* * *
Ahead of them, the Jenkins gang had camped to split the take from the bank in Cheyenne . . .
Rafe Jenkins took the money out of the bank bags, counted it out, and handed some to his brother, Orville. It was the same amount he’d given to Ben, Charlie, and George.
“That’s all?”
“It’s what I give the others,” Rafe said. “They didn’t squawk.”
“They don’t live the way I do,” Orville said.
“That’s because they ain’t as foolish as you,” Rafe said. “They do what I tell ’em.”
“You ain’t but four years older than me, Rafe,” Orville said. “I ain’t gotta do what you tell me to do.”
Rafe stood tall and said, “You do as long as I run this gang.”
Orville tried to match his brother, but he couldn’t. For one thing, Rafe was two inches taller, and twenty pounds heavier. He finally let his shoulders slump.
“You wanna change things, Orville?” Rafe asked. He looked at the other brothers. “You boys wanna change things? Make Orville the leader?”
“Hell, no,” Ben said. “Orville ain’t smart enough to lead us, Rafe.”
“Like you said,” Charlie chimed in. “He’s too stubborn.”
Rafe looked at his youngest brother.
“What about you, George?”
“I’m with you, Rafe,” George said. “You know that.”
Rafe looked at Orville again.
“What’ve you got to say?”
“Nothin’,” Orville said. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“Then put that money away and start supper.”
“We stayin’ here, Rafe?” Charlie said. “What about a posse?”
“That town ain’t gonna raise a posse, not without a lawman to lead it,” Rafe said. “But we’ll take turns keepin’ watch, just in case. You set it up, Charlie.”
“You gonna watch, too, Rafe?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, “all of us’ll take turns.”
“Okay,” Charlie said.
“George, get some wood. We’re gonna want to keep the fire goin’.”
“Yes, Rafe.”
“Ben and Orville, you take care of the horses.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Orville asked.
“Me? I’m gonna take care of the rest of this money.”
Rafe had put the remainder of the money into one bag. Orville eyed the bag, then turned to go and take care of the horses with his brother Ben.
* * *
The next few days were tense for the brothers. Rafe insisted on carrying the rest of the money, and calling all the shots. All of his brothers except for Orville were content to let him.
At one point, on the fourth day, Orville sidled up next to Ben.
“This ain’t right, you know,” he said.
“What ain’t?”
“The way Rafe’s hangin’ on to all that money.”
“Rafe’s the leader, Orville,” Ben said.
“Well, he don’t hafta be, ya know.”
Ben looked at Orville.
“If you wanna take over, Orville, you’re gonna hafta make that play alone.”
“Come on, Ben,” Orville said. “You and me could take ’im.”
“And then what?” Ben asked. “Kill ’im?”
“No, I don’t wanna kill ’im,” Orville said. “He’s our brother. I just wanna take over.”
“Not me,” Ben said. “You’re gonna have to do that yerself.”
“Fine! Just keep yer mouth shut.”
“I ain’t gonna say a word.”
Orville slowed, allowed Ben to ride ahead of him, then rode up to his brother Charlie.
“This ain’t right, ya know . . .”
* * *
Hickok and Clint made camp themselves at the end of the fifth day. Clint took care of the horses while Hickok made the fire and started their supper.
They sat around the fire, eating beans with some beef jerky mixed in, and some coffee. Suddenly, Hickok raised his head and sniffed the air.
“What is it?”
“Bacon,” he said. “I smell bacon.”
“We’re not cooking bacon,” Clint said.
“No, we ain’t,” Hickok said. “But somebody is. Somebody upwind of us. That means ahead of us.”
“Could be coming from somebody’s house.”
“Or another camp.”
“But it doesn’t have to be the Jenkins camp.”
“No, it don’t,” Hickok said. “But somebody’s cookin, and they’re ahead of us. If we don’t come to a house tomorrow, we’ll know it was somebody makin’ camp. And maybe we’ll find that camp.”
“And maybe something there will tell us if it was the Jenkins gang or not.”
“Maybe.”
“But Bill, the smell of bacon travels a long way.”
“I know.”
Hickok squinted at that point, rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“Why don’t you get some sleep, Bill?” Clint suggested. “I’ll stand first watch.”
“Probably ain’t nobody comin’ up behind us,” Hickok said, “but it won’t do no harm to stand watch.”
Clint studied his friend. The usually well-cared-for mustache and long hair were more bedraggled than Clint had ever seen them before. And Hickok’s fine clothes were covered by a layer of trail dust. He was wearing his favorite guns, a pair of 1851 Navy Colts.
“I think I’m gonna clean my guns before I turn in,” Hickok said. “What’re you wearin’ these days?”
“A Colt I modified myself,” Clint said. “It fires double action now, instead of single.”
“Double action?”
“You don’t have to cock it before firing,” Clint said, removing his gun from his holster. “You just have to pull the trigger.”
“Can I see that?”
Clint passed his gun over to Hickok, who unloaded it, then checked the action.
“I’ll be,” Hickok said. “Sure saves a second or two not havin’ to cock it.”
“That’s what I figured,” Clint said.
Hickok reloaded the gun and handed it back. Clint holstered it.
Hickok went and sat on his bedroll, took his guns out, broke them apart and cleaned them, and then reassembled them.
Clint made another pot of coffee while he watched Hickok reholster his Colts.
“Want another cup before you turn in?” Clint asked.
“Sure, why not?”
Hickok came back to the fire and Clint poured two cups, handed his friend one.
“You make good trail coffee,” Hickok said. “Good and strong.”
“I figure whatever I don’t drink I can always use to clean my gun,” Clint said, laughing.
Hickok finished his cup of coffee, dumped the dregs into the fire, causing it to flare, and laid the cup aside.
“Wake me in four hours,” he said.
“I will,” Clint said, pouring himself another cup.
“Jesus,” Hickok said, lying down on his bedroll, “that coffee might keep me awake all night.”
But in moments he was snoring.
THIRTY
Hickok woke Clint in the morning with his foot and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Not as good as yours, but it’ll have to do,” he said.
“What’s for breakfast?” Clint asked.
“Jerky,” Hickok said, “and you can eat it while we ride. Come on, I want to make up some ground today.”
Clint got up, drank his coffee while Hickok kicked the fire out.
“You think they’ll continue to stay away from towns?” Clint asked.
“I hope so,” Hickok said. “I’d like to catch them out in the open, but I doubt it. The brothers like their pleasures. They’ll be lookin’ to send their money on whiskey and women.”
“Well, if they keep going north, we might find them in Billings or Bozeman,” Clint said.
“If they keep goin’ north,” Hickok said. “Come on, let’s get the horses and get going.”
* * *
After a couple of hours, they came to a camp that had not yet gone cold.
“This looks like it,” Hickok said, dismounting. He walked the camp, studying the ground. “I count five different sets of boots.”
In a different part of the camp Clint said, “And five horses.”
They met at the still warm campfire.
“We’re about five or six hours behind,” Hickok said.
“How can we be that close?”
“They’re in no hurry,” Hickok said. “They killed the law in Cheyenne, so they know there’s no posse after them.”
“But they don’t know about you.”
“They don’t know about us,” Hickok pointed out. “Let’s mount up.”
They climbed up on their horses and continued to travel south, following the easy trail the five Jenkins Brothers were leaving.
“They’ll be surprised when we catch up to them,” Clint said.
“I hope so,” Hickok said. “Even if they’re not expecting a posse, I think they’ll still be posting a watch. Just to be on the safe side.”
“I think we can keep them from seeing us coming.”
“If we keep a sharp eye and spot them first.”
It was an opening for Clint to ask Hickok about his eyes, but he didn’t take it.
“Don’t worry,” he said instead, “I’ll spot them first.”
“I’m countin’ on you to do it,” Hickok said.
THIRTY-ONE
Clint had been letting Hickok do the tracking, but at one point on the eighth day, he noticed that they had lost the trail.
“Bill—”
“I know,” Hickok said. He reined in and looked at the sky. “I guess you noticed I may be havin’ some trouble with my eyes.”
“I suspected . . .”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“Well . . . I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
Hickok looked at his younger friend.
“It ain’t fair, I know,” he said. “Before I asked you to come along with me on this hunt, I shoulda told you.”
“Bill, if you tell me you can still hit what you shoot at, I trust you.”
“I’m gonna check with a doctor as soon as we’re done,” Hickok said. “Maybe he’ll fit me with some spectacles.”
“That should help.”
“But you of all people know what would happen if the word got around.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “gunhands would be coming out of the woodwork to try you.”
“So even if I get glasses, I gotta be careful where I wear ’em.”
“Well,” Clint said, “you can worry about that later. What do you want to do now?”
“We better backtrack until you can pick up the trail that I lost.”
“Fine,” Clint said.
They turned their horses and started back the way they had come . . .
* * *
They lost about a day on the gang, but eventually Clint picked up their trail again.
“They’re going northeast,” Clint said.
“Bozeman, not Billings,” Hickok said.
“I agree,” Clint said. “Unless they’re headed for Helena.”
“You know,” Hickok said, “we could double our pace and try to catch up to them, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“I know a shortcut to Helena,” Hickok said. “We could be there waitin’ for them.”
“That would catch them off guard,” Clint said. “If they expect anybody, it’s from behind, not ahead.”
“If we do that, Charlie won’t ever catch up to us in time,” Hickok pointed out.
“I pretty much figured it was us, Bill.”
“Yeah, I know. So whataya say?”
“Let’s find that shortcut.”
“You trust me to find it?”
“You’re not blind, Bill,” Clint said. “You lead, and I’ll follow.”
* * *
Ten days after they left Rawlins, they reached Bozeman. Smaller than Helena and Billings, Bozeman was larger than Rawlins had been. It was late afternoon and the streets were still busy. Music and loud voices were coming from several saloons.
“Lively town,” Clint said.
“We better check in with the law, tell them what we’re doin’,” Hickok said.
“There’s the sheriff’s office right there,” Clint said, pointing.
They tied their horses outside the sheriff’s office and entered. Clint was willing to let Hickok do all the talking.
The sheriff, an experienced man in his fifties, listened to what Hickok had to say, then said, “You ain’t wearin’ badges.”
“That’s right,” Hickok said.
“Then you ain’t an official posse.”
“No, we ain’t,” Hickok said. “I told you, they killed the law in Cheyenne. There ain’t no posse.”
“Then there’s nothin’ I can do for you, Mr. Hickok,” the sheriff said. “I know who you are, of course—and you, Mr. Adams—but if you ain’t wearin’ badges, I can’t help you apprehend this gang.”
“We don’t want your help, Sheriff,” Hickok said. “In fact, we’d be obliged if you’d just stay out of the way.”
“Look,” the man said, “this gang—if they really are a gang—ain’t wanted in this town, or this county. If you make a move on them, and somebody gets killed, I’m gonna have to lock the two of you up.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear what I said,” Hickok replied. “They robbed a bank, killed the law, and killed a kid.”
“So you say,” the sheriff said. “I ain’t got any word on such an incident in Cheyenne.”
“Well,” Hickok said, “send a telegram. I’m tellin’ you the truth, and if the Jenkins boys ride into your town, we’re gonna take ’em.”
“Hickok—”
“And if you ain’t gonna help,” Hickok said, “then stay out of the way.”
He turned and stormed out of the office.
“You better calm your friend down,” the sheriff told Clint.
“If I was you, I’d take his advice.”
“What advice is that?”
“Send a telegram to Cheyenne,” Clint said. “You’ll get all the information you need.”
“Now look—”
“And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If I was you,” Clint said, “I’d do what Bill said and stay out of the way.”
THIRTY-TWO
Clint found Hickok standing outside.
“The man’s an idiot.”
“Maybe he’ll send that telegram,” Clint said.
“Whether he does or not,” Hickok said, “we’re takin’ that gang the minute they ride in.”
“If they ride in.”
“I saw a café down the street,” Hickok said. “Let’s get somethin’ to eat while we’re waitin’.”
“Suits me.”
Going against the grain, they got a table in the window so they could watch the street while they ate.
With a steak dinner each in front of them, they watched the street while they chewed. They didn’t see the gang ride in, and they didn’t see the sheriff leave his office.
“That moron ain’t even gonna check with Cheyenne,” Hi
ckok said.
“Like you said,” Clint replied, “we’re just going to do what we’ve got to do, and deal with him later.”
“You can say that again.”
After they finished eating, they decided to take their horses to the livery stable. Whether the gang appeared or not, they were going to have to spend the night.
They chose a hotel, and while Clint took the horses to the livery, Hickok sat on a wooden chair in front of the hotel so he could keep an eye on the street.
Clint returned with both their rifles and saddlebags. He went inside, got two rooms, then stowed their gear in each, and came back down to join Hickok.
“Well,” Clint said, sitting next to his friend, “I guess this is better than tracking them across Wyoming.”
“You said it,” Hickok said. “Sit here and wait for them to just come riding right into our arms.”
“How do you want to play this when they show up?” Clint asked.
“That’s easy,” Hickok said. “We take ’em.”
“Yeah, but how?” Clint asked. “Get the drop on them?”
Hickok pointed and said, “No, we take ’em right out there in the street.”
“They could all end up dead, Bill.”
“If they don’t give up.”
Neither of them discussed the possibility that it might be them who ended up dead.
That was not an option.
* * *
They did come.
They still had not seen the sheriff come out of his office, but as dusk came, so did five riders, coming right down the center of the main street.
“Bill,” Clint said.
“I see ’em,” Hickok said. “I ain’t blind yet.”
“How do you want to do this?”
“Just sit tight,” Hickok said. “Let’s see what they do.”
There was a saloon right across the street. It was not surprising to see the men rein in their horses in front of the place.
* * *
“One drink,” Rafe Jenkins called out to his brothers, “then we take care of the horses and get some hotel rooms.”
“One drink?” Orville asked. “How about one bottle?”
“Orville, if you ain’t gonna do as I say,” Rafe said, “then you ain’t goin’ into the saloon.”
“You can’t stop me from goin’ into the saloon, Rafe,” Orville shouted.
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 8
