“I expected you to visit my compartment on our way to Philadelphia,” she said.
“Somebody might have seen,” he said. “That wouldn’t be good for your reputation.”
“Same thing on this trip?”
“Yes.”
“What about at the hotel?”
“Cody asked me to make sure nobody shoots any of his actors,” Clint said.
“Doesn’t that include me?”
“It does.”
She put her hand on his arm.
“Couldn’t you keep me safe while you’re in my bed?”
“Oh yeah, I could do that,” he said with a smile. “You’d be safe.”
She squeezed his arm.
* * *
They rode in silence for a while, and then Hickok joined them.
“Are you ready to run some lines, Bill?” she asked.
“Not right now, Miss Hannah,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to Clint for a few minutes.”
“I can take a hint,” she said. She stood up, said, “Gentlemen,” and left them alone.
“What’s on your mind, Bill?”
“I’m leavin’ the show, Clint.”
“When?”
“After Rochester.”
“Why?”
Hickok took out a telegram and handed it to Clint. It was from General Phil Sheridan, requesting that Hickok join him at Fort Laramie.
Clint handed it back.
“You going to scout with those eyes, Bill?”
“My eyes are fine,” Hickok said, putting the telegram back in his pocket, “as long as nobody’s shinin’ a light in ’em.”
“When will you tell Cody?”
“In Rochester, after the performance,” Hickok said. “That is, if you don’t tell him first.”
“I won’t,” Clint said. “It’s not my business, Bill, it’s yours.”
“That’s what I thought,” Hickok said. “Thanks. Well, now maybe you’ll have some second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“Joinin’ the show after I leave.”
Clint was about to reply when Hickok tipped his hat down over his eyes.
FORTY-NINE
They did two performances in Boston without incident. Hickok didn’t shoot out any lights, and nobody took a shot at him or Cody.
They had only one performance in Rochester, New York.
“The theater manager said we have a sellout,” Cody said at breakfast the morning of the show.
“Don’t you always?” Clint asked.
“Pretty much.”
“Then I guess your show’s doin’ pretty good,” Hickok said to Cody.
“We’re doin’ fine,” Cody said.
“Then maybe it’s time I tell you somethin’,” Hickok said.
That got the attention of everyone at the table—Cody, Texas Jack, Hannah, and Clint.
“What’s on your mind, Bill?”
“I’ll be leavin’ the show when we get back to Manhattan,” Hickok said. “Phil Sheridan needs me at Fort Laramie.”
“Sheridan’s a good man,” Cody said.
“Yeah, he is.”
“Is this somethin’ I can talk you out of?” Cody asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“We’re doin’ well, Bill,” Cody said. “I could give you more money, if that’s it.”
“The money ain’t important to me, Cody,” Hickok said. “It never was.”
“I know that, Bill,” Cody said. “I just hate to lose you.”
“Don’t worry,” Hickok said. “I’ll do my best for you tonight.”
“I ain’t worried, Bill.”
“I’m gonna go and make arrangements for a train,” Hickok said, standing. “I’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”
Hickok left, and they sat in silence for a while.
“Can’t you stop him?” Hannah asked.
“You can’t stop Hickok when he makes up his mind, ma’am,” Texas Jack said.
“But . . . he’s getting so good.”
The men laughed, and Cody said, “No, he ain’t.”
“Does this mean—do I still have a job?” she asked.
“Of course you do, Hannah,” Cody said. “Don’t worry about that. I hired you because you have talent.”
She was relieved.
“Let’s finish up, people,” Cody said. “Jack, we got work to do.”
“To replace Hickok?” Hannah asked.
“Yes,” Texas Jack said.
“What about Clint?” Hannah asked.
“I already asked Clint,” Cody said. “He’s not interested.”
She turned to Clint and put her hand on his arm.
“You wouldn’t like to be onstage with me?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” he said. “I don’t want to be onstage, period. And if Hickok’s leaving, then so am I. We don’t have to worry about somebody taking a shot at him.”
“What about Colonel Cody?” Hannah asked. “He’s the one who was shot.”
“The bullet wasn’t meant for him,” Clint said. “Besides, he and Texas Jack can take care of themselves. Isn’t that right, Cody?”
“It’s right,” Cody said.
Clint stood up and said, “I’ll see you all at the theater tonight.”
He went to make his own arrangements for a train out of New York. It was about time . . .
FIFTY
DENVER, COLORADO
THE PRESENT
“That’s it?”
Clint looked at Mark Silvester, who had a disappointed look on his face.
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“I thought you were gonna tell me something exciting,” the writer said. “Like who shot Cody.”
“I never found out who shot Cody,” Clint said, “or if they were actually shooting at Hickok.”
“Do you really think Cody arranged for that shot, to get Hickok to stay?”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “but Jack made a good point. The only three men who could have made that shot were on the street with him.”
“And Cody never found out after you left New York?”
“If he did, he never told me,” Clint said.
Silvester closed his notebook.
“You’ve got to have better stories than that one,” he said.
“Hickok shot another light out that night,” Clint told him. “Like a going-away present.”
Silvester opened his book and wrote that down.
“I’ve got to go,” Clint said, standing up.
“Where? Can I come?”
“No,” Clint said, “I have an appointment.”
“But we could talk some more on the way.”
Silvester followed Clint out to the hotel lobby.
“Look,” Clint said, “I’ll meet you back here this evening. We’ll go someplace and I’ll tell you some good stories.”
“Okay,” Silvester said, “okay. What time?”
“Five.”
“I’ll be here.”
Clint nodded, and went to his room.
Upstairs he started to think about what stories to tell Silvester next. The kid wanted some exciting stuff, but Clint wanted to tell him something that would show who the real Bill was.
He had an hour before he was supposed to meet Carla. He decided to make good use of the time.
FIFTY-ONE
Clint knocked on Carla’s door at five minutes to noon. She opened the door and smiled at him. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress that covered her from her neck to her ankles, yet she might as well have been naked. It clung to her curves like a second skin, flaring only below the knees, and ye
t it would have been proper attire for a secretary in an office building.
“You came.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I haven’t dealt with many legends. I don’t know if they keep their word.”
“This one does. Shall we go?”
She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.
“Lead the way, sir.”
* * *
Clint took Carla to a small, expensive café down the street from the Denver House Hotel.
“I’ve never been here,” she said, looking around.
“The doorman told me about it,” he said. “He said that even a lot of the locals don’t know about it.”
The restaurant was small and dark, which suited him. He asked the waiter if they could have a table in the back.
“Certainly, sir.”
He led them to a small table and left them with menus to peruse.
“Do legends have the money for expensive restaurants like these?” she asked.
“Some do,” he said.
They examined the menu and made their decisions. The waiter came and they ordered.
“So, tell me,” she said. “What’s the Gunsmith doing in Denver?”
“I like Denver,” he said. “I have friends here.”
“Like that young fella at the hotel?”
“Which one?”
“The one I saw you with in the dining room,” she said. “He seems very . . . intense.”
“He is intense,” Clint said. “He’s a writer.”
“Is he writing about you?”
“Would it be so unbelievable if he was?” Clint asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m sure lots of people would like to read about the life of the Gunsmith.”
“I’m not all that sure I want to talk about it,” he said.
“So what are you telling him?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about that now,” he said.
“Well then, what do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Let’s talk about you.”
“I’m not so interesting,” she said.
“You are to me.”
“No,” she said, “I’m just a woman trying to get by.”
“Where are you from?”
“The East.”
“Where in the East?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“All right, then,” he said, “where are you going?”
“San Francisco.”
“To do what?”
She shrugged and said, “Whatever I have to do to survive.”
“What can you do?” he asked. “Sing? Dance?”
“Neither one,” she said. “But I do have sort of a specialty.”
What’s that?”
“I look pretty good on a man’s arm,” she said. “Usually a rich man’s arm.”
* * *
Over dinner Clint learned little more about Carla, and gave her the same amount about himself. Maybe it was time to fill her in on what he already knew.
“How about some dessert?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m very full. That was wonderful stew.”
“Yes, it was.” He waved no to the waiter, who withdrew.
“What would you like to do now?” she asked.
“Actually,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you about what you’re really doing with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “You’re not passing through Denver on your way to San Francisco. You live here. So what are you doing in the Denver House Hotel?”
She lifted her chin and said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
“You were trying to meet me.”
“Well, aren’t we full of ourselves?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Clint said. “I think somebody sent you to meet me.”
“For what reason?”
“That I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe they’re just trying to find out what I’m doing in Denver.”
“And what are you doing in Denver?”
“Maybe I’m just talking to a writer,” Clint said. “I take it you’re not going to tell me who sent you?”
“What makes you think you know about me?”
“Carla Mercer,” he said. “You’ve been arrested a few times as a pickpocket and con woman. I don’t know what you’re doing these days. Maybe you’re just trying to bamboozle men like me.”
“What kind of man do you think you are?”
“Apparently,” he said, “I’m the kind of man you think can be fooled by a pretty face.”
“Is that all you think I am?” she asked. “A pretty face?”
“I think you know you’re a lot more than that, Carla,” Clint said.
“Well,” she said, “since I’m clearly not going to accomplish what I set out to, I guess I might as well go home.” She stood up.
“Let me walk you back to the hotel,” he said.
“I’m not going back to the hotel.”
“You have a room there,” he said. “You’ll have to check out and settle your bill.”
She laughed.
“If I’m the pickpocket and con woman you say I am, why would I pause at walking away from a hotel bill?”
“Maybe to prove to me I’m wrong.” Actually, she’d be proving Rick Hartman wrong. Clint had sent a telegram to Rick in Labyrinth to see if he knew anything about a woman named Carla Mercer in Denver. He wondered why Carla was using her real name.
“You know what?” she said. “I think I will let you walk me back to the hotel.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Maybe just to confuse you a bit.”
* * *
Clint walked Carla back to the Denver House, waited while she packed.
“We better go down and check out,” he said.
She turned and looked at him, then said, “It’s a shame to waste this great big bed, don’t you think? I mean, I could check out . . . after?”
He thought a moment, studied her. She was a beautiful woman—too beautiful to pass up.
“Sounds like a good idea,” he said, taking her into his arms.
* * *
The bed got quite a workout.
Clint peeled Carla naked, explored her body with his hands and mouth while she writhed beneath him. Then she undressed him and did the same. She teased his hard cock with her lips and tongue, then slid up on him and mounted him, dangling her pendulous breasts in his face while he nibbled on her nipples.
She rode him hard, but before she could finish, he flipped her over onto her back without pulling his cock out of her. She gasped as he got to his knees and began to drive himself in and out of her. He worked her as long as he could without coming, then withdrew.
“What—wait,” she said. “Why are you stopping?”
“I’m not stopping,” he said. “I’m making an adjustment.”
“What kind of adjustment?”
He slid down between her thighs and pressed his face to her wet, fragrant pussy.
“Oh,” she said as his tongue went to work, “that kind of adj—oooh.”
She reached down to wrap her fingers in his hair . . .
* * *
Clint took her to the front desk to pay her bill. That done, he walked her outside.
“Are you going to be in trouble?” he asked.
“Not if you’ll give me something. Even if it’s a lie. Just something I can give to . . . well, something I can give.”
Clint studied her for a moment, then said, “I’m just
telling tales to a writer, Carla. Just telling tales.”
She started away, then stopped.
“Are you just going to let me walk away?” she asked. “Without telling you who I work for?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I do,” she said. “But I can’t.”
“Then I’d have to torture you to get it out of you.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and said, “I’m not going to do that.”
She nodded, and walked away.
* * *
When Dawkins opened his door, he found Carla in the hall.
“Come on in,” he said.
She entered and he closed the door. He turned to face her.
“Find out something for me?” he asked her.
“Maybe.”
“You mean, you don’t know?”
“He wasn’t fooled, Jeff.”
“You couldn’t fool him?”
“He’s too smart,” she said. “Figured me out. Even found out what I am.”
“So I guess this is the first time you didn’t do me any good, Carla.”
“Like I said, maybe.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He told me what he’s been doing,” she said. “All that remains is for you to believe him or not.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s been telling that young writer tales,” she said.
“That’s it?” he asked. “Just tales?”
She laughed and said, “Tall tales, I bet.”
Dawkins scratched his head.
“Don’t reckon I can tell John Wells that and charge him for it,” Dawkins said.
“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry. That’s all I managed to get. Oh, and you owe me for the hotel.”
“You mean . . . you paid the bill?”
She laughed and said, “Yeah, he got me to do that.”
“Seems like Mr. Adams had quite an effect on you, Carla.”
“Maybe that’s the way it is with those legends,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dawkins said, “legends.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I’ll meet with Wells tomorrow,” Dawkins said. “I think maybe it’s time I find out what he really wants with that writer.”
“Maybe he’s just looking for some tall tales, Jeff,” Carla said.
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 13
