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

Clint said. “Mark, this was all about Bill’s sense of justice.”
    â€œFor the people of Cheyenne?”
    â€œFor the depositors of that bank, for the relatives of the people who were killed, and for that young boy.”
    â€œThe young boy,” Silvester said. “I never realized Wild Bill Hickok was that sentimental.”
    â€œIt had nothing to do with sentiment,” Clint said. “Weren’t you listening? It had to do with justice.”
    Silvester looked around, then closed his notebook.
    â€œYou have more stories, of course,” he said.
    â€œYes,” Clint said, “I do, but that’s it for now.”
    â€œBut . . . we’ve only just begun.”
    â€œWe can get back to it later,” Clint said. “I understand Sam Clemens is in town and I want to see him.”
    â€œMark Twain?” Silvester said. “You know Mark Twain?”
    â€œYes, we’re friends.”
    Silvester jumped to his feet.
    â€œMay I come with you?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œWhy, to meet him.”
    â€œWhat would you say to him?” Clint asked.
    â€œThat he’s a genius,” Silvester said. “That I have enjoyed all his work.”
    â€œHe’d probably appreciate that,” Clint said.
    â€œYou mean, coming from another writer?”
    â€œI mean coming from anyone,” Clint said. “All right, come along.”
    * * * 
    That night Dawkins watched the woman named Carla get dressed. He was lying naked on his bed.
    â€œSo let me get this straight,” she said, brushing her hair while looking in his mirror.
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œClint Adams is in town,” she said. “The Gunsmith. And you want me to find out what he’s doing here.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd we’re working for a man from New York named John Wells?”
    â€œRight again.”
    â€œJeff,” she said, looking at him in the mirror, “do we know who this man is?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œWhat do we know?”
    â€œThat he has money to spend. Lots of it.”
    â€œAnd he wants you to find out why the Gunsmith is in Denver?”
    â€œNo,” Dawkins said, “he doesn’t care about the Gunsmith.” He lay back on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and looked down, admiring his own flat stomach. “He’s concerned with the writer, Silvester.”
    â€œThe writer who is interviewing the Gunsmith.”
    â€œWho is apparently interviewing the Gunsmith,” Dawkins said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
    She finished with her hair, stood, straightened her dress, looked at herself critically n the mirror, then walked to the bed and sat next to him.
    â€œWhy don’t you take that dress off?” he suggested.
    â€œI just put it back on.”
    He glanced down at the sheet that covered his groin, and the tent pole that was sticking up. She smiled, took hold of his penis through the tent, and stroked it.
    â€œYou’re not done,” she said.
    â€œNot by a long shot.”
    She sighed.
    â€œI’m not taking my dress off again,” she said, “but . . .”
    She removed the sheet from his hard cock, stroked it with her hand, then leaned over and took it into her mouth. Dawkins closed his eyes and enjoyed it while she sucked him . . .
    * * * 
    Later, she put the finishing touches to her face, once again examining herself in the mirror.
    â€œWhere do I find him?”
    â€œThe Denver House Hotel.”
    â€œHe has good taste.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m counting on.”
    â€œFlatterer,” she said, moving away from the mirror. She did not approach the bed again. “You’re covering the expenses, right?”
    â€œRight. Come over here,” he said.
    â€œNo,” she said, “I’m safer over here.” She picked up her handbag. “How far do