Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (4 page)

TEN

James Butler Hickok's poke had been whittled down to nothing. He was a good poker player, but a good poker player can do just so much with bad cards. And he had been getting bad cards for days.

But while he was technically a good poker player, like most gamblers he didn't know when to quit. He could have laid off, stopped playing for a while, and waited out the bad luck, but he kept pushing and pushing, and now he was down to . . .

“This watch,” he said, showing it to Dave Tutt, his opponent in the hand.

“Lemme see,” Tutt said.

Hickok handed the watch across the table to Tutt, who examined it.

“You accept the wager?” Hickok asked.

“Sure, Bill,” Tutt said, handing the watch back, “I'll accept the wager.”

“Then you're called, Dave Tutt,” Hickok said, setting the watch in the center of the table.

* * * 

Kathy leaned forward carefully, kissed the swollen tip of Clint's penis. It was warm against her lips. She kissed it again, then stuck her tongue out to lick it. She leaned forward, pressed the hard column of flesh against her cheeks. She nuzzled him for a while, then, with a deep breath, opened her mouth and took him inside.

Her mouth was hot and wet, and Clint fought the urge to spurt immediately. She began to suck him then, moving her head back and forth, sliding his cock wetly in and out of her mouth.

“Mmmm,” she moaned as she suckled him.

He reached down and put his hand on the back of her head, left it there while she continued to work on him.

Finally, she released him and said, “Is that as almighty pleasant for you as it is for me?”

“More, girl,” he said, “much more. Now you get up on that bed and spread those pretty legs for me.”

Giggling, she flopped onto her back on the bed and did as he asked, spreading her legs wide.

Clint got on the bed with her. His intention was to poke her right away, but when he caught sight of that pale pubic patch of hair, he had the urge to bury his face in there.

Some of the whores had offered to let him “eat” them, but he had never tried it. This girl, however, was so lovely, and he could see the wetness nestled in there, her own juices.

He went without any tentativeness. The hair was light and feathery, and when he delved into it with his tongue, the taste of her was both sweet and tart. As he licked her and she became wetter and wetter, her scent filled his nostrils, and he realized that sex could be about all the senses.

He slid his hands beneath her to cup her neat buttocks and lift her off the mattress a bit so he could get at her even more. She gasped and moaned and thrashed beneath him and then suddenly he felt her body go as taut as a bow—and then she exploded beneath him, almost screaming.

Before she could settle down, he mounted her and thrust himself into her, and she gasped, her eyes going wide, and clutched him to her as her body was again wracked by spasms of pleasure. He continued to hammer in and out of her until his own explosion came, and he erupted into her in painful spurts . . .

* * * 

Across the street, Wild Bill Hickok spread his cards on the table with hope that his luck had changed, but his hopes were quickly dashed when Dave Tutt spread a bigger full house on the table.

“Sorry, Bill,” Tutt said, raking in the pot, which included Bill's watch.

“That's the way it goes sometimes,” Hickok said, pushing his chair back. “Good luck to you, gents.”

He walked away from the poker table, his back stiff, as he tried to control the unreasoning anger he felt. At the bar he said to the bartender, “Beer.”

“Comin' up, Bill.”

As the bartender put the beer down in front of him, Hickok grabbed his wrist and asked, “Are we friends?”

“Uh,” the bartender said, blinking, wondering what the proper answer was. “Uh, no, Bill.”

“That's right,” Hickok said. “So why the hell are you callin' me Bill? Only my friends call me Bill.”

“Uh, s-sorry, M-Mr. Hickok.”

Hickok released the man's wrist and the bartender quickly scurried down to the other end of the bar. In all the time Hickok had been playing poker there over the last month, he'd never been so disturbed over losing.

ELEVEN

“Where are you goin'?” Kathy asked Clint as he got dressed.

“I need a drink,” he said. “You drained me dry that time.”

“Well,” she said, rolling onto her stomach, “when are you comin' back?”

He looked at her, lying there on her tummy with her feet in the air, admired the line of her back as it led down to her butt. He felt a bit of a twitch in his crotch then, but he really did have a craving for a beer.

“I won't be long,” he told her.

She rolled onto her back then, her little tits poking up at the ceiling, and said, “Then I'll wait.”

“Okay,” he said, “that's a good idea.”

She giggled and folded her arms over her breasts.

“Don't take too long,” she said, “or I might start without you.”

The thought of that almost made him drop his pants again, but he hurried out of the room before that could happen.

* * * 

Instead of going to the saloon he had been patronizing since his arrival in town, he simply stopped at the one closest to his hotel. It was the one where Hickok and Tutt were playing, in the Old Southern Hotel on South Street, just a block from the public square.

As he entered, he saw one table with a poker game in process, but really no other gambling going on. Still, the other tables were full, and the bar was busy.

He made room for himself at the bar and said to the bartender, “Beer.”

“Yessir.”

For some reason the bartender seemed nervous when he brought him his beer.

“Your hand is shaking,” Clint observed.

“Yessir,” the man said. “It's Bill Hickok.”

“Wild Bill Hickok?”

“Yessir. He's been losing at poker, and he's in a foul mood. And he's drinkin'.”

“Where is he?” Clint asked.

“Look down the bar, feller with the long hair and mustache.”

Clint looked and saw a morose-looking Wild Bill Hickok.

“Maybe you should introduce yerself,” the bartender said.

“Yeah, he'd want to meet me,” Clint said. “Or maybe you just want somebody to take his mind off you?”

“I didn't do nothin',” the bartender muttered. “Not really.”

“I'll stay right here and drink my beer, thank you,” Clint said.

“Suit yerself.”

The bartender moved on but didn't go anywhere near Hickok.

* * * 

Losing was not the thing that was bothering Hickok. Losing his prized Waltham watch was what ailed him. Also, the fact that Tutt was seeing Susannah Moore, who had been waiting for Hickok to return from the war to resume their relationship. But a recent argument had apparently driven her into Dave's arms. In retaliation, Hickok had taken up with another one of Dave Tutt's sisters. The bad feeling between the two men was festering, and now Tutt had Hickok's watch.

But not for long.

Hickok finished his beer, and decided to rejoin the game.

* * * 

As Clint watched, Hickok walked over to the poker table and sat down. Unknown to him, Wild Bill had a stash of cash inside his jacket, which he had determined was not for poker. But the situation dictated a change of tactics.

All Clint knew was that Hickok laid some cash on the table and said, “Deal me in!”

“Good to have you back, Bill,” Tutt said.

“I'm gonna win back my watch,” Hickok said.

“You're welcome to try,” Tutt said.

Clint called the bartender over.

“What's this about a watch?”

“That feller is Dave Tutt,” the bartender said. “He won a hand that included Hickok's watch.”

“And Hickok wants it back.”

“I suppose,” the bartender said, “I'm just glad he left my bar and went back to the game.”

“I'll have another beer,” Clint said.

“Comin' up, mister.”

With his new beer in hand, Clint turned and leaned against the bar to watch the proceedings at the table, promptly forgetting about the girl in his bed.

TWELVE

Hickok's luck changed.

He started to win, but he was taking money from everybody at the table except Dave Tutt. Before long, he was a hundred dollars ahead, but his watch was still sitting in front of Tutt.

And to rub salt into the wound, Tutt began loaning money to other players at the table, so they could continue to play against Hickok. Hickok was sure Tutt was trying to get his goat, but he was determined that would not be the case. At least when he was beating everyone else, he was taking some of Tutt's loaned money.

* * * 

“Tutt's really rubbin' it in,” a man standing next to Clint said.

“How do you mean?”

“He's not only loaning money to the other players, but he's keeping Bill's watch right out in view. He ain't got no intention of putting it into the pot.”

“Why would he provoke a man like Hickok?”

“Tutt ain't afraid of Hickok. They got a history.”

The man went on to explain to Clint about the women, and went on to add that Hickok had also killed a friend of Tutt's at some time in the past.

“But Hickok's reputation—”

“Tutt don't care about that,” the man said. “If he can push Bill into a fight, he will.”

“How is Tutt with a gun?”

“He's a fair hand, but if he can get Bill mad, he'll have an advantage.”

That made sense to Clint. Drawing a gun in anger could affect a man's performance. He had witnessed that firsthand in the past.

“Still seems like poking a sleeping tiger to me,” Clint said.

“Well,” the man said, “I guess we'll just have to see what happens.”

“I guess so.”

As Clint looked around, he saw that the majority of the house was now watching the poker game, and they were probably all poised to hit the floor if lead began to fly.

* * * 

Hickok's newfound luck was starting to grate on Tutt. No matter how much money he loaned to the other players, Hickok was taking it. Still, Tutt had the Waltham watch on the table in plain sight, and he could see Hickok looking at it.

When Hickok was about two hundred dollars ahead, Tutt could take it no more.

“Hey, Bill, it appears to me I remember a debt you owe me.”

“What debt?”

“Forty dollars,” Tutt said.

“From what?”

“Some horse tradin' we did a while back. You remember, don't ya?”

In point of fact, Hickok did remember.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Since you're doin' so good, how about payin' me what you owe me?”

“I don't welsh on a debt,” Hickok said. “Here's your damn forty dollars.” He tossed the bills across the table to Tutt, who picked them up and pocketed them.

“Now can we play poker?” Hickok asked.

“Let's play poker . . .” Tutt said.

* * * 

But Dave Tutt couldn't let it go. About half an hour later, with Hickok still winning, he brought up another debt. This one was a poker debt.

“Thirty-five dollars,” Tutt said, “from two days ago. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Hickok said. “But as I recall, it was twenty-five dollars.”

“No,” Tutt said, “it's thirty-five.”

They were between hands and Hickok stuck his jaw out at Tutt.

“You're tryin' to flimflam me outta ten dollars, ain'tcha, Dave?”

“Well,” Tutt said, “if you're feelin' that way, I'll just take my leave.”

He collected his money from the table, folded it, and stuck it into his pocket, then very deliberately picked up Hickok's watch and stood up.

Hickok stood up so fast, his chair scooted back.

“You better put that watch back on the table, Dave,” he said.

“Why?” Tutt asked. “What're you gonna do?”

“I ain't gonna cause trouble in this house,” Hickok said. “It's a good house, and I don't want no innocent people gettin' hurt.”

Dave Tutt gave Hickok an ugly smile, pocketed the watch, turned, and walked out of the place.

Hickok stood there a few moments, then sat down and said to the other players, “Let's play poker, gents.”

THIRTEEN

Clint watched the poker game for a short time, but without Dave Tutt there loaning money to the other players, Hickok pretty much wiped them all out.

Hickok went back to the bar, and this time he was nice to the bartender. He seemed to be a man of moods. Clint walked down the bar, figuring to meet him while his mood was good.

“Mr. Hickok?” he said.

“Yeah?” Wild Bill asked without looking at him.

“I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm—”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, why do you want to introduce yourself?” Hickok asked. He still had not taken a good look at Clint.

“Well . . . you're a famous man,” Clint said. “I, uh, just wanted to be friendly.”

“Well, friend,” Hickok said, actually throwing an arm around Clint's shoulder without taking a good look at his face, “have a drink on me and then leave, because I ain't lookin' for no new friends.”

“That's okay,” Clint said, tossing Hickok's arm off him. “I don't need a drink that bad.”

He turned and left. By the time Hickok finally looked at him, all he saw was his back going out the batwing doors.

“Was it something I said?” Bill asked the bartender.

* * * 

Clint went back to the hotel, found that Kathy had gotten tired of waiting. He felt the bed. The sheets were cool. She hadn't waited too long. They still smelled like her, though.

He walked to the window and looked out. Springfield was quiet. He could see the public square from his window, and there wasn't much activity there.

Hickok had gotten under his skin. He'd ended up sounding like some awestruck kid, and that wasn't the way he saw himself. He should have just stuck to himself, and left Wild Bill that way, too.

Maybe it was time to leave Springfield. The war was only a couple of months behind him. Pinkerton had wanted him to go into business with him—working for him, not with him. being one of his operatives. But Clint didn't have any desire to be a detective. His friend Talbot Roper had agreed to work for Pinkerton, even though the two of them didn't get along. But Clint knew what Roper's plans were—learn all he could and then go into business for himself.

Clint didn't have plans like that. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. He still had most of his mustered-out pay in his pocket, wasn't staying at the best hotel in town. He'd watched the money cross the poker table, thought briefly about gambling, but that wasn't his game. If he was going to make money with something, it was going to be his ability with guns.

Guns.

He could shoot any gun—long or short—and hit what he was shooting at. And he could break any gun down and either put it back together, or fix it.

Guns.

That was what he knew.

That was how he was going to make his money.

For a while anyway.

He decided to go and find Kathy and make it up to her for leaving her alone for so long.

* * * 

“There he is,” Leo Worthy said.

Worthy and two of his friends watched as Clint Adams came out of the hotel.

“He don't look like much,” José Reyes said.

“Well, Kathy thinks he is,” Don Murphy said.

“Maybe we'll find out,” Worthy said.

“What are we supposed to do?” Reyes asked. “Scare 'im, hurt 'im, or kill 'im?”

“It don't matter,” Worthy said, “We get paid the same no matter what.”

“So what do we do?” Murphy asked. “How do we start?”

“Let's start by scarin' him,” Worthy said.

The three of them followed Clint, caught up to him by the time he got to the public square.

* * * 

“Hold on there, friend,” somebody behind Clint yelled.

He turned, saw three men coming his way. They were all young, in their twenties, all armed. Two of them were wearing trail clothes, while the third man was sporting a Confederate jacket with three stripes on it, and matching kepi.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” one of them said, “you can leave town.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” the man said. “Leave . . . town.”

“Now why would I do that?” He'd been thinking about leaving town, and if they'd left him alone, he might have.

“Because we're tellin' you to.”

Clint turned so that he was facing the three men dead on.

“Leo,” Murphy said.

“What?”

“He don't look scared.”