Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (17 page)

SIXTY-ONE

“We'll camp here,” Hickok said several hours later.

“Camp?” Greybrook asked. “Why? We are anxious to hunt.”

“We have to have a place to hunt from,” Hickok said. “We'll make camp so we'll have someplace to come back to.”

Hickok sent the two porters out to collect wood, telling them the best kind to get for a fire. Clint put up a picket line, which they'd use for the horses later. When the porters returned with the wood, Hickok made a fire and put on a pot of coffee. Everyone came to the fire to have some.

“Since we're all gathered here,” Hickok said—Sutton and Collins had coffee, but were standing away from the fire—“I think we should talk about payment.”

“We have agreed on a price,” Greybrook pointed out.

“Yes, we have,” Hickok said. “We also agreed that you'd pay half up front.”

“Of course,” Temple said.

“Well,” Hickok said, “time to pay.”

“Edward?” Temple said.

Apparently, Lord Greybrook handled the money. He took an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Hickok. It contained half the amount they had agreed on for him, plus the addition of Clint.

“Thank you,” Hickok said.

He was putting the envelope into his pocket, and Clint was pouring coffee—pot in one hand, cup in the other—when the Lords Greybrook and Temple raised their double rifles and pointed them at Clint and Hickok.

“What the hell—” Hickok said.

“Just take it easy, gentlemen,” Greybrook said. “We don't want to shoot you if we don't have to.”

“And why would you have to?” Clint asked.

“You might do something foolish,” Lord Temple said, circling a bit so that he and Greybrook were not standing next to each other.

Lady Antonia did not look surprised at this turn of events. Neither did the other two gents, who were lazily drinking their coffee and watching the action.

“What's going on?” Clint asked.

“I will tell you in a minute,” Greybrook said. “For now, would you both please unbuckle your gun belts with your left hand and drop them to the ground?”

“Why?” Hickok asked.

“Because I told you to,” Greybrook said. “Please.”

Clint and Hickok did as they were told. Clint had to put down the coffeepot and cup to get it done. They dropped their belts to the ground.

“Antonia, if you would,” Temple said.

“Of course.”

She walked over and picked up both gun belts, then stepped away.

“This does seem to have been too easy,” she said to the lords. “After all, they are legends.”

“Precisely,” Greybrook said. “Antonia, please check inside their jackets for other weapons.”

“A pleasure,” she said. She dropped their belts to the ground, then approached. She did a quick frisk of Hickok, patting him down, but when she came to Clint, she was more thorough. She stuck her hands inside his jacket, pretty much massaged his sides and chest, and then his thighs.

“The boots,” Temple said. “Some of these colonials keep guns in their boots.”

She nodded, checked their boots, sliding her hands inside Clint's.

“Nothing,” she said, stepping back.

“All right, then,” Greybrook said. “Here's what is going to happen. As we told you last night, we have hunted every kind of beast.”

“Except buffalo,” Clint said.

“We have hunted the cape buffalo in Africa,” Temple said.

“Different animal,” Hickok said.

“Perhaps,” Greybrook said, “but close enough. No, we are not here to hunt your buffalo, gentlemen.”

“Indians?” Clint asked.

“No, not the red savage either.”

Clint got it, said, “Us?”

“Exactly,” Temple said.

“Wait a minute,” Hickok said. “You want to hunt us?”

“Yes,” Greybrook said, “we have never hunted the American Legend of the West.”

“Until now,” Temple said.

“You're crazy,” Clint said. “You can't hunt men.”

“We've hunted men in Africa and in India,” Greybrook said. “It's done all the time.”

“Not in this country,” Hickok said.

“Not even by your bounty hunters?”

“That's different,” Clint said. “That's armed men hunting armed men who have broken the law.”

“Yes, well, this will be a little different, then,” Greybrook said. “You will not be armed.”

“And you will not have your jackets,” Temple said. “Take them off.”

“It's cold,” Hickok said.

“Once you start running,” Temple said, “you will warm up.”

Clint and Hickok exchanged a glance, then undid their jackets and took them off.

“Toss them over here,” Greybrook said.

They tossed them at his feet.

“Excellent,” Greybrook said. “Now you may start.”

“Start?” Clint asked.

“Running,” Temple said. “We will give you a ten-minute head start.”

“With no weapons,” Hickok said.

“You have the advantage,” Greybrook said.

“How do you figure that?” Clint asked.

“You know the terrain,” Temple said, “we don't.”

“And that makes up for those two elephant guns?” Clint asked.

“We will see, won't we?” Lord Greybrook said.

“No,” Clint said, “I'm afraid you won't.”

“What?” Temple asked.

“I don't know about Bill,” Clint said, “but I don't intend to play your game.”

“Me neither,” Hickok said.

“Edward,” Antonia said, “make them run.”

“Don't worry, darling,” Greybrook said. “They will.”

“No,” Clint said, “we won't actually.”

Greybrook raised his rifle slightly, as did Temple—they didn't shoulder them, just lifted them to be slightly menacing.

“You will run,” Temple said, “or be shot.”

“You gentlemen,” Clint said, assuming now that Hickok had taken the same precaution he had, “will drop your rifles, or be shot.”

“Edward,” Antonia said, “what are they doing?”

“I think,” Greybrook said, “it's called bluffing.”

“I never bluff,” Hickok said.

“Neither do I,” Clint said.

“This is ridiculous,” Antonia said. “Sutton! My gun!”

Sutton picked up another double rifle and started to walk with it.

“Stay there!” Clint shouted.

Sutton stopped.

“Drop your rifles, gents,” Hickok said.

Greybrook and Temple exchanged a glance, then shook their heads and began to lift their rifles.

Clint and Wild Bill Hickok drew the guns they had secreted in their belts. They each fired once, Clint putting a bullet into Lord Temple's heart, Hickok into Lord Greybrook's. The two Lords slumped to the ground, and Lady Antonia screamed . . .

SIXTY-TWO

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

“Bill had tucked a Colt Paterson into his belt at the small of his back, and I had put a Colt New Line in mine. Both were .32 caliber—deadly enough in the right hands.”

“Like the Gunsmith's, and Wild Bill Hickok's,” Silvester said.

“Yes.”

“What happened to the others?”

“We took them back to Kansas City and turned them over to the law.”

“Was there . . . an international incident?”

“If there was, we didn't hear about it, or care,” Clint said.

Silvester finished writing in his book, then looked at Clint.

“Why did the two of you take those guns?”

“We both felt something was going on, something we didn't know about. It was just a precaution.”

“And you didn't discuss it beforehand?” Silvester asked. “You both just had the same idea?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. And how did Lady Antonia miss the guns when she searched you both?”

Clint shrugged and said, “She simply didn't look behind us, in our belts.”

“Lucky.”

“Very lucky,” Clint said.

“So this was . . . what? Eight or nine months before Hickok was shot in Deadwood?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again?”

“A couple of times, in passing,” Clint said. “Nothing to talk about.”

“Then I suppose we're done.”

“We are,” Clint said, “except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“What else are you writing about?”

“Why?”

“Because somebody is interested in you,” Clint said. “And by association, me.”

“Someone . . . who?”

“That's what I want to know. Either somebody followed you here from New York, or hired somebody here, or both.”

“How do we find out?” Silvester asked.

Clint looked up at that moment, saw Carla enter the dining room.

“Maybe we're about to.”

SIXTY-THREE

“You should have told me about this before,” Wells said to Dawkins.

“I had to make sure first,” Dawkins said.

“And then up the price, right?”

“Well.”

They were standing outside the Denver House Hotel when Carla suddenly appeared and went inside.

“What the hell—” Dawkins said.

“What?”

“I think there might be another development.”

* * * 

“Dawkins,” Clint said. “I don't know the name.”

“He's got a lot of contacts in Denver,” Carla said. “That's why John Wells went to him.”

“And Wells,” Clint said. He looked at Silvester. “Do you know that name from New York?”

“I'm afraid I do,” the writer said. “He's the same man—like Dawkins, I mean, only in New York.”

“So now they're both together here,” Clint said. “After you, for some reason.”

“And you because you're with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I better tell you why.”

“That would be nice, Mark.”

* * * 

Outside the hotel, Dawkins told Wells about Carla.

“So what's she doing here now?”

“I'm afraid to guess.”

“Look,” Wells said, “I want the writer. We can forget about Adams.”

“I don't think Adams will forget about us.”

“Not if she tells him.”

“And you told her my name?” Wells asked.

Dawkins hesitated, then said, “I'm afraid so.”

“Then we have to get rid of all of them,” Wells said.

“I can get some men—”

“No,” Wells said, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, “now.”

Dawkins sighed, and pulled on a pair of gloves of his own.

* * * 

“This isn't the only book I'm writing,” Silvester said.

“How many are you writing?” Carla asked him.

“Two,” he said.

“What's the other one about?” Clint asked.

“It's an exposé.”

“Exposing what?”

“Crooked politics.”

“In New York?” Clint asked. “What a surprise. No wonder somebody's looking for you.”

“You mean, you think they sent somebody to kill me?” Silvester asked.

“Well, how hard would it be to believe that a writer from New York went west and got himself killed?”

“So it wouldn't be connected with the book he was writing,” Carla said. “Either book.”

“Well, nobody knows about the Hickok book. That is, except my publisher.”

“Where's Dawkins now?” Clint asked Carla.

“Outside,” she said.

“Now?” Silvester asked, “You mean outside the hotel?”

“I saw him when I came in,” she said.

“Did he see you?” Clint asked.

“I'm sure he did,” she said, “and it won't be hard for him to figure out what I'm doing.”

“Why are you doing this?” Clint asked.

“Maybe I'll explain it to you later,” she said, “if we're still alive.”

“You think we might all get killed?” Silvester asked, horrified.

“Well, anything's possible,” Clint said.

“B-But . . . you're the Gunsmith,” the writer said.

Clint looked at Carla.

“Anybody with Dawkins?”

“One man,” she said. “I figure it's John Wells.”

“Dawkins good with a gun?” Clint asked.

“Real good.”

Clint looked at Silvester.

“Wells? Any good?”

“Supposedly,” Silvester said. “I mean, he kills people, so I guess he must be good.”

“And you only saw the two of them outside?” Clint asked Carla.

“That's right.”

“Dawkins got a crew of any kind?”

“He's got men he uses, but he hasn't been in touch with them lately, that I know of.”

“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.