by Judd Cole
All Wild Bill wanted as he set out for Santa Fe was a place to lay low for a while, to get away from the fame and notoriety that followed him wherever he went. But fame wasn’t the only thing that stuck to Wild Bill like glue. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years. And one of them, Frank Tutt, had waited a good long time to taste sweet revenge. He knew Wild Bill was on his way to Santa Fe and he was ready for him … ready and eager to make him pay. But he was in no hurry. After all these years he could wait a bit longer, long enough to play a little game with his legendary target. Oh, he would kill Wild Bill, all right—but first he wanted Bill to know what it was like to live in Hell.
SANTA FE DEATHTRAP
WILD BILL 5
By Judd Cole
First Published by Leisure Books in 2000
Copyright© 2000, 2015 by Judd Cole
First Smashwords Edition: June 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Our cover features Wild Bill Hickok Vs Dave Tutt, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.
Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri
Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
To “General” Mike Mumford
Chapter One
In the summer of 1874, J. B. Hickok found himself at loose ends—the victim of his own growing fame.
His hectic tour with Colonel Cody’s show was a year behind him. That popular and publicized trip had ensured “Wild Bill’s” status as a national icon. By now, however, his face was too famous, and his hide too valuable, to permit a return to his more anonymous life as a lawman.
But “fame” didn’t automatically pay a man’s poker debts. So after leaving Cody’s show, Hickok sold his services to the highest bidder—Allan Pinkerton and his brand-spanking-new detective agency. Wild Bill became one of the nation’s first “Pinkerton men.”
For nearly a year Wild Bill survived Sioux warriors, cattle wars, railroad wars, escaped convicts, Mexican cutthroats, professional snipers and gun-throwers, and a hard-cussing hellcat named Calamity Jane. Then Hickok finally got his belly full of it and sent a curt telegram to Pinkerton. Bill informed his employer he was taking “French leave” until such time as he either returned to Denver or got himself killed, “whichever transpires first.”
Hickok had his heart set on enjoying himself once again at one of his favorite frontier watering holes, the La Fonda Hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. Bill took great pains, however, to keep this plan close to his vest. Even his sole companion on the trail, a young New York Herald reporter named Joshua Robinson, knew only that they were “headed south for a little sport.”
“I just don’t get it, Bill,” Josh protested as the two riders spurred their mounts up out of a long cutbank that skirted Raton Pass. “Usually you like it just fine when your exploits get written up back east. You told me so yourself. Said it helps your love life. So how’s come you muzzle me now?”
“Used to be it helped my love life,” Bill corrected him. “Women are natural-born show-offs, so they love to intrigue with us ‘living legends.’ It gets their dresses and new bonnets described by you newspaper wags. But comes a point where all that three-penny fame just gets lead tossed at a man. Right now, kid, I just want a chance to enjoy that love life you ink-slingers have so vividly described.”
“Well … don’t you at least want folks back in the States to know where we’re headed?”
“Actually, I’d sooner lose two jaw teeth, Longfellow. Now, pipe down, wouldja? I can’t hear a damn thing above all your jabber.”
Once their remuda string, four mustangs necked in pairs on a long lead line, cleared the cutback behind them, Bill reined in to make a good study of the surroundings. Hickok sat astride his favorite mount from their new string, a chestnut gelding with a roached mane and two white front socks.
Wild Bill’s weathered eyes narrowed to slits in the glaring heat and sun of the arid Southwest. The trained vision of a veteran scout and stage driver took all of it in at once, not searching for anything specific, exactly, but just letting the entire vista “sneak up on me,” as Bill had once explained the elusive art of scouting to Josh.
Way off on their right, pink-and-bluff cliffs dropped into redrock canyons so deep the floors were cut off from all sunlight by early afternoon. In the middle distance, the nearly barren hills had been gouged deep by jagged washes. Well to their left, a big, natural rock cistern was crowded with cottonwoods, cedars, and a riot of tangled blackberry brambles.
“Must be Santa Fe you’ve got in mind,” Josh guessed for at least the dozenth time since they’d been on the trail. “That’s where we’re headed, isn’t it? El Paso is too far for a pleasure trip, and Albuquerque is too flea-bitten. You’re a man who likes clean sheets, so it must be Santa Fe.”
Bill shook his head at the kid’s irrepressible nosiness. Josh had just turned twenty and was still a clabber-lipped greenhorn. But Bill had to admit the youth was an immensely talented wordsmith. Unlike the far wealthier Ned Buntline, who cynically lied about his dime-novel heroes, Josh created breathless drama from real exploits. The kid was also a tolerable cook. That was another reason why a bunch-quitter like Hickok put up with his company.
“Kid,” he finally responded, “you’ll know where we’re going when we finally get there. Ain’t that soon enough? Now stow the chinwag and strip your rig. It’s time to switch off.”
“Aw, man alive,” Josh carped. “Again? Cripes, I’m getting blisters from doing and undoing latigos.”
“Blisters?” Bill repeated. “All this time riding with me, and you still got female hands?”
“You primp more than I do,” Josh shot back, blushing at Bill’s insult.
“So? I don’t whine about blisters, do I, sis?”
Hickok was already down, dropping his bridle and headstall, while Josh still sat his horse, frowning and complaining. Bill’s lips spread in a grin under his usually neat mustache, now somewhat dusty and shaggy from the trail. Much of his likewise dusty face was in shadow under the low brim of a black plainsman’s hat.
“Hell, I know why you’re bellyaching so much, Longfellow. Old Smoke’s got it in for you. You’re ‘fraid to ride that broomtail devil, ain’t’cha?”
The kid bit back his reply as he, too, dismounted and began stripping his rig from the docile, fifteen-hand piebald he’d ridden for the past two hours. In this heat, and with all the climbing they’d done in the past few days, Bill insisted on spelling the horses often.
Both men tossed their saddles and pads aside, then stretched the sweat-saturated saddle blankets out to dry in a wiry patch of grass. A gut bag tied to Bill’s saddle horn bulged with water. They quickly rubbed the sweat off the tired animals, then watered all six horses from their hats—just a few swallows as a promise of more to come.
Bill studied the area carefully, then decided it was safe enough to sprawl in the buffalo grass and smoke his last cigar while the blankets dried.
“It’s got to be Santa Fe,” Josh reasoned out loud as he plopped down beside Hickok. “Anyhow, I wish you’d just tell me. I can’t file a story until I know.”
“Yeah, I counted on that,” Bill replied, his teeth clamped around his cheroot.
The kid winced as he spread petroleum jelly on his raw and ravaged hands. Much of this damage was simply from gripping reins. Bill had purchased these animals from a half-breed trader, impressed by their strength and stamina. But the backs of these damned, half-wild, Southwest mustangs could turn into hurricane decks in an eye blink.
“My editor will read me the riot act,” Josh complained. “He hasn’t heard from me in—”
“Set it to music,” Bill dismissed him, idly watching a ragged tatter of cloud drift across a seamless blue sky. But even while relaxing, Hickok rolled up onto one elbow every few minutes to scout the terrain.
“You expect trouble?” Josh demanded eagerly.
“What, eventually? Does a rag doll have a patched ass? But this time I’m hoping to stay just a few days ahead of trouble. See, I’ve got this appointment.”
“With whom?” Josh demanded.
“Venus, if I’m lucky.”
Bill sat up, stretched, then ground the cigar out carefully on his boot heel. He tucked the stubby remnant into his vest pocket.
Bill checked the blankets. They had dried quickly in this hot, dry, thirsty air that could extract liquid from jerky.
“C’mon, kid, quit malingering. We got to git. We can make it to a little pueblo called Chimayo before nightfall.”
Josh’s eyes sparked at this additional clue to their destination. He quickly extracted a dog-eared U.S. Army map from one of his saddle pockets. Josh had bought it up in Pueblo, Colorado, off an old man operating a wagon way station. Made by a military cartographer, it showed key points throughout the vast Army Departments of Arizona and New Mexico.
“Chimayo,” Josh repeated. “Chimayo . . . here it is. Yep! Just a little flyspeck on the trail north of Santa Fe. Less than fifty miles north, I’d say.”
“Actually, it’s slightly northwest,” Bill corrected him, requiring no map. Hickok knew the New Mexico Territory well from his youthful days as a stage driver operating over the old Santa Fe Trail. “Kid, damn it. I said it’s time to raise dust. Stow that map and saddle your remount. I got to tie your damn boots for you, too? I want a shirttail brat, I’ll get married and have one.”
Josh scowled, but not at Bill’s roweling. Now the real trouble would start again—the kind that had left Josh’s tailbone aching for two days now. He had only two remounts besides his regular saddle horse, a well-trained sorrel. And now it was Old Smoke’s turn to torment Joshua. The sturdy four-year-old gray was smart, but bull-headed, and wouldn’t let a rider do anything without a fight. Old Smoke especially hated the belly cinch and knew plenty of tricks to thwart it.
Wild Bill tied his chestnut’s bit ring to the lead line and selected a remount, a solid white mare. Normally Hickok avoided white horses because they were security risks after dark. But this one had been broken to halter by Tewa Indians. It had exceptional bottom on the long ascents because its nostrils had been slit wider for extra air. By now her lungs were greatly expanded, and Bill suspected she could gallop full-bore for ten miles or better.
The white easily took the bit, even lowering its head to help Bill with the headstall. He tossed on the blanket, pad, and saddle, meantime watching Josh trying to sugar-talk Old Smoke.
“Be sweet,” the kid urged the gray, tossing the blanket across its sturdy withers. “Be sweet, and you’ll get the currycomb and oat bag tonight, Smoke, wha’d’ya say, boy, huh?”
Bill bit his lower lip to keep from laughing outright. The fandango was coming. Bill continued to check his latigos, watching the kid from caged eyes.
“Atta boy,” Josh soothed. His tone was gloating, for Old Smoke had taken the bit like an old cab horse. And now he stood patiently, flicking his bushy tail at pesky deerflies while the kid centered the saddle.
“Why, look, Bill. I’ve finally taught him who the master is,” Josh boasted. “See that? Old Smoke didn’t even sidestep when I cinched the girth.”
“Yeah, he knows you’re the boss,” Bill said, grabbing leather and swinging up and over. “No doubt about it, kid. You’re quite the caballero.”
“Well, Bill! How do you like the Philadelphia Kid now?” Josh demanded after he’d mounted and reined the subdued gray about.
The youth, pumped up full of himself, let out a high-pitched yipping sound like a cowboy trying to turn a stampeding herd.
“Wild Bill Hickok said I had a round ass! Said I’d never stay on this monster for two hours. Hear that, Smoke? Now I got you lipping sugar from my hand, and famous Wild Bill will swallow back his words for once. Let’s head for Chimayo, boy. Gee up!”
Hickok, still grinning in wicked expectation, tightened his knees on the white’s shoulders. Just a touch, and the trail-savvy mount was in motion. Josh was still out ahead, waving his hat and yipping to taunt Wild Bill.
But the kid hadn’t noticed yet how Old Smoke was slyly angling off to the right—toward a spiny patch of prickly-pear cactus near the trail. He’d also failed to notice how Old Smoke sucked in a big breath just before Josh cinched the girth. That saddle, Bill realized, was on looser than a wet bowstring.
Even as he grinned, however, Hickok felt a cool feather tickle the bumps of his spine. He’d felt such warnings before. Dick Wooten, the old Taos trapper, once told Bill they were “God fears,” sent to a man as a favor by the Almighty. Wherever they came from, by now Bill knew better than to ignore them.
Cold, gunmetal-blue eyes like glittering chips of ice scoured the terrain. All seemed peaceful. But Hickok took a moment to slide each of his pearl-gripped Colt .44s from their holsters and check the loads.
“‘Bout this time tomorrow,” Frank Tutt announced soon after draining his second bottle of sour mash, “maybe there’ll be one less back-shooting Yankee coward in this world.”
Despite Frank’s boast, however, the young tough was a pitiful sight at the moment. He lay curled on his side in bed, clutching at his cramping stomach and trying not to retch. He’d ridden into Santa Fe early that afternoon, after several hard days on the trail. Elated by his recent discovery, Frank made the mistake of hitting the bottle before he ate anything.
To celebrate, Frank took a room at the Dorsey on College Street—Santa Fe’s only other “better-class” hotel. Men of his ilk were not welcome at the Dorsey. But then, nobody on their staff had the guts to tell him that. So there was no problem, Frank figured. The only thing he feared was violent authority; nothing else even got his attention. To Frank, either you were a threat or you were just another one of the milk-livered “citizens” who paid taxes.
“Yankee?” scoffed Lisa Tipton. The pretty, over-painted sporting girl sat on the edge of the big bed. She wore only a lace chemise. Lisa scowled, and cursed under her breath, as she struggled to brush out her wildly tangled red hair.
“The war’s long over, Frank,” she added. “‘Cept in bed with you. Just look what you done to my hair, you animal! You’re too rough, Frank.”
Tutt ignored her, trying to understand how he could feel so downright awful in such a fancy room. True, the very finest lodgings in the West were available at the nearby La Fonda Hotel, of course. But Frank knew a strutting peacock like J. B. Hickok would stay at La Fonda. And Frank had a strict rule: Never kill where you sleep.
“I don’t want you slapping me anymore, either,” she flung at him. “We ain’t married, you got no right to hit me.”
“Pitch it to hell! You got paid, didn’t you? Frank Tutt settles his accounts, by God. And whether it’s tomorrow or not, I aim to settle one account damn quick.”
The room’s Oriental rug and newfangled flush commode notwithstanding, Tutt hadn’t even bothered yet to change, bathe, or shave. Several days’ worth of bristly beard smudged his face. He was a handsome man, but mean looking around the mouth.
“Christ, I might hafta puke,” Tutt groaned.
“Well, is it any wonder you’re sick, you damned fool? Cold watermelon and hot
whiskey don’t mix so good in an empty stomach.”
Lisa began to wiggle her supple hips into a corset.
“Who you mean to kill?” she asked him. “You wasn’t in the war. You’re just barely in your twenties now. The war’s been over for almost ten years now.”
“I was too young,” Frank agreed. His voice was quieter now in a dangerous way. “But my big brother Dave wasn’t.”
“Frankie, darlin’, don’t be carrying no war grudge this long. Why, I lost two brothers at Antietam Creek, one fighting on each side.”
Frank silenced her with a violent shake of his head.
“You don’t know about it, woman, so whack the cork. I’m talking about murder in cold blood, not war killing. You want to know who it is I mean to kill? Well, just read the New Mexican in the next few days. They’ll write it up big, I’ll guaran-god-damn-tee they will. Matter of fact, it’ll even make big headlines in Paris and London when this jasper goes under.”
“Sure it will, Frankie,” the soiled dove humored her John. She met a lot of big talkers in her line of work. Although he was an obnoxious boaster, she knew Frank Tutt too well to push an argument too far with him. He was smart and tough and one of the most accomplished shootists in a land renowned for its marksmen. That’s why he earned an impressive one hundred dollars a month working for the big jefe hereabouts, El Lobo Flaco, the Skinny Wolf.
But Frank also had a quick, nervous manner and a hair-trigger temper. Worse, he was a brooder with crazy, inconstant eyes. Rumor had it he cut a whore to death out in Tombstone after she called his organ “a little itty-bitty thingy.” So Lisa always handled him like nitro.
“Frankie,” she flirted, batting her eyelids and making a little moue. “Draw up my laces, please?”
The stays of her corset could only be tightened from behind. Lisa braced herself against one of the carved bedposts, her taut little derriere thrusting up provocatively. Frank groaned at the trouble. But he rolled out of bed, wearing only his dirty linen drawers. He squared off behind her.
