Clint didn’t answer.
“That’s Levi Rawson.”
“So he said.”
“Fella, Rawson was fast!”
“He said that, too.”
“You gunned him and three others?”
“It looks that way, Sheriff.”
At that point, a man came running up to the lawman and yelled, “Sheriff, Wild Bill Hickok just gunned Dave Tutt in the public square. He hit him with one shot at twenty-five yards!”
“Jesus,” the sheriff said, “what a day.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Clint waited for the sheriff in his office. He heard later what had happened when the sheriff went to see Wild Bill Hickok in the public square . . .
* * *
Sheriff Andy Sunshine found Wild Bill Hickok still in the public square. Dave Tutt’s body was lying on the ground, and standing around him were Hal Jayson and two other men.
“Well, Bill,” Sunshine said.
“He pushed it, Andy,” Hickok said.
Sheriff Sunshine looked at the Waltham watch in Hickok’s hand.
“Okay, I wanted the watch back,” Hickok admitted, “but he pushed the action. I told him not to wear the watch around town. I warned him not to walk towards me. And he drew first.”
Sheriff Sunshine looked over at Dave Tutt’s three friends.
“That’s true, Sheriff,” Jayson said. “Dave drew first.”
Hickok looked at the sheriff.
“See?”
“I see.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
“Go?”
“I’m leavin’ town,” Hickok said. “I’ve had enough of Springfield.”
“Well . . . I can’t say that makes me feel too sad,” Sunshine said.
Hickok started to walk away, then turned and asked, “What was all that other shootin’?”
“Nothin’ that should concern you, Bill,” Sunshine said.
Hickok thought about that for a moment, then shrugged and walked away . . .
* * *
Clint looked up from his seat when the sheriff entered the office.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Sunshine explained about Bill Hickok killing Dave Tutt.
“A single shot, from twenty-five yards,” the lawman ended.
“Pretty good.”
“Maybe,” Sunshine said, “but not as good as gunnin’ four men at one time.”
“I don’t mind if Hickok gets all the attention,” Clint said.
“Well, he won’t for very much longer,” Sunshine said. “He’s leavin’ town.”
“That sounds like a damn good idea,” Clint said. “I think I’ll follow his lead myself.”
“The bartender backs your story that the four men waited for you outside the saloon,” Sunshine said. “You’re free to go.”
Clint stood up and said, “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“When will you be leavin’ town?”
“Right now,” Clint said. “I’ll check out of the hotel and go get my wagon.”
“Do me a favor, then.”
“What’s that?”
“Try not to kill anybody else between here and the livery stable.”
“I think I can do that, Sheriff,” Clint said.
TWENTY-SIX
DENVER, COLORADO
THE PRESENT
“Wait a minute,” Mark Silvester said. “You didn’t meet Hickok in Springfield?”
“No,” Clint said, “I saw him there, but we never really met.”
“Then why tell me that story?”
“Because that was the event that really launched Bill’s legend.”
“I thought he left Springfield.”
“I left Springfield,” Clint said, “but before Bill could leave, he was arrested and charged with the murder of Dave Tutt. Apparently, the local district attorney did not approve of Sheriff Sunshine deciding Bill fired in self-defense. He decided to take the question before a jury.”
“And?”
“The charge was reduced to manslaughter, and Bill was acquitted. Later, he met a journalist named Colonel George Ward Nichols who interviewed him inHarper’s New Monthly Magazine.”
“I remember Colonel Nichols.”
“Well, the rest is history.”
“Which I could have looked up. What I need from you is stories I can’t look up, Mr. Adams.”
“Well then, let me tell you about when we ran into each other in Topeka, Kansas, in ’seventy-one . . .”
* * *
After telling the story of Wild Bill and the 7th Calvary—which was what Silvester called it—the writer said, “So, he thought you met while buffalo hunting, but he was probably remembering seeing you in Springfield.”
“Maybe.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Adams.”
“Go ahead.”
“How did you feel about Hickok getting all the attention in Springfield, even though you gunned down three men, and then four?”
“Bill’s reputation was always more important to him than mine was to me.”
“Are you saying Wild Bill had a big ego?”
“We all have egos, Mr. Silvester,” Clint replied. “Maybe Bill’s was a little bigger than mine, that’s all.”
Silvester was scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“Okay, so what happened after that?”
Clint looked around the dining room, saw that they were the only ones left.
“I think we better get out of here,” Clint said, standing up. “We can continue this someplace else.”
“Where?” Silvester hurriedly got to his feet and followed Clint out into the lobby.
* * *
Jeff Dawkins watched Clint Adams leave the Denver House Hotel, with the writer, Mark Silvester, trotting along behind him. Dawkins was sitting in the window of a café, drinking his fifth cup of coffee.
A man like Clint Adams would know when he was being followed, but that was out on the trail. Denver was Jeff Dawkins’s home, and he knew how to follow a man without being seen.
John Wells was paying him to find out what Mark Silvester was doing with Clint Adams. He had a feeling it was some kind of interview, but Wells wanted to know for sure.
Dawson paid for his five cups of coffee and left the café.
* * *
Clint and Silvester walked until they reached the city park.
“How about here?” the writer asked. “We could just sit and talk.”
“You mean we’ll sit and I’ll talk,” Clint said.
“That’s right, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “I want to hear everything you have to tell me.”
“Well, son,” Clint said, “there’s a lot to tell about Wild Bill Hickok, but what I should probably tell you is the times we were together. That way, everything I tell you is what I saw.”
“That suits me, sir.”
“The Dave Tutt shooting established Bill as a crack shot. I mean, one shot at twenty-five yards was pretty good at the time.”
“At the time?”
“Well,” Clint said, “Bill made plenty of shots better than that one over the years.”
“I’d like to hear about those.”
“There was the time he made a pistol shot at fifty-five yards—”
“Fifty-five?”
“It was measured later,” Clint said, “and you’re not supposed to interrupt, remember?”
“I’m sorry.”
They came to a bench and Clint said, “Let’s sit.”
Silvester took a seat, produced his notebook, and started writing . . .
* * *
Jeff Dawkins observed the two
men from across the park. Silvester sat down on a bench and started writing. It seemed pretty obvious to him that the writer was interviewing the Gunsmith.
He wondered idly why John Wells was interested in the New York writer to begin with. Maybe before he helped the man any further, he should find out the answer to that question.
Adams and Silvester looked like they were going to be in the park for some time. Dawson decided to go find Wells and see what he could pry out of the man.
Part 2
TWENTY-SEVEN
DENVER, COLORADO
THE PRESENT
Clint told Silvester about the time he spent with Hickok in Abilene as one of his deputies.
“The next year, eighteen seventy-two, Bill and I got together a couple of times, once just to hunt buffalo, and another time to hunt two men.”
“Oh,” Silvester said, “I want to hear about hunting the men. I didn’t know you were a bounty hunter.”
“I never was,” Clint said. “This was a special case.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’ll tell you . . .”
TWENTY-EIGHT
RAWLINS, MISSOURI
AUTUMN 1872
Clint marveled at the paleness of the brunette’s skin as she disrobed in front of him. Her breasts were full and heavy, with dark nipples. She was a chubby girl, with a succulent butt and thighs, and a dense tangle of black pubic hair.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this ever since you came to town,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “then I won’t keep you waiting.”
She was about five years older than Clint, had the kind of lush body that would go to fat by the time she reached forty. At the moment, however, she was perfectly built for bed.
She slid onto Clint’s hotel bed and waited while he got undressed. When he was naked, his erect penis stuck straight out at her, vibrating like a divining rod finding water.
He moved to the bed, kicking his trousers away as they clutched at his ankles, almost tripping him up. She giggled as he did a dance step to stay on his feet, and then he was right by the bed and she was reaching out to grasp his penis.
And there was a knock at the door.
Clint looked at the door and said, “Wha—”
“Don’t answer it,” she hissed at him, tightening her grip on his cock.
Clint looked at her and realized he didn’t remember her name.
“Honey,” he said, “it could be important.”
“No,” she said, holding on to his cock even tighter. “I won’t let you.”
He reached out, slid his gun from the holster hanging on the bedpost.
“You wouldn’t—” she started, her eyes going wide.
“No, I wouldn’t shoot you,” he said, “but I might shoot whoever it is pounding on the door.”
For whoever it was in the hall was, indeed, now pounding on the door.
“Clint!” a man’s voice called. “Clint, goddamnit!”
“Oh, crap,” Clint said, recognizing the voice.
“Clint,” the woman said as his prick slid from her grasp.
“Sorry, honey . . .”
He went to the door, slammed it open, and said, “What?” to Wild Bill Hickok.
Hickok paused just for a moment to look at Clint, then past him at the woman in his bed.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” he said to her, then looked at Clint and added, “Get dressed. I need you.”
“Bill—”
“You’ll be back,” Hickok told him. “She’ll be waitin’.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, slamming the door.
* * *
When Clint got to the lobby, Hickok was waiting there for him.
“Clint, boy!” he said, slapping Clint on the back. “Good to see you.”
“Bill,” Clint said, “I wish I could say the same.”
“Looks like you’re makin’ a name for yourself, huh?” Hickok asked. “The Gunsmith?”
“That’s the newspapers,” Clint said, “not me.”
“Well, looks to me like it’s gonna stick,” Hickok said, “so you better get used to it.”
Actually, they’d been calling Clint “the Gunsmith” for a couple of years now, and try as he might, Clint could not ignore it. And Hickok was right. It was going to stick.
“What’s so important I had to leave a hot, willing woman in my bed?”
“And she was just bursting, wasn’t she?” Hickok asked. “Like a ripe fruit.”
“You’re making it worse, Bill,” Clint said. “What’s going on?”
“I need you.”
“For what?”
“A hunt.”
“You need me to hunt buffalo?”
“No, not buffalo.”
“Then what? A wolf?”
“Not a wolf,” Hickok said. “Somethin’ more dangerous.”
“What’s more dangerous than a wolf?” Clint asked.
“A man,” Hickok said. “Actually, five men.”
“What’d they do?”
“Robbed a bank in Cheyenne, killed the sheriff, his deputies, a couple of tellers and depositors, and a kid.”
“A kid?”
Hickok nodded.
“A twelve-year-old boy who was in the street when they escaped.”
“What’d they do, shoot him?”
Hickok shook his head and said, “They rode him down, Clint. Trampled him.”
“Sons of bitches,” Clint said.
“Are you with me?”
Clint had two images in his mind, the naked woman in his bed and the trampled boy in the streets of Cheyenne.
“I’m with you.”
TWENTY-NINE
As they rode out of Rawlins, Hickok briefed Clint on the gang.
“Their name’s Jenkins,” he said. “The leader is the older brother, Rafe Jenkins.”
“Brothers? All of them?”
“Yeah, all five,” Hickok said. “They fancy themselves the James boys, but they ain’t near what Jesse and Frank are.”
Both Hickok and Clint knew the James boys personally. In fact, Clint’s big black gelding, Duke, had been given to him by Jesse.
“The Jenkins boys are brutal, with not a trace of decency among ’em.”
“How old are they?”
“Rafe is forty, I think,” Hickok said. “Then there’s Orville, Ben, Charlie, and the young one, George, is only about nineteen. Orville and Ben are in their thirties, and Ben’s in his twenties.”
“What about their parents? Could they be going to see them?”
“Their parents are dead,” Hickok said. “Those boys ain’t got a home to go to, so they’re on the run.”
“Why don’t you have a posse, Bill?”
“Wasn’t nobody would go after them.”
“And why you?” Clint asked. “You aren’t wearing a badge.”
“They wanted to swear me in, but I didn’t want to waste the time,” Hickok said. “When I saw that boy trampled in the street . . .” Wild Bill just shook his head.
“Okay,” Clint said, “I understand.”
“So you’ll be with me for as long as it takes?”
“Why not?” Clint asked.
“I appreciate that, Clint,” Hickok said. “You and Charlie Sutter are the only two men I trust to watch my back.”
“Where is Charlie?”
“I ain’t sure,” Hickok said. “I was supposed to meet him in Cheyenne, but he hadn’t shown when the robbery took place.”
“So when they tell him you took off after the Jenkins gang, he’ll come after you, right?”
“I would think so.”
“Maybe he’ll catch up to
us, and then we’ll be three against five.”
“You and me, we can handle them,” Hickok said.
“They any good with guns?”
“They’re free with ’em,” Hickok said. “They like usin’ ’em, pistols and rifles.”
“But are they any good?”
“They’ve killed enough men,” Hickok said. “Seems like they can hit what they shoot at. But you and me, we can hit anythin’.”
Clint studied his friend, specifically his eyes. There were some moments in Abilene when Hickok seemed to be having some problems with his eyes. In fact, the night he accidentally shot his deputy, Mike Williams, Clint thought it was because he didn’t recognize the man until it was too late.
He almost asked Hickok about the problem, but decided against it. He knew his friend was sensitive on the subject.
“Bill, did you track the men this far?”
“I did,” Hickok said. “They didn’t come through town, but I was so close to Rawlins I thought I’d stop, pick up some supplies.”
“That what you got in that burlap sack?”
The sack was hanging from Hickok’s saddle horn.
“Yup. When I travel light, I just put a few things in a sack—coffee, jerky—and some extra cartridges in my saddlebag.”
“Makes sense.” It was a practice Clint would use in years to come, Not the only thing he’d ever learned from Wild Bill Hickok.
“We should be able to pick up the trail ahead,” Hickok said. “They swung wide of the town, probably figured the news had already reached here, this close to Cheyenne.”
“How did you know I was in town?” Clint asked.
“I told you,” Hickok said, “you’re gettin’ pretty well known. I heard a couple of men in the mercantile talkin’ about you. Didn’t take me long to find out what hotel you were in.”
“And if I hadn’t been in town, you would’ve kept on tracking those boys alone?”
“That’s right,” Hickok said. “I’m mad enough to keep trackin’ them myself, but when I heard you were in town, I figured I’d ask you for your help.”
“Ask?” Clint said. “Is that what you did?”
“I didn’t exactly force you, now, did I?”
“No, you didn’t force me,” Clint said. “But the way you told the story, you didn’t really give me much of a choice . . . did you?”
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 7
