Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) by J. R. Roberts

grasp.
    â€œSorry, honey . . .”
    He went to the door, slammed it open, and said, “What?” to Wild Bill Hickok.
    Hickok paused just for a moment to look at Clint, then past him at the woman in his bed.
    â€œI’m really sorry, ma’am,” he said to her, then looked at Clint and added, “Get dressed. I need you.”
    â€œBill—”
    â€œYou’ll be back,” Hickok told him. “She’ll be waitin’.”
    â€œYeah,” Clint said, slamming the door.
    * * * 
    When Clint got to the lobby, Hickok was waiting there for him.
    â€œClint, boy!” he said, slapping Clint on the back. “Good to see you.”
    â€œBill,” Clint said, “I wish I could say the same.”
    â€œLooks like you’re makin’ a name for yourself, huh?” Hickok asked. “The Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s the newspapers,” Clint said, “not me.”
    â€œWell, looks to me like it’s gonna stick,” Hickok said, “so you better get used to it.”
    Actually, they’d been calling Clint “the Gunsmith” for a couple of years now, and try as he might, Clint could not ignore it. And Hickok was right. It was going to stick.
    â€œWhat’s so important I had to leave a hot, willing woman in my bed?”
    â€œAnd she was just bursting, wasn’t she?” Hickok asked. “Like a ripe fruit.”
    â€œYou’re making it worse, Bill,” Clint said. “What’s going on?”
    â€œI need you.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œA hunt.”
    â€œYou need me to hunt buffalo?”
    â€œNo, not buffalo.”
    â€œThen what? A wolf?”
    â€œNot a wolf,” Hickok said. “Somethin’ more dangerous.”
    â€œWhat’s more dangerous than a wolf?” Clint asked.
    â€œA man,” Hickok said. “Actually, five men.”
    â€œWhat’d they do?”
    â€œRobbed a bank in Cheyenne, killed the sheriff, his deputies, a couple of tellers and depositors, and a kid.”
    â€œA kid?”
    Hickok nodded.
    â€œA twelve-year-old boy who was in the street when they escaped.”
    â€œWhat’d they do, shoot him?”
    Hickok shook his head and said, “They rode him down, Clint. Trampled him.”
    â€œSons of bitches,” Clint said.
    â€œAre you with me?”
    Clint had two images in his mind, the naked woman in his bed and the trampled boy in the streets of Cheyenne.
    â€œI’m with you.”

TWENTY-NINE
    As they rode out of Rawlins, Hickok briefed Clint on the gang.
    â€œTheir name’s Jenkins,” he said. “The leader is the older brother, Rafe Jenkins.”
    â€œBrothers? All of them?”
    â€œYeah, all five,” Hickok said. “They fancy themselves the James boys, but they ain’t near what Jesse and Frank are.”
    Both Hickok and Clint knew the James boys personally. In fact, Clint’s big black gelding, Duke, had been given to him by Jesse.
    â€œThe Jenkins boys are brutal, with not a trace of decency among ’em.”
    â€œHow old are they?”
    â€œRafe is forty, I think,” Hickok said. “Then there’s Orville, Ben, Charlie, and the young one, George, is only about nineteen. Orville and Ben are in their thirties, and Ben’s in his twenties.”
    â€œWhat about their parents? Could they be going to see them?”
    â€œTheir parents are dead,” Hickok said. “Those boys ain’t got a home to go to, so they’re on the run.”
    â€œWhy don’t you have a posse, Bill?”
    â€œWasn’t nobody would go after them.”
    â€œAnd why you?” Clint asked. “You aren’t wearing a badge.”
    â€œThey wanted to swear me in, but I didn’t want to waste the time,” Hickok said. “When I saw that boy trampled in the street . . .” Wild Bill just shook his head.
    â€œOkay,” Clint said,