A Place in the Sun by Vicki

“You sure about this, Jimmy?”

I’ve been sitting on the bottom rung of the fence, watching the horses in the corral.  I swear, Destiny’s tryin’ to spark something with Lightning.  He’s got that look in his eye.  Beyond the horses, the plains stretch out like a ribbon, the sun glistenin’ on them like sparkling glass.  There ain’t a lot to see if you’re facing Rock Creek, but with my back to the town everything feels different.  The plains are always full of promise.

Since I announced my intention to leave, I’ve been expectin’ all these big confrontations.  I’ve been braced for ‘em for over a week now.  But everybody’s been real quiet.  I don’t think they believe I’m goin’ to go through with it.  So I’ve been waitin’ for the question, and I’m not at all surprised that’s it’s Buck that asks it.

“I’m sure.”  I turn a little to face him, sorry to put the open plains at my back.  “I’m gettin’ antsy,” I lie.   “Besides, marshalin’s not for me.  Better to leave that job to somebody better suited to the law.”

Buck glances down at the silver star pinned to his vest, then back up at me.  “You know you gotta come visit us.”

His voice sounds so desperate and hopeful all at the same time.  That’s when it hits me.  This parting – me leaving Rock Creek for good – has probably hit Buck worse than anybody.  Nah, no “probably” about it.  Not that I imagine everybody I know is weepin’ and pinin’ in their beds.  But Buck’s got no family… well, ‘less you count Red Bear, and it ain’t like he can invite his brother over to Sunday tea.  And then Ike’s death… Noah… Cody… hell, even Jesse left.  Now me.  The guy must feel like he’s being deserted by everybody who loves him.

And I do.  Love him, that is.  Some men probably wouldn’t admit that.  They’d figure it ain’t manly to admit that men got feelings.  But we got ‘em.  We might not trot ‘em out for the world to see a heck of a lot, but we got ‘em.  

Still, I gotta be honest.  I squint up at my friend and shrug.  “I dunno, Buck.  Guess I’ll have to see which way the wind blows me.”

It ain’t the answer he wants, but he grins anyway.  “If it blows you back here, you know you always got a bunk.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

I’m dreading dinner tonight.  It’s my last night in town, and I’m thinkin’ that it’s goin’ to be punctuated by awkward silences, and I’m long due for one of Teaspoon’s patented “talks”.  They’re never lectures, they’re “talks”.   I figure mine’ll include stuff about stayin’ on the right side of the law, not believin’ what people think about me, believin’ in myself.

But I’m pleasantly surprised.  Most of the dinner conversation’s about rumours of Confederate troop movements down south, the installation of the new telegraph line in town, and who’s goin’ to be taking who to the box social next weekend.  That last bit was from Rachel, of course.  Buck looks mighty uncomfortable when talk turns to the new schoolteacher.  I’ve seen her myself, and she’s quite the looker.  Buck’s goin’ to have some competition, I think.

My last night in the bunkhouse.

Buck’s head hits the pillow and he’s out like a prizefighter after a ten round bout.  Before long the room is filled with the sound of his soft snores.  Normally I’d be tempted to grumble and chuck a pillow in his general direction, but tonight the sound is just soothing.  Familiar.  Kind o’ comforting.

Laying on my back, I cross my hands at the back of my head.  I don’t even mind that sleep eludes me.  The moon is shinin’, and the stars seem to be fightin’ each other to see which of ‘em can shimmer the longest and the brightest.   Everything feels at peace, including me.  And that’s comforting, too.

A particularly loud snore diverts my glance to Buck, then to all the cots lying empty in the room.  It wasn’t so long ago that there were seven of us squashed into the bunkhouse.  Now there was two.  And tomorrow, there will be one.  I have to fight back the sudden laugh that wants to spill out.  ‘Cause tomorrow, this wouldn’t be the bunkhouse no more.  Tomorrow, it’ll be the BUCKhouse.  

Still grinning, I settle back onto my cot.  BUCKhouse.  Yeah, and Buck had big plans for the place too.  He was goin’ to fix it up so it was suitable for a Deputy-Marshal.  Maybe it’d even be proper for somebody who wanted to go sparkin’ with the new schoolteacher.

As if he can hear what I’m thinking, my friend starts mumblin’ in his sleep.  Something about a redhead.  Either that, or a red herring.  I can’t really tell.  All I know is that sleep is pullin’ at my eyes and I’m seeing two moons in the sky.  I got a long day ahead of me tomorrow and I’m goin’ to need all the rest I can get.  Turning on to my side, I scrunch the pillow beneath me and close my eyes.

I hope I don’t dream of fish.
 

Chapter Two

Sundancer stands patiently in her stall as I cinch the saddle firmly around her middle.  I’ve never been one for saving, and truth be told ol’ Sundancer would’ve been too expensive for me to buy if Teaspoon hadn’t agreed to cut me a little deal.  Like he said… what Russell, Majors and Waddell don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.  Besides, me and Sundancer – we got a way of communicatin’ that she ain’t got with the other riders.  It’s only fittin’ we stick together.

“Jimmy.”

My shoulders stiffen at the sound of her voice.  I don’t want ‘em to, but they do just the same.

“I just came to say good-bye.”

I force myself to relax, letting the frustration seep out through the soles of my boots and into the fresh strewn hay.  That’s somethin’ Teaspoon taught me, on one of my many visits to the sweat lodge.  It’s all about focusing.  Least that’s what Teaspoon says.  Focusing, and imagining that my anger or frustration is a real thing.  Somethin’ that I can just drop off, like my hat.  

Sometimes it works; most times it doesn’t.  

We already said our good-byes.  She had a big dinner for everybody last Sunday.  Kid even made a big speech about friendship, and how we hadn’t let our disagreements about the War separate us.  Lou had tears in her eyes when he was done.

Now she was here, when it should be that everything we needed to say had already been said.

When I face her, I’ve got a smile on my face.

“Thanks Lou,” I say.  She looks lovely.  I gotta admit it, marriage agrees with her.

She crosses her arms at her chest and fidgets with the lace hanging from the sleeves.  I’ve seen that pose before.  Usually she’d tug at her vest, of course.  But those vests and trousers are hangin’ in a closet somewhere now, and they only come out when she’s goin’ for a long ride.  Anyway, she’s holding somethin’ back.  And I just want to be outta here before she lets it out.

“You got everything packed up then?”

I glance back at Sundancer.  Nobody could ever say she was over laden, but she’s carryin’ everything I need.  I hadn’t accumulated much in over a year and a half.  “All set,” I say, and then turn back to my horse.  It’s not that I don’t appreciate Lou coming over.  I do.  I just want things to stay the way they are.  We already said our good-byes.  Yeah, I know I mentioned that before.  But I didn’t want no big brouhaha just ‘cause I was ridin’ out.  

When she speaks again, her voice is strained and tight.  “Jimmy, you don’t have to do this!”

Facing her again, I forget all about that “seeping frustration” trick that Teaspoon taught me.  “Do WHAT, Lou?”  

“You don’t have to leave!  Not if… if it’s because of ME…”

“This ain’t about you, Lou!  Not everything is about YOU!” I spit back.  Her face crumbles, and I immediately regret raisin’ my voice.  But… it’s true.  This ain’t about Lou.  And it ain’t about Kid.  I take some deep breaths, gettin’ myself under control again.  

I loved her.  No doubt about it.  And there’s always goin’ to be a little piece of my heart that belongs to the girl that danced with me under the stars in Willow Springs.  That’s a memory I ain’t ever goin’ to forget, and it’s tucked away nice and safe inside.  But Kid’s my friend.  And more than that, LOU’S my friend.  Once I saw how things were goin’ to be between ‘em, I took that moment and put it aside to treasure, and I moved on.  

“This ain’t about you, Lou,” I repeat, much quieter this time.  “You and Kid are goin’ to be happy together.  Anybody that sees the two of you together can see that.  I just know that my destiny lies somewhere else.  That kind of happiness ain’t for me.”

“Don’t say that, Jimmy!” Lou jumps in.  “There’ll be someone for you… you’ll find someone…”

I can’t keep the dubious look from my face, and from the corresponding look on Lou’s face she doesn’t really believe it either.  She might act tough – hell, she’s tougher that a ton of men I’ve known – but at heart, she's still a romantic.   She wants to believe it.  She wants to think that I’m goin’ to live Happily Ever After.   Even though that’s never been the ending for a gunslinger before, she’ll keep on believin’ it.  

Untying Sundancer’s reins, I let the comment slide.    “I better get goin’.  You take care of yourself, Lou.”

“I will,” she says softly as she accompanies me outside.   I know she wants more.  “Closure” is what they call it in those romance novels that Rachel reads.  Yeah, I picked up a couple of ‘em when they were sittin’ on the porch swing.  It ain’t manly to read romance novels?  Well, it ain’t like I’m goin’ to admit it to anybody.  But hey, a man’s got to practice his reading when he can, and there’s not exactly a ton of readin’ material at a way station.

But I already feel like I’ve got “closure”.  I think Lou understands.   She’s got Kid.  

The sunlight is blinding after the restful dimness of the stables, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust… and to see that they’re ALL there.   Teaspoon and Rachel.  Buck.  Kid.  Even Tompkins.  All standin’ around to see me off.  And here I thought they were actually goin’ to let me leave without any fuss.  My face must’ve betrayed my shock, ‘cause Teaspoon starts to laugh.

“You didn’t really think we was gonna let you sneak off like a chicken thief, did ya Jimmy?” he asks.  I can only nod dumbly, even though a smile is snakin’ its way across my face.  Well, I thought I wanted no fuss.  Turns out, it feels kind o’ nice to think that they all cared enough about me to get up at the crack of dawn to see me off.  Especially after we already had that nice dinner.

“I guess I shoulda known better, Teaspoon.”  I grin and offer him my hand, but he draws me into a bear hug instead.   His scent fills me, and I suddenly realize how much I associate the smells of Teaspoon with “home”.  They’re not good smells, for the most part.  Old leather, and gun oil.  Sweat and prairie dust.  And the ever-present scent of the onions he’s so fond of.   But mixed all together, they were good smells to me.  They represent safety.  

And for a moment, just a moment, I don’t want to give that up.  I want that safety.  I crave it.  I can picture myself sittin’ in Teaspoon’s office with my feet up on the desk, snoozin’ my way through another shift as Deputy-Marshal.  Goin’ to that box social and maybe givin’ Buck a run for his money with the pretty redhead.  Livin’ a life.

Then I remember.  I ain’t just Jimmy Hickok.  Oh, I am to my family here.  To the people that love me.  But to everybody else, I’m Wild Bill.  And Wild Bill needs to move on.  

I pat Teaspoon on the back before moving to my horse.  The others gather round to offer well wishes and such, but to tell the truth I’m not really listenin’.  I hear the happy voices and I answer accordingly, but I really just want to get out of Rock Creek before I lose my nerve.

I’m starting to swing up onto Sundancer’s back when Lou dances forward with a light shining in her eyes.  

“Not so fast, Jimmy Hickok,” she grins up at me.  “We all talked about it, and we want you to have this.  To remember us by.”

She pulls her hand out from behind her back with a flourish, and I see what’s she’s been hidin’ from me.  Tears start to well up in my eyes, though I blink ‘em back real fast so nobody can see.  

It’s the sketch.  It seems like just last week that we all sat for Ike while he tried out his latest talent on us guinea pigs.  We were all dressed up in our Sunday best, tryin’ not to fidget while he worked diligently at the table.  It ended up lookin’ so much like us that none of us could quite believe it.  

It was the last sketch he ever made.  

I look from one face to another, but they’re all smiling.  Taking the paper gingerly from Lou’s outstretched hand, I look to Buck while I ask, “Are you sure?”

Buck’s easy smile is genuine.  “He’s in my heart.  You take that, Jimmy.  So you’ve got a piece of us while you’re out on the trail.”

“So you never forget where your family is,” Kid put in.

“And all the people that love you,” Lou adds, taking Kid’s hand in her own.

Rachel pulls me into her arms.  “And your home.”

Disentangling myself from the embrace, I roll up the sketch carefully and ease it into my saddlebag, then mount Sundancer quickly.  A final good-bye and I’m off.  

“Ride safe, son,” I hear Teaspoon call as I leave.  “Ride safe.”
 

Chapter Three

I don’t know what I was expecting.  Not this.

I knew there’d be changes.  At least when Emma sold her land to Russell, Majors and Waddell, she knew that the company was goin’ to take care of the place.  That’s one thing about the company – they knew we needed a reliable home station.  Not that the riders from the other way stations had it as good as we did.  They sure didn’t have such fine women around to take care of ‘em as Rachel and Emma.    They each had very different ways of doin’ it, but they nurtured us in ways we didn’t even know we needed.  Thinkin’ back to that first day… all of us lined up at the corral fence… well, I guess we were lucky Teaspoon didn’t give us more than a tongue-lashing.

Most of the express riders didn’t have it so lucky.  Some of the station masters was just in it for the money, jobs bein’ hard to come by especially when a man’s gettin’ on in years.  Some of ‘em just didn’t have the patience or temperament to deal with a bunch of rowdy, cocksure boys.  Most of ‘em didn’t hire housemothers neither, but like I said, we got lucky.

Russell, Majors and Waddell closed down the Sweetwater station shortly after we all got transferred to Rock Creek.  Me and Cody used to joke that it was ‘cause they couldn’t find any riders good enough to replace us.  Leastways, I was jokin’.  I ain’t too sure about Cody.  But I guess we just figured that they’d make sure Emma’s place got sold to somebody who’d take care of it.  

It’s pretty astounding that so much damage could occur in little more than six months.

I don’t know which is worse – the state of the house, or the windmill.  I remember fightin’ to keep that windmill from topplin’ the night of the big storm.  The night that Kid accused me an’ Lou of… well… he accused me of doin’ stuff I wouldn’t have done with Lou.  Not with me knowin’ how her and Kid felt right about then.  Now that same windmill is in pieces on the ground.  It’s been there so long that the tumbleweed lying up against it looks to have taken root.  But it wasn’t so long ago that it stood tall and proud.

The house is a shambles.  The straight white wooden fence that once surrounded the property is gone.  Well, not completely gone.  Here and there a crooked board remains, protruding from the ground like a rotten tooth.  What little garden Emma an’ Rachel had tried to cultivate in the dry dusty soil has long since returned to the earth.  There’s still a portion of cracked glass in the upper window – the window that Sam installed a year ago – but the rest of the windows are open to the elements.  Cracked boards line the walls; shutters are crooked or missing altogether.  The entire place looks like it’s been abandoned for years.

But it’s not.  The three – no, four – kids playin’ in the dirt attest to that.

The littlest one – a girl in a dress at least one size too small and lookin’ like it ain’t seen the inside of a wash basin in quite some time – gazes at me with big brown eyes before goin’ to hide behind her sister.  Those eyes give me pause for a moment.  It’s almost like seein’ Lou lookin’ at me; at least, Lou as I’d imagine her as a little kid.  The other two girls look on with interest, but it’s the boy that steps forward.

“What’s yer name, mister?”

I ain’t able to keep the grin off my face.  The kid’s standin’ up straight with a look of bravado in his eyes. He’s bound and determined to protect his sisters from the stranger on their property.  The fact that his nose is runnin’ like a freight train only adds to the “cute” factor.  

I ain’t normally one to take note of kids.  Oh, I’ve been around ‘em enough.  There’s been Jeremiah and Teresa, for example.   After that first visit to the orphanage, Lou went back a ton more times.  And most times, me or one o’ the other boys went with her.  ‘Course, Teaspoon always came up with a reason why we’d have to go to St. Joe just at the exact same time that Lou was takin’ another leave of absence.  Lou got kind o’ bristly the first couple o’ times, but after that I think she just resigned herself to the company.  

And there was other kids too, passin’ through the express station at one time or another.  But I just have half-remembered, blurry images of them in my head.  They were there, and I can handle ‘em just fine, but once they were gone it ain’t like I spent a lot of time thinkin’ about ‘em.

There’s somethin’ about this kid though.  Despite the run-down nature of the place, it’s all these kids have got, and this one little eight-year-old is goin’ to watch over it.  I cross my hands at the pommel of my saddle and squint down at him.

“Name’s James.  What’s yours?”

The eyes narrow, and two thin arms cross defiantly at his chest.  While the Little-Lou is all big brown eyes and dark shaggy hair, Spunky here is so pale he’s almost ghostly.  “Don’t matter none,” he answers.  “This here’s our place, ya know. You ain’t s’posed to be here.”

My grin widens.  Maybe there’s hope for Emma’s place after all.  His parents sure don’t seem to care much for it, but Spunky’s got some pride.  The kid’s eyes wander over the dilapidated buildings and I follow ‘em – Christ, I’m just noticin’ that the bunkhouse is nothin’ but a pile of tinder!   Spunky’s eyes flicker with an odd mixture of love and dismay.  Maybe when he grows up, he’ll see to it that the place is restored.  Hell, I can hope.

“Well, that may be true,” I say, “but I used to live here.  This used to be a way station for the Pony Express, an’ I was one of the riders.”

Spunky raises one colourless eyebrow in an eerie, if unknowing, imitation of a certain Kiowa.  And that’s about all the reaction I get for riskin’ my life on endless mail runs.  To say that Spunky is profoundly unimpressed is an understatement.

He glances back at his sisters before sendin’ out the zinger that practically knocks me outta my saddle.

“You ever kill anybody with them guns?”

I didn’t even notice him checkin’ them out.  Spunky… and sly.  The easy grin on my face falters a moment as I try to decide what to say.  The kid looks so tiny in his torn overalls, liberally dusted with dirt and grime.

And I can’t help rememberin’ another little kid.  Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that Ma brought me and my sisters into town.  Other times, it seems like I’ve lived a dozen lifetimes since then.

We didn’t have money.  It wasn’t that we sometimes didn’t have money, or even that we usually didn’t have money.  We just NEVER had money.  End of story, that’s all she wrote.  Pa worked, but Ma struggled to make ends meet just the same, especially with a bunch of youngsters to raise.  I found out later that practically every cent Pa earned went to the Cause.  I resented it then, and truth be told, I still resent it now.  Not that I needed that one thing to resent my Pa.  The first time he raised his hand to Ma…

She took us into town one day soon after that.  One side of her face was still puffy and sore, the dark purple bruise startin’ to fade to a sickly yellow.  I was supposed to keep an eye on Celinda and Lydia.  Celinda got all huffy, as usual, complainin’ loudly and emphatically to everybody within earshot that SHE was the oldest and could take care of herself just fine.  She was in the middle of a particularly earsplitting declaration about bein’ babied, but one look from Ma was all it took to shut her up.   By the time we got to the Mercantile, Celinda was more interested in lookin’ in the big glass jars of candies in the window, pointin’ out the ones she wished we could buy.  Lydia?  Heck, Lydia was just a baby, still wipin’ her nose on Ma’s skirts.  I ended up wanderin’ off.  That’s how I happened to be in front of the saloon when it happened.

I never did find out what started it.  Who was ever goin’ to give a reason to a nine-year-old kid?  All I know was that the saloon doors suddenly crashed open, sendin’ a mammoth trapper of a man careening in to the street.  The man that followed him out was tall and lean, with sallow skin and long hair the colour of three-day-old straw.  His pale grey eyes flicked over the crowd that was gatherin’, meeting mine briefly before movin’ on.  I remember feelin’ a blast of frosted air sweepin’ around me.  The hair’s risin’ on my arms and the back of my neck just thinkin’ about it.

Words were exchanged before the two men faced off in the middle of the crowded street.   Ma showed up and tried to pull me away – Lydia was cryin’ and Celinda was turnin’ this brilliant shade of scarlet ‘cause she wasn’t gettin’ her way about somethin’ – but I didn’t seem to hear nothin’ but the sound of pistol clearing leather as the pale man drew his gun from his holster.

The sound of the gunshot shattered the bubble of silence that I was existing in, and sound came back with such a rush that I felt deafened.   The trapper clutched his chest and fell.  He’d never even had the chance to draw his own weapon.  And Ma had tried to pull me away, but I saw it all.

The only thing that I remember goin’ through my mind at that moment was an image of my Pa’s face.  The way it had twisted into somethin’ menacing and unfamiliar when he’d been beatin’ on Ma.  And the way he’d smashed his open hand into my face and pushed me away when I tried to help her.  Then my mind’s eye turned to the blank colourless eyes of the gunslinger, and I shivered.  Nobody’d ever beat somebody he loved.  Nobody.  Nobody’d ever dare.

With an effort, I force the memories back to where they belong and try to concentrate on Spunky.  He’s taken a tentative step forward, gawkin’ at my Colt.  He’s lookin’ at it with too much interest.  Still, I ain’t goin’ to lie to the kid.  There’s too much lyin’ that goes on to kids.  They ain’t stupid.  They know when you’re not tellin’ ‘em the whole truth.  I just got to make it clear that nothin’ gets solved by turnin’ to the gun.  That’s all.

So I make sure to look Spunky straight in the eye.  “Yes.  I’ve killed people.  But it ain’t the way it seems.  You’re goin’ to come across a lot of problems in your life, and sometimes it seems like goin’ for the gun will make those problems go away.  Well, it won’t.  Most times it just makes more problems.”

I lean back in the saddle, feelin’ pretty proud of myself.  Sure, it was short as speeches go, and it certainly wasn’t Teaspoon-worthy.  But I think I made my point pretty clear.

“When I’m older I’m gonna get me some guns and I’m gonna kill anybody who gets in my way!”

“Look kid, that ain’t the way it IS.  You gotta--”

“I’m gonna take care of everybody.  You can’t stop me!  And if’n you come back here, I’ll take care of YOU too!”

Stomach twisting at the rage comin’ in hot waves from such a frail and tiny body, I force myself not to respond any further.  The anger that’s rousing Spunky is stronger than I know how to deal with.  Besides, he ain’t goin’ to listen to no driftin’ gunfighter like me.   I ain’t got any right to lecture about livin’ by the gun when that’s just what I do.  I just got to hope that the kid finds somebody like Teaspoon to set him straight.

I turn my horse away from the dilapidated ruins of Emma’s once-beautiful property.  Sundancer’s a smart horse.  She automatically turns her head towards Sweetwater and paws the dry ground eagerly.  Yup, she remembers the way.  I’m eager for a hot meal and a bed that don’t consist of the cold earth and my saddle for a pillow.  But the thought of seein’ what changes the past six months have brought to Sweetwater is enough to send another wave of nausea rollin’ across my middle.  If I ride hard and fast, I’ll be able to make it to Preston by supper.  And if I don’t – well, another night under the stars ain’t so bad.

Without a backward glance, I spur Sundancer toward the plains.  I know I’ll never go back.
 

Chapter Four

There’s times when me and Sundancer are so in sync, I could swear we was almost one being.  The ride to Preston is one of them times. Not only do I get there in time for supper, but I’m early enough to check into the hotel and get in a nice steamin’ bath before dinner.  I’m feelin’ considerably refreshed by the time I take my seat in the hotel dining room.

It’s a nice place.  For one thing, it’s an actual dining room, not just a few dirty tables set down in the middle of a raucous saloon.  Oh, there is a saloon too – no hotel in the territory coulda survived without one. Most of their business comes from the saloon, and the ladies of the evening that ply their trade among its tables of drunken men.  But the Preston Hotel makes sure that the saloon patrons and the restaurant patrons are kept separate.  Makes it a little more classy.

There are linen cloths on the tables – plain, but clean.  A couple of ‘em are even topped with vases of fresh flowers.  Their sweet scent fills the room, almost rivaling the robust smells of roast pork and sizzlin’ steak that drifts from the kitchen.  The combination of odors makes my stomach turn cartwheels with hunger.  Been eatin’ dried jerky and hardtack so long, I’ve almost forgotten what real food tastes like.

“Welcome to the Preston Hotel, sir!”

The animated voice jerks me up from my reverie.  I find myself starin’ into the bright blue eyes of a curvy waitress with a dazzlin’ smile.

“My name is Isabelle and I’ll be takin’ care of you tonight,” the woman continues brightly.  “Now you take your time lookin’ over our menu.  In the meantime, can I get you a drink?”

I take the proffered menu numbly, havin’ to force myself not to squint from the glare of those pearly teeth.  Who knew it was even possible to GET teeth that white?  I’m sure Isabelle must be Dr. Luckett’s dream woman.

She’s still standin’ there, head cocked to one side, and I realize she’d waitin’ on my answer.  Her grin hasn’t faltered, and her eyes still twinkle.  By her accent I’d say she’s from the south… maybe even Virginia.  This must be what they mean by “southern hospitality”.  I didn’t ever see Kid act quite so chirpy though.  

A drink.  Do I want a drink?  It’s kind o’ hard to concentrate with her watchin’ me so eagerly.  Them eyes are just a little TOO bright.  I feel like an earthworm that’s just been spotted by a raven.  Clearin’ my throat, I manage to croak out, “Nothin’ right now, thanks.”  I’m sure my attempt at an answerin’ smile looks a wee bit sickly, but I can’t help it. She’s a little intimidating.

As Isabelle makes her way through the knot of tables to the kitchen, I turn my attention to the menu.  Then I try to stop my eyes from poppin’ out of my skull.  Now I know I ain’t exactly well-traveled, but I’ve never seen these kind o’ choices on a restaurant menu before.  There’s got to be over a dozen “appetizers” alone.  Since all these “appetizers” seem to be about bullet-sized, I figure they must be the food you eat to make your stomach understand it’s actually hungry.  My stomach’s rumblin’ enough; I plan on skippin’ the appetizers.

Eyes rovin’ over the “main courses”, I decide to ignore the voice that tells me I oughtta be savin’ my money.  That little voice has been naggin’ me ever since I left Rock Creek, and I’m gettin’ sick of it.  That little voice is the reason I been eatin’ hardtack.  That little voice is the reason I been sleepin’ with only the night sky for a blanket.  Tonight, that little voice is gettin’ gagged.

In fact, I think I might just try somethin’ different.  My eyes light on an unfamiliar word.  Quessadilla.  My lips form the syllables, tryin’ it on for size.  “Kwes-sah-dill-ah”, I mumble under my breath.  Nah.  Better not order somethin’ I ain’t even sure how to say.  I’ll stick with somethin’ basic.  Steak and potatoes, with lots of fresh bread.  My mouth’s waterin’ at the very thought.

“Ready to order, sir?”

Perfect timing.  I just about can’t wait to sink my teeth into a tender, juicy steak.  My appetite’s enough to rival Cody tonight.  I grin widely at Isabelle and say loudly, “Cheese sandwich and sarsaparilla, please.”

What?  My mouth opens and closes a couple o’ times, as my brain tries to figure out what my mouth just did.  Old habits die hard, I guess.  

I would’ve thought nothin’ could knock the eager-to-please look from Isabelle’s face, but as it turns out my rather unorthodox request has certainly given her pause.  The grin on her face falters just a bit as she looks up quickly from the paper in her hand.  

“Ummm… yes… yes sir,” she mumbles back, unable to keep the confused look from her face.  More than confused.  She’s lookin’ at me like I’m some sort of circus freak.  Well, maybe that’s harsh.  But the thought gets me smirkin’.  Yup, that’s me.  Jimmy The Cheese Freak.  Is this what Sam meant when he said I had a cheese-eatin’ grin?

Forcin’ back the laughter I can feel bubblin’ up inside, I grab hold of Isabelle’s arm before she can leave the table.  The smile that I give her ain’t forced no more.  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’d like to change my order.”  

As I discard the cheese sandwich and put steak, potatoes, peas and bread in its place, her familiar grin resurfaces.  Ah yes, things are back in order in Isabelle’s world.  

“And to drink, sir?” 

“Sarsaparilla.”   Yeah, I can order beer or whiskey now that I ain’t bound by the express rules no more.  But I don’t see no need to start down that path.  I’ve seen too many men ruined by it.  

“Thank you, Isabelle.”

The new dish she sets in front of me look awfully tempting.  A slice of pie, so overfilled with apples that they look to be tryin’ to escape from the crust.  I’m about ready to dig in with relish; might even have seconds.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hickok,” she answers pleasantly.  “It’s always nice to see a man with a hearty appetite.”  

She walks off in a swish of skirts, and I’m just savoring both the first taste of the pie and the way her hips swivel when she walks when a new voice threatens to take all the joy out o’ the evening.

“Hickok?  James Hickok.”

My shoulders tense, my back stiffens, and no matter how hard I concentrate on those deep breathin’ exercises that Teaspoon taught me, I’m still aware that my right hand is clenchin’ the fork so tight that my knuckles are turnin’ white.  My left hand?  It wants to inch across to the Colt at my side so bad that it’s practically shakin’. 

Once I’m pretty sure that I ain’t goin’ to launch myself out of the fancy padded chair and into a brawl, I manage to raise my eyes to the cause of the interruption in my meal.  

“Marcus.”  My voice sounds like sandpaper mixed with broken glass.

JD Marcus – pseudo-intellectual, essayist, novelist, and architect of my life’s destruction – grins hugely as he pulls out a chair and makes himself comfortable at my table.  I don’t even try to hide my grimace, though it’s a shock that the mere sight of him hasn’t blinded me.  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the man’s become more of a popinjay than ever.  His overcoat – heck, I ain’t even sure that you’d call a garment of brocade red velvet an overcoat!  The rest of him is almost as bad.  The gold buttons on his suit jacket are reflectin’ off the candlelight so much my eyes are waterin’.  And he’s got enough goop in his hair to make the flowers wilt.  

“Bit far from home, aren’t you, Mr. Hickok?  Aaaah, but of course the little Express is no more, is it?  You’ll have to find another ‘worthy’ endeavour to occupy your time and rather unbridled energy.”  He steeples his hands and regards me thoughtfully, rather like a snake with a plump and juicy mouse in his sights.  “Undoubtedly there are many staggering prospects awaiting you in this new and exciting world.  Why, with your qualifications, Hickok, you could be well on your way to a fulfilling career as a stableboy.”

I try to picture the negative energy seepin’ down through my body and out my boot heels, but it isn’t workin’.  It all seems to be comin’ out my ears instead.  And my left hand is still creepin’ to the holster despite my best intentions.

“What do you want, Marcus?”  All right, I impress myself there.  The grit and gravel in my voice is gone.  I sound calm, even civil.  I guess those lessons o’ Teaspoon’s are payin’ off after all.

“I’m delighted that you asked, Hickok,” he answers.  “Because when I saw you sitting there, it became clear to me that providence had placed you in my path.  In brief—”

“You don’t know how to be brief,” I mutter under my breath.

He gives me a withering stare before continuing, “In brief, Mr. Hickok, I am here to offer you a golden opportunity.  A job.”

One moment I’m listenin’ with a skeptical ear.  The next moment, I’m laughin’ so hard I can’t catch my breath.  And just when I start to get myself under control, I sneak a glimpse of the mortified expression on Marcus’s face and the laughter comes even harder.  Wavin’ away a concerned Isabelle, I manage to choke out, “Marcus, I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last HONEST man on Earth.”

Marcus leans back, frowning.  A job – with HIM!  Shakin’ my head and still grinnin’, I wonder what the boys back in Rock Creek would think of that.    I dig into my dessert with renewed vigor, only noticin’ when it’s polished off that Marcus still hadn’t moved a muscle.

Oh, he looks hurt and cross and ill-tempered, and I ain’t denyin’ that I got a good deal of satisfaction knowin’ I’d wiped that smug, sneering look off his face.  But I’ve always prided myself on bein’ able to read people, Lou’s identity notwithstanding.   And underneath that pompous attitude and overbearing demeanor, I can see that Marcus is scared.  Petrified, even.

Boltin’ up the stairs to my room is suddenly very appealing.  What do I care if JD Marcus is scared?  The man’s book ruined my life!  “The Legend of Wild Bill Hickok”, my horse’s rump!  I ain’t got a moments peace since that dime-novel was published, and it’s all his fault.

But… well…. I guess I gotta admit that a part of me was hankerin’ for that attention.  I’d spent my life groomin’ for it under The Judge, and then again after I’d left his company.  I was proud of my prowess with the gun.  Still am, but it’s a different kind of proud.  It’s got nothin’ to do with bein’ the best or the fastest anymore.  It’s more to do with… heck, I don’t know.  Character analysis ain’t my strong suit.  Kid was always better at that kind o’ stuff.  I’m just sayin’ that I wasn’t entirely blameless for the Marcus situation.  I shouldn’t have been showboatin’ in the saloon that day to begin with.  And at another day, at another time, I might even have enjoyed the notoriety that book gave me.  I might have turned out to be a much different man.

I gesture to the lovely Isabelle for another sarsaparilla before puttin’ my elbows on the table and fixin’ Marcus with a steady look.  I know I’m goin’ to hate myself for askin’, but…

“What’s this all about, Marcus?”  I hold up my hand to forestall his first answer, which will just be full of big words and half-lies anyway.  “And leave the dictionary at home.  Just tell me what’s goin’ on.”

For a moment he looks like he’s goin’ to launch into a big speech again.  He opens his mouth and I get ready for it.   But then he just deflates, like a balloon.    His eyes are hooded and dark, and for the first time I see that the worry lines in his face have gotten deeper and more pronounced since our last meetin’.  When he finally answers, it’s without his usual pomp and circumstance.  He sounds like a child.  

“I’m being hunted, Hickok.”

My face must betray my incredulity.  “Hunted?”

He barks out a bitter laugh.  “I guess I should consider it my just desserts.  After all the bile I’ve put on paper just to make a few bucks and see my name on the front cover.  Do you know that I’m the highest paid author in True West’s stable?”  

His mouth twists into an acidic grin.  “Oh yes, it’s true.  My books are their biggest sellers.  And why?  I tell the best tales.  It never really mattered to me whether they were all true or not.”

I was interested in spite of myself.  “So what’s changed?”  I didn’t mean about the book sales, of course.  Every mercantile and general store still stocks the latest JD Marcus novels.  There’s no reason for me to think he’s not tellin’ the truth.  

Marcus waves at Isabelle and asks for a whiskey, which he downs in one quick swallow before requestin’ another.  Only when it’s been placed in front of him does he lean forward, eyes warily scanning the room before replying.  “It’s Caulder,” he says conspiratorially.  “He visited me before… before I came to visit you last time.  You might know that.”

Oh yes, I knew that.  I knew that Marcus had sped to Sweetwater to warn me that Caulder was gunnin’ for me.  I knew that the only reason he did it was so that he could have a first-hand view of the slaughter.  I knew that Kid was beaten to within an inch of his life because he wouldn’t tell Caulder where I was.  I knew that afterward, Teaspoon, Buck and the others had warned Marcus never to write about “Wild Bill” again, unless it was to give him a nice retirement.  Yes, I was very clear about all of it.  Some things you just don’t forget.

“He said that once he was done with you, he’d be back to take care of me,” Marcus continues.  “That’s what he said:  ‘take care of me’.  Doesn’t sound all that threatening, does it?  It only sounds threatening when you hear the way he says it.  I could write paragraphs just describing that man’s voice.”

Another cold smile.  “Except that YOU took care of HIM.  So my worries are over, right?  No.  He’s healed.  He’s healed, Hickok, and he’s back.  And he’s after me.”

Leaning back in my chair, I ponder this little tidbit.  Caulder, healed and headin’ West.  I know Sam told me that I should shoot to kill.  I just didn’t have the stomach for it.  Not then.  Not over a badly-written chapter in a crummy book.

Should I be scared?  Worried?  Anxious?  I don’t know.  I don’t feel any o’ those things.  If Caulder shows up, I know I’ll have to deal with him, one way or the other.  But I just can’t seem to get worked up about it.  Maybe it goes back to that pride thing – the pride in my skill with the gun that ain’t got nothin’ to do with bein’ the fastest.  Maybe it’s just self confidence.  Maybe it’ll get me killed someday.  I don’t know.  But I ain’t bothered none by this bit of news.

“So what are you goin’ to do?”

“I’m leaving the country.  A ship sails from New York in six weeks, and I’m going to be on it.  Until then, I’m staying at the best hotel that money can buy, and I’m hiring a bodyguard.  Nobody knows where I’m going – not my publisher, not my editor, not even my mother!  I’m vanishing off the face of the Earth, Hickok.”  Suddenly seeming to realize that the world doesn’t revolve around him, he studies me for a moment before adding, “Maybe you should do the same.”

I wave off his belated concern, my eyes flicking to the hand he’s placed on my arm as he leans across the table.  “I honestly… no, when do I ever do things honestly?  I just thought that, if you wanted to, you could work for me. I’m a rich man, Hickok, I could make it worth your while.  You can handle Caulder.  You could be my bodyguard until the ship sails!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Marcus, but I ain’t in the market for a job right now,” I lie.  Even knowin’ that he’s got a legitimate cause for concern, it still ain’t enough to make me work for JD Marcus.  Besides, I’m tryin’ to make a new life for myself, and I don’t want to start it off by gettin’ a reputation for killin’ people.  Well, any MORE people.  

“I can give you some advice, though, and that won’t cost you nothin’.  You want to avoid Caulder, you keep a low profile.  Dressin’ more like a store clerk and less like a peacock might be a good first step.”

He looks offended for a moment, and then a genuine smile makes its slow way across his face.  Tossin’ back the rest of his whiskey, he drops a few coins on the table before tipping his hat to me in a goodwill-type gesture.  He takes a few steps away, and my mind’s already turnin’ away from our conversation.  My stomach’s still rumblin’ and I’m pretty sure Isabelle wouldn’t mind fetchin’ me a second piece of apple pie. So I’m a little annoyed when he steps back, draws a small card out of his pocket, and scribbles somethin’ on the back.

“Hickok,” he says, wearing the same expression that I’ve seen on men who’ve been gut-shot, “I know I didn’t do right by you either.  For that, I’m sorry.  If I can do anything for you before I leave, just let me know.”   

He releases the card, which flutters lazily down to the table and lands next to my half-empty bottle of sarsaparilla.    The name and address of a New York hotel is written on it.  

I ain’t sure what I’m goin’ to say when I look up from the table.  “Thank you” or “I don’t need this” or “What kind of game are you playing at?”  All of them things are likely possibilities to come out of my mouth.  It just seems like I should say somethin’.  ‘Cause I can hear the sincerity in his voice, and it’d be kind o’ rude just to ignore it.  

In the end, it doesn’t matter.  When I do look up, he’s already gone.

.