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

what I should probably tell you is the times we were together. That way, everything I tell you is what I saw.”
    â€œThat suits me, sir.”
    â€œThe Dave Tutt shooting established Bill as a crack shot. I mean, one shot at twenty-five yards was pretty good at the time.”
    â€œAt the time?”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “Bill made plenty of shots better than that one over the years.”
    â€œI’d like to hear about those.”
    â€œThere was the time he made a pistol shot at fifty-five yards—”
    â€œFifty-five?”
    â€œIt was measured later,” Clint said, “and you’re not supposed to interrupt, remember?”
    â€œI’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.

Part 2

TWENTY-SEVEN
    D ENVER, C OLORADO T HE PRESENT
    Clint told Silvester about the time he spent with Hickok in Abilene as one of his deputies.
    â€œThe next year, eighteen seventy-two, Bill and I got together a couple of times, once just to hunt buffalo, and another time to hunt two men.”
    â€œOh,” Silvester said, “I want to hear about hunting the men. I didn’t know you were a bounty hunter.”
    â€œI never was,” Clint said. “This was a special case.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “I’ll tell you . . .”

TWENTY-EIGHT
    R AWLINS, M ISSOURI A UTUMN 1872
    Clint marveled at the paleness of the brunette’s skin as she disrobed in front of him. Her breasts were full and heavy, with dark nipples. She was a chubby girl, with a succulent butt and thighs, and a dense tangle of black pubic hair.
    â€œI’ve been waitin’ for this ever since you came to town,” she said.
    â€œWell,” he said, “then I won’t keep you waiting.”
    She was about five years older than Clint, had the kind of lush body that would go to fat by the time she reached forty. At the moment, however, she was perfectly built for bed.
    She slid onto Clint’s hotel bed and waited while he got undressed. When he was naked, his erect penis stuck straight out at her, vibrating like a divining rod finding water.
    He moved to the bed, kicking his trousers away as they clutched at his ankles, almost tripping him up. She giggled as he did a dance step to stay on his feet, and then he was right by the bed and she was reaching out to grasp his penis.
    And there was a knock at the door.
    Clint looked at the door and said, “Wha—”
    â€œDon’t answer it,” she hissed at him, tightening her grip on his cock.
    Clint looked at her and realized he didn’t remember her name.
    â€œHoney,” he said, “it could be important.”
    â€œNo,” she said, holding on to his cock even tighter. “I won’t let you.”
    He reached out, slid his gun from the holster hanging on the bedpost.
    â€œYou wouldn’t—” she started, her eyes going wide.
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t shoot you,” he said, “but I might shoot whoever it is pounding on the door.”
    For whoever it was in the hall was, indeed, now pounding on the door.
    â€œClint!” a man’s voice called. “Clint, goddamnit!”
    â€œOh, crap,” Clint said, recognizing the voice.
    â€œClint,” the woman said as his prick slid from her