“I doubt that, Carla,” Dawkins said. “I really doubt that.”
FIFTY-TWO
Clint woke the next morning, wondering who was behind Carla and what his next move would be. He looked out his window at the doorways and rooftops across the street, didn’t see anybody watching the hotel.
He got dressed and went down to the lobby, expecting to see young Silvester there, but the writer was nowhere to be seen. He went to the front desk.
“Have you seen Mr. Silvester today?” he asked.
“The writer? He was down here a little while ago. Looked like he was waiting for somebody.”
“Then where did he go?”
“Well, a man came into the lobby, talked to him, and they walked out together.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I don’t know. About fifteen minutes, I guess.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Tall fella in dark clothes. That was all I could see from here.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He headed for the door. Maybe the doorman could tell him more. He wondered if whoever had sent Carla after him had already made his next move.
* * *
Down the street, in a small saloon, Jeff Dawkins was buying Mark Silvester a drink.
“It’s a little early for drinking, isn’t it?” Silvester asked.
“Not in Denver,” Dawkins said. “Not in the West. It’s always time for a drink.”
The bartender brought them their drinks.
“So tell me, Mr. Dawkins,” Silvester said, “how did you know I was in Denver? And that I’d be at the Denver House?”
“Denver’s my city, Mr. Silvester,” Dawkins said. “I heard there was a big-time writer in town from New York.”
“Well, I don’t know how big-time I am,” Silvester said.
“Who else but a big-time writer would be writing a book about the Gunsmith?” he asked.
“Who says I’m writing a book about the Gunsmith?” Silvester asked.
“Well, you’ve been seen around town talking with Clint Adams, taking notes. It’s assumed you’ve been taking notes for a book.”
“Well, I’ve been taking notes, all right,” Silvester said, “but not about Clint Adams.”
“Oh?”
“I’m writing a book about Wild Bill Hickok,” Silvester said.
“And Clint Adams is helping you with that?”
“Yes,” Silvester said. “He was good friends with Hickok. He knows a lot of stories.”
Dawkins thought about that. If Silvester was only talking to Adams about Hickok, what did that have to do with John Wells?
“Another drink, gents?” the bartender asked.
“Not for me,” Silvester said. “I have to go and meet Clint Adams in the lobby. I’m already late. Thank you for the drink.”
“Sure,” Dawkins said, “sure. Look, I’ll be around. If there’s anything I can do to help you, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dawkins,” Silvester said.
As the writer left, Dawkins said to the bartender, “Maybe I will have another drink.”
* * *
All the doorman was able to tell Clint was that Mark Silvester had walked off down the street with a tall man in dark clothes.
“You didn’t know who he was?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ever seen him before?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay, thanks. If you see Mark Silvester, tell him I’m in the dining room, will you?”
* * *
Clint was eating breakfast when Silvester walked in and joined him.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You smell like whiskey.”
“I had a drink.”
“Kind of early, isn’t it?”
“In the West? I thought it was always time for a drink.”
“Who told you that?”
“Fella named Dawkins.”
“That who you were drinking with?”
“Just one drink.”
“And what did he want to know?”
Silvester laughed.
“He thought I was writing a book about you.”
“And you told him different?”
“Sure, I told him I was writing about Hickok and you were helping me,” Silvester said. “Any reason I shouldn’t have told him that?”
“I can think of a few.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have any idea who the man was, do you?” Clint asked. “How did he know where to find you? Or that we’ve been talking?”
“He said he—”
“I’ll tell you how,” Clint said. “He’s been watching us.”
“But . . . why?”
“Maybe that’s something you should’ve asked him while you two were drinking together.”
“One drink, I said.”
“Well, it’s enough if you’re not used to it,” Clint said. “You better get some food into your belly.” He waved for the waiter.
“Can we talk—”
“Later,” Clint said. “First you eat.”
FIFTY-THREE
Dawkins entered the saloon, saw John Wells sitting at a table drinking coffee.
“Mind if I join you?” Dawkins asked.
Wells looked up at Dawkins. He was used to seeing the man in the evenings, not in the morning.
“How’d you know I was here?” Wells asked.
“My town,” Dawkins said, sitting across from the man.
“Are you watching me?”
“No,” Dawkins said. “I just happened to be passing by and saw you here. Thought I’d join you for a cup of coffee.” He waved a waiter over, asked for a cup.
“Sure,” Wells said. “Have a cup.”
“Thanks.”
“Find out anything for me?” Wells asked.
“I don’t know where your writer is staying, but he’s been seen around the Denver House Hotel.”
“Talking to Clint Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Find out what he’s doing here?”
“Not yet,” Dawkins said, sitting back with his cup. “But I’m working on it.”
* * *
Carla sat up in Dawkins’s bed. He’d fucked her good and hard before he got dressed and went out. But this time good and hard hadn’t been good enough.
She still thought about what it was like to be in bed with the Gunsmith. If she’d played him differently, she might have become his lover, rather than a causal fling. But she’d been taken by surprise when he saw right through her. No man had ever done that to her before. Some con woman she turned out to be.
She didn’t know what Dawkins wanted with Clint Adams, but suddenly she wished she had given him Jeff Dawkins’s name. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
She quickly got herself cleaned up and dressed, and left the room.
* * *
Clint and Silvester finished their breakfast and the waiter cleared the table.
“Can we talk now?” the writer asked.
“That depends,” Clint said.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you’re really writing a book on Hickok.”
“Well, you read what I’ve written so far. What do you think?”
“Okay, maybe the question should be, is that all you’re doing in Denver?”
“What else is there?”
“I don’t know, Mark,” Clint said.
“Look,” Silvester said, “I just need another real good story about Wild Bill.”
“One more good one, huh?”
“That�
��s right.”
“What about the last time I saw him, before Deadwood?” Clint asked. “Before Jack McCall shot him in the back.”
“You weren’t in Deadwood at the time?”
“No,” Clint said, “but I saw Hickok shortly before that.”
“Doing what?”
“He was guiding some British on a buffalo hunt,” Clint said.
“British?”
“British royalty, as a matter of fact.”
“Wow, Wild Bill and . . .”
“‘Wild Bill and the Noblemen,’” Clint said. “It went like this . . .”
FIFTY-FOUR
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
1875
When Clint rode in to Kansas City, it wasn’t long before he heard the news about Wild Bill Hickok.
“Bill got off the train with some fellas from England,” a man said in the saloon.
“England?” someone else asked. “Where the hell is that?”
“Someplace called Europe,” the first man said. “Across the ocean.”
“Geez, what the hell are they doin’ here?”
“Well, the word is they wanna go buffalo huntin’,” the first man said, “but a friend of mine also heard them sayin’ they wouldn’t mind gettin’ a chance to shoot some Indians.”
“That’s all we need,” someone else said, “is a bunch of limeys comin’ over here and startin’ another Indian war.”
“Limey?” someone asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard somebody call them English folks.”
Clint hadn’t seen Hickok since they were both in New York with Buffalo Bill Cody. He wondered how his friend was doing. Taking some visiting dignitaries on a hunting trip seemed to be a pretty tame task for a man like Wild Bill.
By listening further, Clint was able to ascertain that Bill and his party were staying at the Kansas Station Hotel. He finished his beer and left the saloon.
He took Duke to the livery stable, made sure he was well cared for, then walked to the Kansas Station Hotel to get himself a room.
“I hear Wild Bill Hickok is in this hotel,” he said to the clerk.
“That’s right, sir,” the clerk said. “We have the privilege of housing Mr. Hickok and his hunting party.”
“Well, I’m a friend of Mr. Hickok’s,” Clint said. “Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
“Well, sir,” the clerk said, turning the register book around and reading it. His eyes widened when he saw Clint’s name. “Oh, certainly, Mr. Adams, of course. Mr. Hickok is in room seventeen.”
“Do you know if he’s in his room now?”
“I believe he is, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“You, sir, are in room twelve.” The clerk handed him his key.
“Thanks.” Clint accepted the key, and took his rifle and saddlebags to his room. He dropped them on his bed, then went back into the hall and walked to room seventeen. He knocked on the door.
Hickok swung the door open, an annoyed look on his face, but when he saw Clint Adams standing there, his face exploded into a broad smile.
“Clint, goddamnit!” he said. He grabbed Clint and pulled him into a bear hug. “What the hell are you doin’ here, boy?”
“I’m just passing through, Bill,” Clint said. “I was in a saloon and heard that you were here with some kind of royal hunting party.”
Hickok closed the door to the room, turned to face Clint.
“That’s right, some lords or somethin’,” Hickok said.
“How’d you get involved in that?”
“I got a telegram from Cody in New York,” Hickok said. “He set it up. I couldn’t exactly say no to Cody, could I?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Especially after the way I left him and his show in New York.” Hickok shrugged. “So I’m goin’ huntin’.”
“For buffalo?”
“That’s what the men said they want,” Hickok said. “Buffalo.”
“Not Indians?”
“Wow, is that gettin’ around?” Hickok asked. “One of them lords said he wouldn’t mind shootin’ at some Indians, but I didn’t think he was serious.”
“Let’s hope he’s not,” Clint said. “We don’t need some British lord coming over here and starting another Indian war, do we?”
“We sure don’t.”
“Hey, look, I’m hungry,” Clint said. “I could use a steak. How about you?”
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Hickok said. “And I know just the place. Let’s go.”
* * *
They got as far as the lobby when someone called, “Oh, Mr. Hickok!”
Hickok turned and he and Clint saw a well-dressed gentleman coming toward them.
“Who’s that?” Clint asked.
“That is Lord Temple,” Hickok said, “or is it Lord Greybrook? I get these lords mixed up.”
This one approached them, and to Clint, he appeared to be in his late thirties, quite tall and broad shouldered, with blond hair cut short, and an impressive mustache.
“Do you mind if I ask where you are off to?” the man asked.
“We’re goin’ to get a steak,” Hickok said.
“Well, my colleagues are still resting,” the man said, “but I find myself frightfully hungry. Would you and your friend mind if I joined you?”
“Clint?” Hickok asked.
Before Clint could answer, the lord added, “I’d be happy to pay for the food.”
“Hey, I don’t mind,” Clint told Hickok. He looked at the lord. “My name is Clint Adams.”
“Mr. Adams,” the man said, extending his hand, “I am Lord Edward Greybrook. It’s a pleasure to meet you. If I am not mistaken, you—like Mr. Hickok—are something of a legend in your West, are you not?”
“He sure is,” Hickok said.
“Then it is my very great pleasure to meet you,” Greybrook said, “and treat you both to a fine steak dinner.”
“Let’s get goin’, then,” Hickok said. “There’s a steak house right around the corner that’s supposed to have the best steaks in town.”
“Then by all means, Mr. Hickok,” the lord said, “lead the way.”
FIFTY-FIVE
The steak house was called Gregory’s, and at that time of day—midday—there were plenty of tables available. The three men were shown to a table and all ordered steak dinners.
“How would you like your steaks prepared, gents?” the waiter asked.
“Well done,” the lord said.
“Bloody,” Hickok said.
“Gently,” Clint said. “And I’ll take mine with fried potatoes.”
“That sounds good to me, too,” Wild Bill said.
“Boiled for me, thank you,” Greybrook said.
“And to drink?”
They all ordered beer.
“I must say,” the lord commented as the waiter walked off, “I do enjoy your American beer.”
“I enjoyed your British beer when I was over there,” Clint said.
“Never been there myself,” Hickok said.
“I’ve only been there once, and it was a long time ago,” Clint said.
“Well, this is my first visit to the colonies, and to date I have enjoyed your beer, and your women. They are quite lovely, and untamed.”
The waiter brought their three beers, set them down, and left again.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Greybrook said, raising his glass in a toast, “to you and your country.”
“And to the buffalo,” Hickok added.
“The buffalo,” Clint said, and they all drank.
“So tell me, Mr. Adams,” Greybrook said, wiping some beer foam from his mustache, “will you be joining us
for the hunt?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Clint said. “I just rode into town, and when I heard Bill was here, I decided to say hello.”
“But surely, now that you are here, we can persuade you to stay?”
“I don’t think—”
“Why don’t you join us tonight?” Greybrook said, cutting him off.
“Tonight?” Clint said.
“Why, yes,” Greybrook said. “This is lunch. Tonight we will all be having supper. You must join us, meet my colleagues. Please, do not make a decision before then.”
“All right,” Clint said, “I won’t decide until then.”
“Excellent. Ah, and here is our repast.”
“Our what?” Hickok asked.
“The food,” Clint said.
“Why didn’t he just say that?” Hickok muttered.
The waiter set their plates down in front of them, and the three men tucked into their food.
While they ate, Lord Greybrook asked them many questions about their experiences in the West. Clint allowed Hickok to do most of the tale telling, and some of them involved them both.
“Ah, this has been wonderful,” Greybrook said when they had finished eating. “I must go and tell the others what a wonderful time I’ve had.” He stood up. “I will see you both for supper tonight?”
“You’ll see us,” Hickok said.
“Excellent.” The lord started to leave.
“Hey!” Hickok shouted.
“Yes?” Greybrook looked back.
“Don’t forget to pay the bill on the way out.”
“Did you think he was going to stick us with the check?” Clint asked.
“I know he was,” Hickok said. “I know a four flusher when I see one.”
“Did you get paid up front, then?”
“I will,” Hickok said, “in the mornin’ before we ride out.”
“He kept talking about his colleagues,” Clint said. “How many in the party?”
“Well, there’s five of them,” Hickok said, “but only two lords.”
“Who are the others?”
“The other two fellas load the lords’ rifles.”
“They can’t load their own rifles?”
“I don’t think they’re supposed to,” Hickok said. “Because they’re lords.”
“Okay, so the two lords each have a man to load their rifles,” Clint said. “You said there were five of them.”
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 14
