Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (3 page)

SIX

Clint walked back to his hotel, found Mark Silvester sitting in the lobby, impatiently tapping his fingers on his knees. When he saw Clint, he stood and quickly approached him.

“Mr. Adams, the clerk said you picked up the briefcase I left for you.”

“I did.”

“Did you read my work?”

“Most of it.” In truth, he had paged through the book on Jesse James then read the entire manuscript on Hickok.

“And what did you think, sir? I am, of course, particularly interested in your opinion of the manuscript.”

“It's passable.”

“The story, or the writing?”

“Both.”

“Passable . . .” Silvester repeated. “I'm given to understand you know Mark Twain?”

“I do.”

“Do you call him a friend?”

“I have that right, and privilege,” Clint said.

“Then I suppose ‘passable' from you is a compliment,” Silvester said. “In any case, I'll take it as such.”

“That's fine,” Clint said.

“Have you decided if you're going to help me, sir?” Silvester asked.

“I've almost made up my mind, Mr. Silvester.”

“Almost?”

“I just need the rest of the night,” Clint said. “Why don't you meet me down here for breakfast in the morning, and we'll talk.”

“I'll do that, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “I'll do that. Will you bring my manuscript with you?”

“I will.”

“My publisher is pushing me for a finished product.”

“We'll talk tomorrow, Mr. Silvester,” Clint said, “and then you'll be able to let your publisher know when you'll be finished.”

“I thank you, Mr. Adams,” the respectful young man said. “Whatever you decide, I thank you for your time.”

“You're welcome, sir,” Clint said. “Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Clint left the young man standing there and went to this room.

* * * 

Mark Silvester waited for Clint to leave the lobby, then slapped his knee with glee. He had him! He knew he had him. This would be the best book about Wild Bill Hickok ever written.

And then after that, he'd approach Clint Adams to write a book about the Gunsmith himself.

* * * 

Clint went to his room, took off the clothes he'd worn to have dinner with his friend, and donned a pair of Levi's. He picked up the leather pouch that held Mr. Silvester's manuscript and took it to an armchair with him. He'd just about decided to go ahead and help Silvester write as accurate an account of Hickok's life as he could, but he needed to go through the young man's work one more time.

He read into the night, and came away with the realization that the writer had respect for his subject. That pleased him.

He set the manuscript aside and got himself ready for bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about what stories he should tell the young man. What stories would best describe the true nature of his dead friend, James Butler Hickok?

SEVEN

Down the street from the Denver House Hotel was a small, clean, well-appointed saloon called McDowell's. A man in a brown bowler entered, looked around, and saw another man in a blue suit with a yellow rose in his lapel. He was sitting alone, drinking brandy.

“Jeff Dawkins?” he asked, approaching the table.

Dawkins looked up, sipped his brandy, and said, “Have a seat.”

The man sat down, put his hat on the chair next to him. He was wearing a long coat with a brown suit beneath it.

“You're John Wells?”

“I am.”

Dawkins waved for the bartender, who came over immediately.

“What'll you have?” Dawkins asked.

“Oh, uh, is that brandy you're having?”

“It is.”

“I'll have the same.”

“Bring the food as well,” Dawkins said.

“Sure thing, Mr. Dawkins.”

“Food?” Wells asked.

“I wanted to wait 'til you arrived,” Dawkins said. “You must be hungry after your trip.”

“I ate on the train, but that was some time ago. Thanks.”

Dawkins was in his forties, broad shouldered and handsome, with steel gray eyes and large hands. Wells was tall, thin, almost homely, about the same age. His clothes were from New York, more expensive than Dawkins's, but Dawkins wore his better.

“I'm told you have this town at your disposal,” Wells said.

“No more or less than you have New York.”

“That's what I was hoping,” Wells said.

The bartender returned with a brandy and a plate laden with cheese and bread. Wells was surprised. He'd expected meat.

“Nothing like cheese and bread with good brandy,” Dawkins said.

“I agree.”

Wells cut some cheese and bread, put it in his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with the brandy.

“It's all very good,” he said.

“Glad you like it,” Dawkins said. “It can't possibly be the same quality you're used to in New York.”

“Still,” Wells said, nibbling on more cheese, “it'll do.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dawkins said. “Now, what can I do for you? The telegram I received only said that you need help.”

“I followed a man here,” Wells said. “His name is Mark Silvester.”

“Who is he?”

“A writer.”

“A writer?” Dawkins asked. “What, a journalist?”

“That, and more. He writes books.”

“Ah,” Dawkins said. “I like books.”

“Really?” Wells asked. “You read?”

“Is that a surprise? This is not the sticks, you know. It may not be New York—”

“Don't take offense,” Wells said. “I read, myself. I'm halfway through
Le Morte d'Arthur
.”

“Ah, Sir Thomas Malory,” Dawkins said. “King Arthur. That was very good. I'm reading some Dickens now, myself.
David Copperfield
.”

“There you go,” Wells said. “We're very much alike, it seems.”

Dawkins lifted his brandy glass to Wells, who did the same. They drank,

“Now,” Dawkins said, “tell me what you need from me.”

And Wells started his story . . .

EIGHT

Clint came down to the lobby the next morning, found the writer, Silvester, waiting for him in the lobby. He was so clean shaven and scrubbed that he squeaked.

“I'm ready,” the writer said.

“Let's eat,” Clint said.

“Where?”

“The dining room here is fine,” Clint said. “They serve a good breakfast.”

They went in, got seated, and ordered their food. Clint ordered steak and eggs, while Silvester ordered flapjacks with bacon. The waiter left them with coffee.

“Where should we start?” Silvester asked.

“Some rules.”

“What kind of rules?”

“The kind you have to follow.”

“And that means you don't?”

“They're my rules,” Clint said, “for you.”

“All right,” Silvester said, sipping his coffee, “what are they?”

“First, no talking while I'm talking,” Clint said. “That means no questions. Save them for the end.”

“Fine.”

“Second, I get final approval over what you write.”

“You're not a writer,” Silvester said. “And I've written quite a lot already.”

“I know,” Clint said. “I've read it, remember? Not bad. But I'm talking about what you write from what I tell you.”

“Oh,” Silvester said, “from this point on, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . that seems okay. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Clint said, “you pay for all drinks and meals for as long as I'm talking.”

“That's fair, too,” Silvester said. “My publisher will cover it.”

“Good.”

The waiter came with their plates and set them down.

“Anything else, sir?” he asked Clint.

“No, this is fine. Thanks.”

The waiter left and Clint cut into his steak. Silvester covered his flapjacks with molasses and cut a huge hunk from the stack.

“You wanna start talking?” he asked.

“I'm going to tell you things about Hickok you may not know,” Clint said.

“That's good.”

“They could be things nobody knows,” Clint said. “You're going to believe me.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “There are a lot of tall tales connected to Hickok, and me, and others.”

“Like Bat Masterson? Wyatt Earp?”

“That's right.”

“All friends of yours, right?”

“That's right.”

Silvester was excited about the book he and Clint would write about the Gunsmith, and all the people he knew. But that would come only after this Hickok book was done.

Clint poured some more coffee.

“I'm going to tell you about the first time I saw Hickok.”

“The first time you met?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean, kind of?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I was there, I saw what happened, but he didn't know I was there. At least, he didn't remember. When I saw him six years later in Hays City, he thought we met buffalo hunting.”

“Why didn't you tell him otherwise?”

Clint shrugged.

“Let me tell you the story.”

“All right,” Silvester said. “That's what I'm here for.”

* * * 

Dawkins watched as Silvester met a man in the lobby of the Denver House Hotel. He didn't know who the man was. He watched them go into the hotel dining room, made sure they had ordered food and would be there for some time.

He walked across the lobby to the front desk. Very often the best way to find out something was the easiest way—by asking.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I'm looking for a guest.”

“Name?”

“Mark Silvester.”

“Oh, the writer.”

“That's right.”

“Well, he is staying here,” the clerk said. “He's writing a book.”

“Is he in his room now?”

“No, sir,” the clerk said. “I just saw him go into the dining room with Mr. Adams.”

“Adams?”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “Clint Adams.”

Dawkins stared at the man.

“
The
Clint Adams?”

“Well,” the clerk said, looking around, “we're not supposed to say, but yes, sir.” He lowered his voice. “The Gunsmith.”

“What's he doing here?” Dawkins asked. He was really asking himself that question, but the clerk offered an answer.

“He always stays here when he comes to Denver.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well . . .” Dawkins said.

“I'm sure you can join them for breakfast if you like,” the clerk said.

“Yes, well,” Dawkins said, “maybe I'll check and see if they're discussing business. I wouldn't want to interrupt them.”

“Maybe,” the clerk said, “Mr. Silvester is going to write a book about the Gunsmith.”

“Yes,” Dawkins said, “maybe . . .”

NINE

S
PRINGFIELD,
M
ISSOURI
J
ULY
1865

When James Butler Hickok mustered out of the Army after the Civil War, he went to Springfield, Missouri, where, for a time in 1862, he had served as a detective on their police force. During the war, he had been a wagon master and, some say, a spy. At the time he got out, he had been working as a scout. When he got to Springfield, all he did was gamble.

Clint Adams spent most of his time during the war serving under Allan Pinkerton in the Secret Service. Somehow, he mustered out and also ended up in Springfield. At the time, James was already being called “Wild Bill,” although no one seemed to know the reason why. Clint Adams, had not yet grown into his moniker, “The Gunsmith.”

Not just yet anyway . . .

* * * 

Davis K. Tutt had served in the Confederacy, but even though the war was over, while he and Hickok played poker in Springfield, bad feelings still festered. About two years earlier, when Hickok was in Springfield, he'd had an affair with one of Tutt's sisters. A child resulted, and Tutt swore vengeance on Hickok. Although they'd encountered each other during the war—albeit on opposite sides—no violence ever resulted. But the bad feelings were firmly in place by the time Clint Adams rode into Springfield in July.

Hickok had been there a month, pretty much lying about, playing poker and not doing anything else, except maybe some trick shooting for wagers.

Clint was doing his drinking in an entirely different saloon than Tutt and Hickok, which was why he didn't cross paths with them during his first week in town.

* * * 

The blond girl's name was Kathy McCoy. Clint had met her while she was working in her daddy's mercantile. That first afternoon she snuck out from work and met him in a nearby barn, where they became acquainted on a huge mound of hay.

Now they were in his hotel room, and he was peeling her cotton dress off her pale-skinned body. Her breasts were small mounds tipped with pink nipples. He sucked them into his mouth so hard he almost took the whole breast.

She giggled, rubbed her little tits in his face as he pulled the dress all the way down to the floor. He filled his hands with her taut butt cheeks, lifted her, and carried her to his bed.

“I ain't been with many boys before, Clint,” the eighteen-year-old said to him.

“Well, you're not with a boy now, Miss Kathy,” Clint said. “You're with a man.”

She pushed herself into a seated position and unbuttoned his trousers, which then dropped to the floor. He'd removed his boots a while ago, and now his drawers followed to the floor. He kicked them away and was naked, his cock standing out and demanding attention.

“You killed men in the war, Clint?”

“I did,” he said.

She ran her fingernails over his chest and belly.

“I ain't never been with a man who killed other men,” she said.

As boastful as any young man then, Clint said. “I killed men before the war, too.”

“What's it like? she asked.

“What's what like?”

“Killin' a man?”

He studied her pretty face for a moment, the wide blue eyes and full red lips.

“It's not something you forget,” he said.

“No matter how many you killed?”

“No matter.”

“Even in the war?”

“In a war, you don't always see the faces of the men you kill,” Clint said. “They're off in the distance.”

She looked down at his cock, then took it in her hands.

“I'm sure glad your tallywacker ain't off in the distance.”

He laughed and said, “My tallywacker is very glad to be in your hands, Miss Kathy.”

“How about my mouth?” she asked, giving him a lascivious look with those beautiful eyes.

“You ever done that before?” he asked.

“I ain't never Frenched no boy,” she said, petting his cock, “but you're so pretty, I just want to.”

“Well then, you go ahead, girl,” he said. “Have at it.”

He'd had some girls do that to him during the war, but they were professionals. Once he got out of the war, he swore he'd have no more whores, not ever. He only wanted to be with girls, or women, who wanted to be with him.

Like this one. She wanted him, and he wanted her just as bad.