* * *
“Just stand fast, friend,” a voice said from behind Clint.
Clint froze, the gun still in his hand.
“You a friend of theirs, or law?” he asked.
“I’m law, and I got my gun on you,” the man said. “Drop it and turn around.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to turn first,” Clint said, “and make sure you’re wearing a badge. If you are, I’ll drop my gun. No problem. This was a clear case of self-defense.”
“Turn real easy, then,” the lawman said.
“Just don’t get nervous,” Clint said, then when he turned and saw the badge on the man’s chest, he added, “Sheriff,” and dropped his gun.
FIFTEEN
The sheriff turned the key in the lock of the cell door and then backed away.
“Okay,” he told Clint, “now you can take your hands off your head.”
Clint lowered his hands.
“Go ahead, sit down.”
Clint sat on the cot.
“You wanna tell me what that was all about out there?” the lawman asked.
“I have no idea,” Clint said. “You should know.”
“Why me?” the lawman asked. “Why should I know?”
“They seemed to be local,” Clint said. “They wanted me to leave town.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t say.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“You don’t know?”
“Why would I know?”
“You’re the law,” Clint said. “I thought you’d know when strangers came to town.”
“You know how long I been the sheriff here?”
Clint studied the man. He was sixty, with a belly hanging over his belt. He had unruly gray hair and a gray beard.
“Probably twenty years.”
“Pretty near,” the man said. “Nothin’ ever happens here.”
“What about Wild Bill Hickok?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he’s in town.”
“I know that,” the Sheriff said. “I know Hickok’s in town. In fact, I’d expect this kind of thing to happen with him, but all he does is play poker.”
“Look,” Clint said, “there must be some witnesses you can talk to. They’ll tell you I had no choice.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the lawman said. “Well, if that’s true, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about. Look, I gotta go and get those bodies taken care of, see who those boys were.”
“One of them was named Leo.”
“Leo?” the sheriff said. “Jesus, that musta been Leo Worthy.”
“Who’s he?”
“Local, like you said,” the sheriff said. “He was always lookin’ for trouble.”
“Well,” Clint said, “today he found it.”
“Yeah, he sure did,” the sheriff said, “but so did you.”
“Look—”
“Just settle in, son,” the sheriff said. “I’m gonna take care of the bodies and look for some of those witnesses you mentioned.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”
“Good.”
The lawman left, and Clint leaned back against the wall. The window was right above him, so he stood on the cot and looked out. He could see the square from there. It seemed you could see the public square from everywhere in that town.
He watched while the sheriff directed some men to remove the bodies, and before long the square was empty again.
He turned around, climbed down, and sat on the cot with his back against the wall. He’d shot those men in self-defense. Somebody would testify to that fact. He had nothing to worry about.
Nothing.
* * *
The sheriff brought Clint some dinner that night, breakfast the next day, and dinner again the next night.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I’ve been in here a whole day already. How are you coming with those witnesses?”
“Still lookin’,” the sheriff said. “Seems like not too many people want to come forward.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Well,” the lawman said, “you’re a stranger, and those boys were local.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, somebody must be willing to talk.”
“Like I said,�
� the sheriff said. “I’m still lookin’.”
The sheriff started to leave the cell block as Clint removed the napkin from over his food.
“Hey!”
“What now?” the lawman asked.
“What’s your name?”
The lawman hesitated, then said, “Sunshine.”
“What?”
“That’s my name,” the lawman said with a shrug. “Sheriff Andy Sunshine.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “Sheriff Sunshine.”
“I’ll be back later for the tray.”
Clint waved as the lawman went out.
Sunshine.
SIXTEEN
DENVER, COLORADO
THE PRESENT
“Wait a minute,” Mark Silvester said.
“I thought we said no questions until the end,” Clint reminded him.
“Yes, but you have to let me have this one,” the writer said. He had taken out a notebook when Clint started talking, and now he was looking up from it.
“Okay, what?”
“Sunshine?”
“That was the man’s name.”
“And why are you telling me all this stuff about you?” Silvester said. “I thought this was about Wild Bill.”
“It is,” Clint said. “Just let me finish.”
“Okay,” Silvester said, “finish.”
“Let’s get some more coffee first.”
He gestured to the waiter.
* * *
Wells was already there when Dawkins entered the saloon. He had ordered two brandies, but no cheese and bread.
As Dawkins sat down, Wells said, “You found him already.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve got a self-satisfied look on your face,” Wells said. “My guess is you’re not a very good poker player. No poker face.”
Dawkins picked up his brandy and said, “I don’t have time for games.”
“Only work, huh?” Wells asked.
“That’s right.”
“Boring life.”
“I drink brandy,” Dawkins said, “I eat well, and I read.”
“When you’re not working.”
“Which is hardly ever.”
“I know what you mean,” Wells said.
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 4
