Chapter Five "Why, Jimmy Hickok," the blonde man in buckskins took the seat next to Jimmy at the bar. "Whiskey," he addressed the bartender. "I heard you were in town."
"What do you want, Cody?" Jimmy continued to nurse his bottle of whiskey, one shot at a time, not bothering to look at the man beside him.
"I heard you tried to steal one of my ideas."
"Go away Cody," Jimmy growled.
"Yeah, my idea," Cody continued, ignoring Jimmy. "An idea I had way back when we rode for the express. An idea about bringing the Wild West to the people in the east. And I hear you tried to steal that idea."
"So what if I did," Jimmy muttered. "It was a stupid idea anyway. It'll never work."
"Oh, but it did work," Cody said smugly. "It worked in St. Louis, and in Philadelphia. And it will work next month in Washington, and then in New York. In St. Louis, the crowds filled the tent, hundreds of people, every night for a week."
"What the hell are you babbling on and on about, Cody?" Jimmy finally had enough.
"This." Cody shoved a poster in front of Jimmy.
"What's this?" Jimmy picked it up.
"Read it," Cody insisted.
"Buffalo Bill Cody presents the Wild West in all its glory. Live Indians, Buffalo, Gunfighters, Trick Shooting, and Trick Riding."
Jimmy handed the poster back to Cody. "That's nice Cody. I hope you have better luck with it than I did." He finally looked at his old friend. "So, what do you want from me?"
Cody looked at him innocently. "What do you mean?"
"I know you, Cody. You want something."
"Alright, you are right," Cody conceded. "I want you to be part of the show."
"No."
"Just think about it, Hickok," Cody would not give up. "Come to Washington and see how you like it."
"No, Cody."
"You should give it a try Jimmy," Cody said angrily. "At least then you'd be doin' something. All you do now is drink cheap whiskey, play cards, and wait for the next fame seeking gunslinger to call you out. What happened to Kid wasn't your fault, Jimmy. It was a terrible mistake, but it wasn't your fault. You can't go on blaming yourself anymore. It's in the past. Put it behind you and get on with your life."
"That's easy for you to say," Jimmy's eyes flashed with anger. "But what do you know? He was my best friend. I should have known it was him, should have recognized his voice. But I didn't. I shot him instead. His life ended because of me. You tell me to get on with my life. Well, what about Kid's life? Huh? It's my fault that he can't get on with that. And Lou's life? What about hers? It's my fault she had her husband taken from her. It's my fault that she and Kid can't grow old together."
"Jimmy, listen to yourself," Cody interrupted. "It was not your fault. Nobody blames you. Not me, not Rachel, not even Lou. Nobody blames you but you."
"Go away Cody."
"Fine, I'll leave you to wallow in your self-pity," Cody turned away. "If you change your mind about being part of the show, let me know."
Cody walked out of the saloon, leaving Jimmy alone. He knew that Jimmy could never be talked into anything. He would only grow more stubborn if Cody tried to push him, so he left.
After Cody left, Jimmy sat at the bar alone. He downed shot after shot of whiskey, but even that could not stop Cody's words from repeating themselves over and over again in his mind. "Terrible mistake...in the past...wasn't your fault...get on with your life..."
*No. It isn't true. It WAS his fault.* Jimmy sat at the bar until the bartender called for the last round, and then stumbled to his room on the second floor of the saloon, where he collapsed on his bed in a drunken stupor.
His dreams that night were filled with haunting images of that fateful day. He saw Phil Coe there, mocking him, challenging him. But then, as he drew his gun and shot Coe changed, and it was Kid standing there. Kid was the one mocking him, pointing at him as the bullet hit him. Kid was the one telling him it was his fault. There was no forgiveness for him, not after what he had done. He was destined to live out the rest of his days in misery, knowing what he had done, and paying for it. And then, his death would come, but it would not come mercifully, he knew, for if it would, he would have welcomed it already.
It was those images that flowed in and out of his mind as he slept the deep sleep of drunkenness. It was those images that kept him tossing and turning, pulling the sheets off the bed and pushing them to the floor. And it was those images which finally woke him, shaking and covered in sweat. He had a horrible headache, only intensified by the alcohol still flowing in his blood. Early afternoon sunlight streamed into his room, blinding him. He had to get out of there.
He got out of bed, ignoring his pounding head, and quickly dressed, anxious to quell his memories. He headed down the stairs to the saloon and found a card game in progress. Ordering whiskey, he downed the first shot, welcoming the numbing clarity it brought. He ordered another as he through his ante into the pot and quickly lost himself in the cards and drink. It was only at times like this, when he was surrounded by people who could give a damn about him, drowning himself in alcohol, that he found any peace.
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