cautious, so he would start in the direction of the rendezvous, wherever it had been.
Hickok had seen him in Wichita, but he had left for Hays ... it was likely that contact had been made there, and that might be the rendezvous point. In any event, he had nothing else to go on.
That night, after he made camp, Val practiced his draw, then fixed himself something to eat, and practiced again. He had a natural speed of hand and eye, developed over the years by handling cards and guns, and by juggling several small balls, a practice started by Will. Each night he practiced drawing, but he did no firing, for he was not anxious to attract attention to himself, and had no idea who might be in that part of the country.
In Durango he got a newspaper and found the item Will had made Simpson write. Val himself mailed those letters the first morning after the killing. He smiled at the thought of Henry Sonnenberg meeting Simpson after seeing that item.
Val folded the paper and placed it on the table beside his plate. Then he reached in his pocket for money, and found he had none there. But there was gold in his money belt--in both money belts, for he was carrying several thousand dollars.
He hesitated a moment, then took up the paper and opened it. Using it as a shield, he slipped a hand inside his shirt and took out three gold coins. As he started to place them in his pocket one slipped from his fingers and rolled on the floor.
Several heads turned. Embarrassed, Val got up to retrieve the coin, which had stopped rolling near a heavy boot, stained with red earth. As Val reached for it, the boot moved and came down hard on the coin.
Val stepped back and straightened up, his heart pounding. He had seen Will Reilly face such situations, but he had never faced one himself.
There were three men at the bar, and the foot of the man on the end was on the coin.
"You've got your foot on my money," Val said. "Would you move it, please?"
The man made no move, but he glanced at the others, chuckling. "Listen to that talk. Real gent, ain't he? Now look here, boy. That coin dropped out of my pocket. It ain't yours, it's mine."
A dozen men were watching, their eyes on Val. He was only a boy, but he was wearing a gun, and any man who carries a gun must be prepared to use it.
"There's a twenty-dollar gold piece on the floor, and it belongs to me," Val tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Take your foot off it."
"It ain't yourn," the man said, "but if you can get it, you can have it."
Deliberately, he moved his foot and Val stepped forward to pick up the coin. Instantly, he saw his mistake. As he bent over he saw the man's boot swing for a kick, only inches from his face.
His reaction was instantaneous, from long training. He struck the boot aside even as it swung toward him, and the slap threw the man at the bar off balance and he started to fall, catching himself by his right hand on the bar just in time.
Val stepped back quickly, gun in hand. "Pick it up mister," he said quietly, "and put it on my table."
Slowly the man pulled himself up. The other two had spread out a little. "Put that gun up, kid. We were only funnin'."
"Pick up the money and put it on my table." Val's voice was suddenly cold and steady. He did not want to kill, but he didn't believe he would have to. These were bad men, but dangerous only when the odds were with them. "I'm not funnin'," he added.
The big man stooped for the coin, and then he lunged in a long dive. Val did a boxer's near side-step and brought the barrel of the Smith & Wesson down on the back of the man's head. He went to the floor, out cold.
Without removing his eyes from the others, Val picked up the coin and backed off. Then he went to the bar and paid for his meal. He took up his change and pocketed it.
"You won't get away with this, kid," one of the other men said. "He'll kill you."
Val knew what a good bluff could do. He bolstered his gun and faced them. "How about you? You want to try?"
The
Hickok had seen him in Wichita, but he had left for Hays ... it was likely that contact had been made there, and that might be the rendezvous point. In any event, he had nothing else to go on.
That night, after he made camp, Val practiced his draw, then fixed himself something to eat, and practiced again. He had a natural speed of hand and eye, developed over the years by handling cards and guns, and by juggling several small balls, a practice started by Will. Each night he practiced drawing, but he did no firing, for he was not anxious to attract attention to himself, and had no idea who might be in that part of the country.
In Durango he got a newspaper and found the item Will had made Simpson write. Val himself mailed those letters the first morning after the killing. He smiled at the thought of Henry Sonnenberg meeting Simpson after seeing that item.
Val folded the paper and placed it on the table beside his plate. Then he reached in his pocket for money, and found he had none there. But there was gold in his money belt--in both money belts, for he was carrying several thousand dollars.
He hesitated a moment, then took up the paper and opened it. Using it as a shield, he slipped a hand inside his shirt and took out three gold coins. As he started to place them in his pocket one slipped from his fingers and rolled on the floor.
Several heads turned. Embarrassed, Val got up to retrieve the coin, which had stopped rolling near a heavy boot, stained with red earth. As Val reached for it, the boot moved and came down hard on the coin.
Val stepped back and straightened up, his heart pounding. He had seen Will Reilly face such situations, but he had never faced one himself.
There were three men at the bar, and the foot of the man on the end was on the coin.
"You've got your foot on my money," Val said. "Would you move it, please?"
The man made no move, but he glanced at the others, chuckling. "Listen to that talk. Real gent, ain't he? Now look here, boy. That coin dropped out of my pocket. It ain't yours, it's mine."
A dozen men were watching, their eyes on Val. He was only a boy, but he was wearing a gun, and any man who carries a gun must be prepared to use it.
"There's a twenty-dollar gold piece on the floor, and it belongs to me," Val tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Take your foot off it."
"It ain't yourn," the man said, "but if you can get it, you can have it."
Deliberately, he moved his foot and Val stepped forward to pick up the coin. Instantly, he saw his mistake. As he bent over he saw the man's boot swing for a kick, only inches from his face.
His reaction was instantaneous, from long training. He struck the boot aside even as it swung toward him, and the slap threw the man at the bar off balance and he started to fall, catching himself by his right hand on the bar just in time.
Val stepped back quickly, gun in hand. "Pick it up mister," he said quietly, "and put it on my table."
Slowly the man pulled himself up. The other two had spread out a little. "Put that gun up, kid. We were only funnin'."
"Pick up the money and put it on my table." Val's voice was suddenly cold and steady. He did not want to kill, but he didn't believe he would have to. These were bad men, but dangerous only when the odds were with them. "I'm not funnin'," he added.
The big man stooped for the coin, and then he lunged in a long dive. Val did a boxer's near side-step and brought the barrel of the Smith & Wesson down on the back of the man's head. He went to the floor, out cold.
Without removing his eyes from the others, Val picked up the coin and backed off. Then he went to the bar and paid for his meal. He took up his change and pocketed it.
"You won't get away with this, kid," one of the other men said. "He'll kill you."
Val knew what a good bluff could do. He bolstered his gun and faced them. "How about you? You want to try?"
The
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