“But if there are more than two—” Silvester said, but Carla cut him off.
“Let me go out and have a look,” she said. “He won’t kill me.”
“You don’t think so?” Silvester asked.
“He’s got feelings for me,” she said.
“So he wouldn’t ever kill you?” the writer asked.
“No, he’d kill me,” she said, “but he’d have second thoughts about it.”
“Never mind,” Clint said. “I’ll go out and have a look. Maybe have a talk with them, too.”
“W-What do we do?” Silvester asked.
“Just stay here,” Clint said, standing up. “I’ll be back—or not.”
“And if not?” Silvester asked.
“Ask the hotel clerk to send for the police.”
“Why don’t we do that now?” Silvester asked.
“We probably should,” Clint said, “but I have a bad habit of solving my own problems.”
SIXTY-FOUR
“You want to go in?” Dawkins asked. “Or wait for them to come out?”
“Too many people in there,” Wells said. “We’ll wait for them to come out, take care of Adams first.”
“Don’t forget,” Dawkins said, “he’s the Gunsmith.”
“If there’s one thing I learned in New York,” Wells said, “it’s that all these Western legends are fake.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It’s a fact, and I’ll prove it.”
“You any good with a gun?” Dawkins asked.
“Deadly. You?”
“The same.”
“Then we’ll just get this done right now, so I can go back to New York.”
“You want to tell me why you want this writer dead?”
“I’ve been hired to do it,” Wells said. “That’s all I care about.”
“Whatever you say,” Dawkins said, putting his hand on his holstered gun.
Wells opened his coat so he could get at the gun in his shoulder rig.
* * *
Clint left Carla and Silvester in the dining room and went out to the lobby. As soon as he walked out, Silvester asked, “Are we just going to sit here and wait?”
“That’s what he told us to do.”
“But I want to see this,” the writer said.
“Are you gonna write about it?” she asked.
“I guess . . . if I live long enough.”
“Then let’s go!”
* * *
Clint stepped out the door and said to the doorman, “If I were you, I’d step inside.”
“Yes, sir!” the man said without hesitation.
Clint looked across the street, saw two men he assumed were Dawkins and Wells. Denver was not the place for a street shoot-out, but he couldn’t figure any way around it. Later, he’d have to explain it to the police—if there was a later.
The people of Denver weren’t used to shoot-outs on the street, but they knew when something was afoot. It only took a few minutes for them to get off the street.
And it got quiet.
“Which one of you is Dawkins?” Clint called out.
The man on the right said, “That’d be me. You Adams?”
“That’s me.”
“Where’s the writer?” Wells called out.
“He’s inside,” Clint said. “Where it’s safe.”
Dawkins and Wells exchanged a glance, then stepped off the concrete sidewalk into the street.
“You fellas want to think this over?” Clint asked.
They kept coming.
“The local police don’t take kindly to shooting in the streets,” Clint said. “This is a civilized city.”
They kept coming.
* * *
Mark Silvester and Carla got to a window in time to watch the proceedings outside.
“Jesus,” she said, “this isn’t the Old West.”
“It is today,” Silvester said, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
* * *
“I told you he was a fake,” Wells said. “He’s trying to talk us out of it.”
“Fake or not,” Dawkins said, “it’ll be a feather in our caps when we kill him.”
“I just want to get this done and get back to New York,” Wells said. “There’s too much dust out here in the West.”
“A lot more if you’re six feet under,” Dawkins said.
* * *
Clint watched as the two men stopped in the center of the street. It seemed there was no talking them out of this.
There hardly ever was.
He took a few steps forward, and moved away from the hotel door so the glass wouldn’t end up shattered.
“Okay,” he said. “Your call.”
Both men went for their guns. Clint outdrew them cleanly, shot them each in the chest. Dawkins was better than Wells—he almost cleared leather. They fell to the ground together, living long enough for Dawkins to say, “Fake, huh?” And for Wells to reply, “Sorry . . .”
* * *
“Did you see that?” Silvester asked.
“I saw it,” Carla said.
“You ever see anybody that fast?”
“No.”
Clint came into the lobby, saw Silvester and Carla standing there.
“I thought I told you to stay in the dining room.”
“I would’ve missed that,” Silvester said. “That was the damndest thing I ever saw.”
“You both better get out of here,” Clint said. “The police will be here soon.”
“You need witnesses,” Carla said.
“There are plenty of them here,” Clint said. “Besides, I’ll bet the police know who you are.”
“You’d win that bet.”
“I’ll stay and talk to them,” Silvester said. “After all, those men were after me. They can send a telegram to my publisher if they have questions.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “that’s a good idea.”
“Then you and I can talk about writing a book about you,” Silvester said.
“That isn’t going to happen, Mark,” Clint said. “I’ve talked to you enough as it is.”
“Why don’t we just discuss it,” Silvester asked. “After I back up your story with the police?”
Clint stared at him, then said, “Yeah, okay, we’ll discuss it.” He looked at Carla. “You better go.”
“Why don’t you just give me the key to your room, and I’ll wait for you there?” she said with a smile. “I owe you an explanation, remember?”
He gave her his key.
Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Page 17
