Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (7 page)

TWENTY-TWO

Clint entered the small saloon, which was almost empty, and ordered a beer from the sleepy bartender.

“Not much going on, is there?” Clint asked.

“Not here,” the bartender said. “Not ever here.”

Clint turned to glance at the door, waiting for the man who had been following him to come in. He didn't.

He never did.

* * * 

Gant saw the three men walking down the street and waved at them.

“Where is he?” Williams said.

“In the Empty Holster Saloon.”

“That place is always empty,” Levi said.

“Good thing you didn't follow him inside,” Williams said.

“Why would I?” Gant asked. “I wouldn't wanna face him alone.”

“That was smart,” Levi said.

Williams and McQueen exchanged a glance. Neither of them had ever said that about anything Gant had done before.

“So what now?” McQueen asked.

“We know he's in there, right?” Levi asked.

“That's right,” Gant said.

“Then we'll just wait for him to come out.”

* * * 

Hickok left the Straight Flush Saloon and started walking down the street toward the public square. Getting out of the saloon into the open air, he realized that he was antsy to be on his way. Springfield had fulfilled its purpose as a place for him to wind down after the war ended.

All he had to do was get his watch back.

* * * 

Dave Tutt and Wild Bill Hickok were heading for their showdown. It was as if each knew the other would be waiting for him, so they both walked to the public square.

Each of them drew observers with them, but one of those was not Clint Adams. He was still in the saloon, finishing his beer and wondering about the man who had followed him.

He was heading for his own showdown.

Again.

TWENTY-THREE

Clint walked to the batwing doors and looked outside. His man had been joined by three more. So it was to be four this time.

“Friends of yours?” the bartender asked.

“Not exactly.”

“You're the fella who gunned down Leo Worthy and two others in the square, right?”

Clint turned and looked at the man.

“Hey, I got no beef with you,” the man said. “I'm just sayin'.”

“Yes,” Clint said, “I did that.”

“So these are friends of theirs, then.”

“Apparently.”

“There's a back way,” the bartender said.

“I can't do that,” Clint said. “If word got out that I ran, I'd never be able to show myself in a town again.”

“I guess I can see that,” the bartender said. “You took three. Do you think you can take four?”

“I guess we're going to find out,” Clint said, and stepped through the batwing doors.

* * * 

Dave Tutt reached the public square, which was empty. Word had gotten out that he was heading that way. Unbeknownst to him, word had also spread that Hickok was on his way as well.

All he knew when he reached the square was that no one was there . . . until Hickok appeared.

* * * 

As Hickok approached the square, he also noticed the empty streets. When he got there, he saw Dave Tutt standing about fifty yards away from him. The sun glinted off the chain hanging from his vest.

The watch.

* * * 

As Clint stepped through the doors, the four men across the street spread out. But Clint could see that they were favoring one man as the leader. They wouldn't move until he did.

The street was empty, and nobody seemed to be watching from windows. Something else must have been going on that had the people's attention. Clint didn't care. He didn't crave an audience anyway.

* * * 

Levi was concerned.

The streets were empty. That was okay. But normally you'd see people watching from their doors or windows, or from an alley, or from cover. There was nobody here. What was going on?

* * * 

Dave Tutt stopped walking, but didn't say a word. He knew they were being watched from all around them. Plenty of witnesses.

The time had finally come.

* * * 

Hickok spotted Tutt and stopped.

“Dave,” he called, “I told you not to wear that watch around town.”

“Why not?” Tutt called. “It's mine.”

“You're pushin' this, Dave,” Hickok said, “not me.”

The two men glared at each other.

* * * 

After Tutt had left home, Susannah had run to the livery, where a man named Hal Jayson worked.

“What's wrong?” Jayson asked when he saw her.

“It's Dave,” she'd told him. “He's going after Bill.”

“Hickok will kill 'im,” Jayson said.

“You've got to stop them!” she said.

“You stay here,” he told her. “I'll get the boys.” By “the boys,” he meant some of Dave's friends. Tutt had friends in town; Hickok didn't.

He only hoped they weren't too afraid of Hickok to help.

* * * 

Clint stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

“Just stay right there, friend,” the spokesman shouted.

“What's on your mind?”

“You gunned down some friends of ours,” the man said. “We ain't gonna let you get away with that. Not in this town.”

“What's your name?”

The man hesitated, then said, “Levi Rawson.”

“Mr. Rawson,” Clint said, “you and your friends are making a mistake, the same mistake your other friends made. They paid the price. I don't think you want to pay also.”

“You're the one's gonna pay, mister,” Levi said, hiking up his gun belt.

“You fancy yourself pretty good with that shooting iron, huh?”

“Damned good.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

If Levi and the others thought he was afraid, they were wrong. What he was afraid of was that a man who thought he was good with a gun was hard to talk out of using it.

“Okay,” he said, “the play is yours.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Hal Jayson and three other men, all armed, reached the square before any shooting could start. They stood off to one side. Both Tutt and Hickok knew they were there.

“What do we do?” one of them asked Jayson.

“We wait,” Jayson said. He knew Susannah wanted him to stop what was going to happen, but he knew Dave Tutt would not appreciate that. So he was just there to back his friend's play.

* * * 

Tutt saw his friends, but knew they wouldn't interfere. He also knew he and Hickok were too far apart. He had to close the gap, so he started walking.

* * * 

“Don't do it, Dave,” Wild Bill Hickok called. “Don't start walkin' toward me. Not with bad intentions.”

But Tutt kept coming.

Forty yards.

Thirty.

“Dave . . .” Hickok said warningly.

At twenty-five yards, Tutt reached for his gun.

* * * 

Clint watched Levi Rawson carefully. When the man went for his gun, he realized that Rawson was right. He was very good—fast anyway. Clint didn't know how really good he was because he didn't allow the man to get off a shot.

He cleanly outdrew Levi Rawson and shot him in the chest. Then he turned his attention to the other three, who were clawing for their guns.

Fanning the hammer of a gun is a very inaccurate way of firing. Every time you slap the hammer with your palm, you jerk the barter of the gun up—that is, unless you're good at it, and you compensate for the movement.

Clint Adams was good at it. He fanned the hammer of his gun with his left hand, firing so quickly and accurately that none of the three men was ever able to get off a shot.

The silence was deafening after all the firing. Clint had two shots left in his gun, just in case, but he knew the four men were dead.

The only witness to the event was the bartender from the saloon, whose mouth dropped open in awe. He had never seen anyone move so fast in his life.

And then, from the center of town, Clint and the bartender heard two shots.

Two shots almost fired as one.

* * * 

In the square, Dave Tutt went for his gun, figuring twenty-five yards was close enough. It was, in fact, very difficult to make an accurate shot from that distance.

But Wild Bill Hickok drew his gun and fired one shot.

Dave Tutt fired as well, but no one knew where his shot had gone, or if it had come a split second before Hickok's, or after. All anyone knew was that Dave Tutt was left sprawled in the dirt.

Hickok wasted no time. He quickly turned and covered Tutt's three friends with his gun.

“Are you satisfied, gents?” he asked. “Keep your hands away from your guns or there'll be more dead bodies in the street.”

Hal Jayson and his two friends put their hands in the air, away from their guns. Hickok's shot had been amazing, and they weren't inclined to try him.

Hickok walked across the square and reclaimed his Waltham watch from Dave Tutt's body. Then he paused to wonder what all that other shooting had been about.

* * * 

Because of the number of shots, the sheriff responded to the site of Clint's shooting, not Hickok's.

“Not you again?” he said to Clint.

“It was their choice,” Clint said. He'd already reloaded his gun and holstered it.

The sheriff walked to the dead men, then looked at Clint again.

“Four this time?”

Clint didn't answer.

“That's Levi Rawson.”

“So he said.”

“Fella, Rawson was fast!”

“He said that, too.”

“You gunned him and three others?”

“It looks that way, Sheriff.”

At that point, a man came running up to the lawman and yelled, “Sheriff, Wild Bill Hickok just gunned Dave Tutt in the public square. He hit him with one shot at twenty-five yards!”

“Jesus,” the sheriff said, “what a day.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Clint waited for the sheriff in his office. He heard later what had happened when the sheriff went to see Wild Bill Hickok in the public square . . .

* * * 

Sheriff Andy Sunshine found Wild Bill Hickok still in the public square. Dave Tutt's body was lying on the ground, and standing around him were Hal Jayson and two other men.

“Well, Bill,” Sunshine said.

“He pushed it, Andy,” Hickok said.

Sheriff Sunshine looked at the Waltham watch in Hickok's hand.

“Okay, I wanted the watch back,” Hickok admitted, “but he pushed the action. I told him not to wear the watch around town. I warned him not to walk towards me. And he drew first.”

Sheriff Sunshine looked over at Dave Tutt's three friends.

“That's true, Sheriff,” Jayson said. “Dave drew first.”

Hickok looked at the sheriff.

“See?”

“I see.”

“Then I'm free to go?”

“Go?”

“I'm leavin' town,” Hickok said. “I've had enough of Springfield.”

“Well . . . I can't say that makes me feel too sad,” Sunshine said.

Hickok started to walk away, then turned and asked, “What was all that other shootin'?”

“Nothin' that should concern you, Bill,” Sunshine said.

Hickok thought about that for a moment, then shrugged and walked away . . .

* * * 

Clint looked up from his seat when the sheriff entered the office.

“What's going on?” he asked.

Sunshine explained about Bill Hickok killing Dave Tutt.

“A single shot, from twenty-five yards,” the lawman ended.

“Pretty good.”

“Maybe,” Sunshine said, “but not as good as gunnin' four men at one time.”

“I don't mind if Hickok gets all the attention,” Clint said.

“Well, he won't for very much longer,” Sunshine said. “He's leavin' town.”

“That sounds like a damn good idea,” Clint said. “I think I'll follow his lead myself.”

“The bartender backs your story that the four men waited for you outside the saloon,” Sunshine said. “You're free to go.”

Clint stood up and said, “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“When will you be leavin' town?”

“Right now,” Clint said. “I'll check out of the hotel and go get my wagon.”

“Do me a favor, then.”

“What's that?”

“Try not to kill anybody else between here and the livery stable.”

“I think I can do that, Sheriff,” Clint said.

TWENTY-SIX

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO
T
HE PRESENT

“Wait a minute,” Mark Silvester said. “You didn't meet Hickok in Springfield?”

“No,” Clint said, “I saw him there, but we never really met.”

“Then why tell me that story?”

“Because that was the event that really launched Bill's legend.”

“I thought he left Springfield.”

“I left Springfield,” Clint said, “but before Bill could leave, he was arrested and charged with the murder of Dave Tutt. Apparently, the local district attorney did not approve of Sheriff Sunshine deciding Bill fired in self-defense. He decided to take the question before a jury.”

“And?”

“The charge was reduced to manslaughter, and Bill was acquitted. Later, he met a journalist named Colonel George Ward Nichols who interviewed him in
Harper's New Monthly Magazine
.
”

“I remember Colonel Nichols.”

“Well, the rest is history.”

“Which I could have looked up. What I need from you is stories I can't look up, Mr. Adams.”

“Well then, let me tell you about when we ran into each other in Topeka, Kansas, in 'seventy-one . . .”

* * * 

After telling the story of Wild Bill and the 7th Calvary—which was what Silvester called it—the writer said, “So, he thought you met while buffalo hunting, but he was probably remembering seeing you in Springfield.”

“Maybe.”

“Let me ask you something, Mr. Adams.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you feel about Hickok getting all the attention in Springfield, even though you gunned down three men, and then four?”

“Bill's reputation was always more important to him than mine was to me.”

“Are you saying Wild Bill had a big ego?”

“We all have egos, Mr. Silvester,” Clint replied. “Maybe Bill's was a little bigger than mine, that's all.”

Silvester was scribbling furiously in his notebook.

“Okay, so what happened after that?”

Clint looked around the dining room, saw that they were the only ones left.

“I think we better get out of here,” Clint said, standing up. “We can continue this someplace else.”

“Where?” Silvester hurriedly got to his feet and followed Clint out into the lobby.

* * * 

Jeff Dawkins watched Clint Adams leave the Denver House Hotel, with the writer, Mark Silvester, trotting along behind him. Dawkins was sitting in the window of a café, drinking his fifth cup of coffee.

A man like Clint Adams would know when he was being followed, but that was out on the trail. Denver was Jeff Dawkins's home, and he knew how to follow a man without being seen.

John Wells was paying him to find out what Mark Silvester was doing with Clint Adams. He had a feeling it was some kind of interview, but Wells wanted to know for sure.

Dawson paid for his five cups of coffee and left the café.

* * * 

Clint and Silvester walked until they reached the city park.

“How about here?” the writer asked. “We could just sit and talk.”

“You mean we'll sit and I'll talk,” Clint said.

“That's right, Mr. Adams,” Silvester said. “I want to hear everything you have to tell me.”

“Well, son,” Clint said, “there's a lot to tell about Wild Bill Hickok, but what I should probably tell you is the times we were together. That way, everything I tell you is what I saw.”

“That suits me, sir.”

“The Dave Tutt shooting established Bill as a crack shot. I mean, one shot at twenty-five yards was pretty good at the time.”

“At the time?”

“Well,” Clint said, “Bill made plenty of shots better than that one over the years.”

“I'd like to hear about those.”

“There was the time he made a pistol shot at fifty-five yards—”

“Fifty-five?”

“It was measured later,” Clint said, “and you're not supposed to interrupt, remember?”

“I'm sorry.”

They came to a bench and Clint said, “Let's sit.”

Silvester took a seat, produced his notebook, and started writing . . .

* * * 

Jeff Dawkins observed the two men from across the park. Silvester sat down on a bench and started writing. It seemed pretty obvious to him that the writer was interviewing the Gunsmith.

He wondered idly why John Wells was interested in the New York writer to begin with. Maybe before he helped the man any further, he should find out the answer to that question.

Adams and Silvester looked like they were going to be in the park for some time. Dawson decided to go find Wells and see what he could pry out of the man.