Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) Read Free Page B

Adams,” Silvester said. “I’ll do that. Will you bring my manuscript with you?”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œMy publisher is pushing me for a finished product.”
    â€œWe’ll talk tomorrow, Mr. Silvester,” Clint said, “and then you’ll be able to let your publisher know when you’ll be finished.”
    â€œI thank you, Mr. Adams,” the respectful young man said. “Whatever you decide, I thank you for your time.”
    â€œYou’re welcome, sir,” Clint said. “Good night.”
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œJeff 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.
    â€œYou’re John Wells?”
    â€œI am.”
    Dawkins waved for the bartender, who came over immediately.
    â€œWhat’ll you have?” Dawkins asked.
    â€œOh, uh, is that brandy you’re having?”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œI’ll have the same.”
    â€œBring the food as well,” Dawkins said.
    â€œSure thing, Mr. Dawkins.”
    â€œFood?” Wells asked.
    â€œI wanted to wait ’til you arrived,” Dawkins said. “You must be hungry after your trip.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’m told you have this town at your disposal,” Wells said.
    â€œNo more or less than you have New York.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œNothing like cheese and bread with good brandy,” Dawkins said.
    â€œI agree.”
    Wells cut some cheese and bread, put it in his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with the brandy.
    â€œIt’s all very good,” he said.
    â€œGlad you like it,” Dawkins said. “It can’t possibly be the same quality you’re used to in New York.”
    â€œStill,” Wells said, nibbling on more cheese, “it’ll do.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” Dawkins said. “Now, what can I do for you? The telegram I received only said that you