by Matt Braun
“Yeah, but it’s still the cleanest.”
“Real funny, ’cept I ain’t laughin’. You’re not foolin’ anybody, y’know?”
“What d’you mean?”
“C’mon, don’t play dumb.” Oliphant headed toward the bar, talking over his shoulder. “You buzzsaw that mop around so you can get back down to the bluffs and start bangin’ away at tin cans.”
The kid blinked a couple of times, but he didn’t say anything.
Oliphant drew himself a warm beer and downed half the mug in a thirsty gulp. He wasn’t a man who liked riddles, and the boy had been a puzzle of sorts from the day he walked through the door. Looking back, he often wondered why he’d taken the kid on in the first place. He knew galloping consumption when he saw it, and a smoky saloon didn’t exactly qualify as a sanatorium. Which was what the youngster needed. When he rode into town, he’d been nothing but skin and bones, pale and sickly and wracked with fits of coughing. The saloonkeeper would have laid odds that he’d never make it through the winter. But the kid had hung on somehow, and never once had he shirked the job.
Still, after all these months, Oliphant had to admit to himself that he really didn’t know the kid. Like this deal with the tin cans. He had sneaked down and watched the boy practice a few times. What he saw left him flabbergasted. Kinch made greased lightning look like molasses at forty below. Moreover, he rarely ever missed, and he went through the daily drills as if his life depended on every shot. The saloonkeeper was baffled by the whole thing, plagued by questions that seemingly defied any reasonable answer.
Where had he learned to handle a gun that slick? Who taught him? And most confusing of all, why in the name of Christ did he practice so religiously, day in and day out?
But Roy Oliphant wasn’t the kind to stick his nose in other people’s business. He ruminated on it a lot, watching silently as the kid spent every spare nickel on powder and lead, yet he had never once allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. Not until today.
Kinch was still staring at him as he drained the mug and set it on the bar. “That’s what I like about you, bub. You’re closemouthed as a bear trap.”
“You mean the gun?”
“Hell, yes. What did you think I was talkin’ about? You work at it like your tail was on fire, but I never once seen you wear the damn thing. Sorta gets a fellow to wonderin’ after a while.”
“Aw, it’s just a game somebody taught me. Y’know, something to help pass the time.”
Oliphant gave him a skeptical look, but decided to let it drop. He hadn’t meant to bring it up in the first place, and why he’d picked this morning to get nosy puzzled him all the more. Live and let live was his motto, and he’d never lost any skin minding his own business. If the kid had some deep dark secret, that was his privilege. Most times, what a man didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, and it was best left that way.
“Well, I guess you’d better finish up and get on back to your game. Only do me a favor, will you? Don’t wear out my mops so fast. Them goddamn things cost money.”
Kinch grinned and went back to swabbing the floor. Presently he disappeared into the storeroom and after a while the rusty hinges on the alley door groaned. Oliphant listened, waiting for it to close, then smiled and drew himself another beer.
Some more tin cans were about to bite the dust.
* * *
The kid’s routine varied little from day to day. Swamp out the saloon, put in an hour or so working with the Colt, then return to his room and clean and reload the pistol. Afterward, he would stroll around town, always keeping his eye peeled for horses with a certain brand, and generally end up back at the saloon not long after noontime. There, he took up a position at the back of the room, supposedly on hand in case Oliphant needed any help. But his purpose in being there had nothing to do with the job. Whenever a fresh batch of Texans rode into town they made straight for the Alamo, and he carefully scrutinized each face that came through the door. While the long hours sapped his strength, and breathing the smoke-filled air steadily worsened his cough, he seldom budged from his post till closing time. Sooner or later the face he sought would come through the door, and he wasn’t about to muff the only chance he might get.
Time was running out too fast for that.
Hardly anyone paid him any mind. He was just a skinny kid with a hacking cough who cleaned up their messes. That was the way Kinch wanted it. He kept himself in the background, and since coming to town, he had made it a habit to never wear a gun. With the Colt on his hip, there was the ever present likelihood he might become involved in an argument and wind up getting himself killed. That was one chance he wasn’t willing to risk. Not until he’d performed a little chore of his own.
Yet there were times when he despaired of ever pulling it off, and this was one of those days. His cough was progressively growing worse, and the only thing that kept it under control was the bottle he had stashed in the storeroom. It was something to ponder. Nine months he had waited, and unless something happened damned quick, he’d cough once too often and that would be the end of it. Which wasn’t what he’d planned at all, and personal feelings aside, it seemed unfair as hell to boot. Justice deserved a better shake than that. But then, as the Irishman had once observed, life was like a big bird. It had a way of dumping a load on a man’s head just when he needed it least.
This was a thought much on his mind as he returned from the storeroom. He had developed quite a tolerance for whiskey the past few months, and the fiery trickle seeping down through his innards right now felt very pleasant. With any luck at all it would hold his cough at bay for a good hour. Not that an hour was what he needed, though. The way things were shaping up he had to figure out a cure that would hold him for a month, or more. Maybe the whole damn summer. Then he chuckled grimly to himself, amused by the absurdity of it.
There wasn’t any cure, and if that big bird didn’t dump all over him, he might just luck out with a couple of more weeks. But as he came through the door the laugh died, and his throat went dry as a bone.
Hugh Anderson and his crew were bellied up to the bar.
Kinch couldn’t quite believe it for a minute. After all this time they had finally showed. He stood there, watching Oliphant serve them, and it slowly became real. The waiting had ended, at last, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt calm and rested and cold as a chunk of ice. Stepping back, just the way he’d planned it, he simply vanished in the doorway and headed for his room.
Moments later, he reappeared and the Colt was cinched high on his hip. Walking forward, he stopped at the end of the bar, standing loose and easy, just the way the Irishman had taught him.
“Anderson.”
The word ripped across the saloon and everyone turned in his direction. Somebody snickered, but most of the crowd just gawked. The hard edge to his voice had fooled them, and they weren’t quite sure it was this raggedy kid who had spoken. Then they saw the gun, and the look in his eye, and the place went still as a church. Kid or not, he had dealt himself a man’s hand.
Anderson took a step away from the bar and gave him a quizzical frown. The Texan had slimmed down some from last summer, but other than that, he looked mean as ever.
“You want somethin’, button?”
“Yeah. I want you.”
“That a fact?” Anderson eyed him a little closer. “I don’t place you just exactly. We met somewheres?”
“It’ll come back to you. Tuttle’s Dancehall in Newton. The night you murdered Mike McCluskie.”
“Sonovabitch!” Anderson stiffened and a dark scowl came over his face. “You’re the one that shot up my crew.”
Kinch nodded, smiling. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Sonny, you done bought yourself a fistful of daisies.”
“You gonna fight, yellowbelly, or just talk me to death?”
The Texan grabbed for his gun and got it halfway out of the holster. Kinch’s arm hardly seemed to move, but the battered old Navy sudden
ly appeared in his hand. Anderson froze and they stared at one another for an instant, then the kid smiled and pulled the trigger. A bright red dot blossomed on the Texan’s shirt front, just below the brisket, and he slammed sideways into the bar. Kinch gun-shot him as he hung there, and when he slumped forward, placed still a third slug squarely in his chest. Anderson hit the floor like a felled ox, stone cold and stiffening fast.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Before anybody could move, Roy Oliphant hauled out a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar. The hammers were earred back and he waved it in the general direction of Anderson’s crew. “Boys, the way I call it, that was a fair fight. Everybody satisfied, or you want to argue about it?”
One of the cowhands snorted, flicking a glance down at the body. “Mister, there ain’t no argument to it. The kid gave him his chance. More’n he deserved, I reckon. Leastways some folks’d say so.”
Kinch turned, holstering the Colt, and walked back toward the storeroom. His eyes were bright and alive, and oddly enough, his lungs had never pumped better. He felt like a man who had just settled a long-standing debt.
What the Irish would have called a family debt.
* * *
Late that afternoon Kinch stepped aboard his horse and leaned down to shake hands with the saloon-keeper. “I’m obliged for everything, Mr. Oliphant.”
“Hell, you earned your keep. Just wish you’d have give me the lowdown sooner, that’s all. Not that you needed any help. But it don’t never hurt to have somebody backin’ your play.”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing I used to tell a friend of mine.” The kid sobered a minute, then he grunted and gave off a little chuckle. “He was sort of bullheaded, too.”
“You’re talkin’ about that McCluskie fellow.”
“Irish, his friends called him. You should’ve known him, Mr. Oliphant. He was one of a kind. Won’t never be another one like him.”
“Well, it’s finished now. You ever get back this way, you look me up, bub. I can always use a good man.” They both knew it wasn’t likely, but it sounded good. Oliphant suddenly threw back his head and glared up at the boy. “Say, goddamn! I ain’t ever thought to ask. Which way you headed?”
“Wichita. Just as fast as this nag’ll carry me.”
“That’s a pretty fair ride. Sure you’re in any kind o’ shape to make it?”
“I’ll make it.” The kid went warm all over, and in a sudden flash, Sugartit’s kewpie-doll face passed through his mind. “Got somebody waitin’ on me.”
Oliphant leered back at him and grinned. “Yah, what’s her name?”
“Mr. Oliphant, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Kinch laughed and kicked his horse into a scrambling lope. Just as he hit the grade down to the river, he turned back and waved. Then he was gone.
One last time, he was off to see the elephant.
Hickok & Cody
A Knight in Buckskin
“You have something I want,” Richter said. “I’m willing to pay quite generously for an exchange. Enough to put you and Cody on easy street.”
“What makes those kids worth so much? Why you after ’em anyway?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Guess that’s your tough luck.”
Hickok grabbed Richter by the collar and the seat of his pants and bodily threw him off the train. Richter hit the roadbed on his shoulder, tumbling head over heels, and rolled to a stop in a patch of weeds.
The conductor slammed open the door. “What in God’s name happened?”
“That feller hadn’t bought a ticket. He was so ashamed, he just up and jumped off the train.”
The conductor gawked. “Why on earth would he jump?”
“You know, it’s funny, he never said. Some folks are mighty strange.”
Praise for Spur Award-Winning Author Matt Braun
“Matt Braun is one of the best!”
—Don Coldsmith, author of the Spanish Bit series
“Braun tackles the big men, the complex personalities of those brave few who were pivotal figures in the settling of an untamed frontier.”
—Jory Sherman, author of Grass Kingdom
To
Macduff
Who gave of himself unstinting loyalty and unconditional love.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A WRITER and historian once observed, “When fact becomes legend, print the legend.”
Hickok & Cody is based on historical fact. The Grand Duke Alexis of Russia actually traveled to America for a buffalo hunt on the Western Plains. There was an Orphan Train operating out of New York, carrying street urchins to adoptive homes in the West. All of this happened.
William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody appeared in stage productions long before the advent of his Wild West Show. The plays were written by Ned Buntline and presented at theaters in New York and other Eastern cities. The success of the plays ultimately convinced Cody that “the show business” was the life for him.
James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok did, in fact, go East to appear in Cody’s stage productions. One season on the stage convinced him that acting was a sham, false heroics for the gullible masses. He discovered as well that Eastern cities left him longing for the endless skies and grass-scented winds of the plains. He returned, all too gladly, to the West.
All that is true, and all the rest is legend. In 1872, the Grand Duke Alexis and the Orphan Train converged with Hickok and Cody on the Western Plains. Heroic in fact as well as legend, Cody and Hickok became the paladins of desperate orphans. Their quest took them to New York, and the Broadway stage, and a murderous confrontation with underworld czars. New York was never the same again.
Hickok & Cody is fiction based on fact. A story of knights in buckskins who brought their own brand of justice to the streets of New York. A tale of mythical feats by legendary plainsmen.
Allegory in which West meets East—with a bang!
CHAPTER 1
A BROUGHAM carriage clattered along Irving Place shortly after midnight. The driver turned the corner onto Twentieth Street and brought his team to a halt. The horses snorted frosty puffs of smoke beneath a cobalt winter sky.
The brougham was a four-wheeled affair, with the driver perched on a seat outside. A gas lamppost on the corner reflected dully off the windows of the enclosed cab. Otto Richter shifted forward inside the cab and wiped condensation off the window with his coat sleeve. He slowly inspected the streets bordering Gramercy Park.
The park was a block long, centered between Lexington Avenue on the north and Irving Place on the south. Darkened mansions lined the perimeter of what was an exclusive enclave for some of the wealthiest families in New York. The whole of Gramercy Park was surrounded by an ornate eight-foot high wrought-iron fence.
“Looks quiet,” Richter said. “Let’s get it done.”
Turk Johnson, a bullet-headed bruiser, followed him out of the cab. Richter glanced up at the driver.
“Stay put till we get back.”
“I’ll be waitin’ right here, boss.”
Richter led the way along the sidewalk. A few houses down, he mounted the steps to a three-story brick mansion. Johnson was at his elbow, standing watch as he halted before a stout oak door with stained glass in the top panel. He took a key from his overcoat pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door swung open.
A light snow began to fall as they moved into foyer. Johnson eased the door closed, and they waited a moment, listening intently for any sound. On the left was an entryway into a large parlor, and on the right was the family sitting room. Directly ahead, a broad carpeted staircase swept grandly to the upper floors.
The silence was disturbed only by the relentless tick of a grandfather clock. Richter motioned with his hand, stealthily crossing to the bottom of the staircase. They took the stairs with wary caution, alert to the creak of a floorboard underfoot. Their movements were wraithlike, a step at a time.
A single gaslight bu
rned on the second floor. Still treading lightly, they paused to get their bearings at the stairwell landing. Neither of them had ever before been in the house, but they knew it well. There were two bedrooms off the head of the stairs and another along a hallway to the right. The master bedchamber, which overlooked Gramercy Park, was at the front of the house. The servants were quartered on the top floor.
Richter nodded to the doorway on their left. “Careful now,” he whispered. “The old woman’s a light sleeper.”
The remark solicited a grunt. Johnson was burly, robust as an ox, his head fixed directly on his shoulders. He grinned around a mouthful of teeth that looked like old dice. “Whyn’t fix her wagon, too?”
“Quiet!” Richter hissed sharply. “Try to keep your mind on the job.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Come along.”
Richter turned toward the front of the house. A moment later, they stopped outside the master bedchamber. He gripped the doorknob, twisted it gingerly, and stepped inside. Embers from the grate in the fireplace faintly lighted the room. He moved closer to the bed.
A man and a woman lay fast asleep. The man was strikingly handsome, the woman a classic beauty, both in their early thirties. Her hair was loose, fanned over the pillow, dark as a raven’s wing. He snored lightly, covers drawn to his chin.
In the glow of the fireplace, Richter’s features were hard and angular. He was lean and wiry, with muddy deep-set eyes, and a razored mouth. He stared at the couple for an instant, his expression implacable. Then he pulled a bottle of ether from his overcoat pocket.
Johnson moved forward with two rags. Richter doused them with ether, quickly stoppered the bottle, and returned it to his pocket. He took one of the rags from Johnson and they walked to opposite sides of the bed. Neither of them hesitated, Johnson working on the man and Richter the woman. They clamped the rags down tight, covering nostrils and mouth.
The man arched up from the bed, his hands clawing at the rag. Johnson grabbed him in a headlock, immobilizing him with brute strength, and forced him to breath deeply. The woman’s eyes fluttered open and she gasped, inhaling raw ether; she struggled only briefly in Richter’s arms. Hardly a minute passed before they were both unconscious, sprawled on the bed.
