Santa Fe Death Trap Read online

  Rooms at La Fonda included toilets and running water, but only cold. Both men grabbed a clean change of clothes, locked their rooms, and headed out back. Josh noticed that Bill obviously knew the La Fonda well—he led the way down a back corridor, even using a service stairwell. Thus, even as word spread that Hickok was staying at the hotel, Bill avoided most of the thrill-seekers and troublemakers.

  A Chinese kid in a floppy blue blouse, a few years younger than Josh, was tending the men’s half of the washhouse. Huge, claw-footed iron tubs were divided by flock-board partitions. A big brass-trimmed hot-water boiler filled one corner.

  Every now and then, a safety valve on top the boiler released a jet of hissing steam into a vent in the ceiling.

  Hot water at the turn of a spigot was still a comparative luxury on the frontier. But it came with great danger. The technology was still new, and exploding water boilers and steam engines were among the young nation’s leading causes of accidental deaths.

  Hickok, like most literate folks, read the newspapers, and he knew all this. But he was also the most popular gun target in America. Bill had perfected the art of covering his back. And when his time finally came, he fully expected a bullet to do the deed—not some mundane mishap that killed clerks and preachers.

  Thus, Bill paid little attention when the Chinese kid, his hair braided into a two-foot pigtail, led him to the tub right next to the boiler. In fact, Bill preferred this spot for security reasons. It put the huge iron boiler behind him while leaving a good view of the entire building.

  The kid filled the adjacent tub for Joshua. Then he gave both men clean towels and little cakes of fancy French soap—not yellow lumps of lye-and-ash soap used most places. Then he excused himself, bowing before he hauled out a bag bulging with dirty towels intended for the laundry.

  Bill had already sent a bellboy to fetch him a bottle of Old Taylor bourbon. Hickok stuck the nickel stogy between his teeth, placed the bourbon near the tub, and began whistling cheerfully as he stripped. Bill removed the long gray duster that did double duty: It protected his clothing (for Hickok was notoriously fastidious about his appearance), and it hid the distinctive, fancy pearl grips of his Colt .44s.

  The water boiler thumped and clanged. Bill paid little heed, wincing as he eased his bare flesh into the water. Hickok left both guns within reach beside the bourbon bottle.

  “Now, this is more like it, kid.”

  Bill sighed, placing his stogy aside to duck his head under the water. He shot back up, water running from his head in rivulets.

  “We’ll scrub up, change, wrap our teeth around some decent grub. After that, guess I’ll visit the hotel bar and find myself a high-stakes poker game. Might even cap the night off with a trip to the opera.”

  The hot-water tank thumped and clanged again. Idly, Josh wondered why the pressure-release valve on top wasn’t hissing open. Bill whistled a few cheerful bars of “Buffalo Gal.”

  “And best of all,” he gloated, lifting one arm to scrub under it, “no ornery, stinking, ugly, cussing Calamity Jane on our trail. I ain’t seen scratch nor hair of her in months, knock on wood. That woman is death to the devil.”

  Getting mighty warm in here, Josh thought as beads of sweat trickled out of his hairline.

  “Bill?”

  “Mmm?”

  “That business back in Chimayo . . . you ever heard of this Curse of Hidalgo?”

  “Nah. But down here, there’s more curses than flies. The priests encourage it. They know their flocks will buy extra novenas for their souls. It’s sound business—you won’t see any skinny priests down here.”

  “Pretty hot in here,” Josh remarked.

  “Now, Longfellow,” Bill nattered on happily, “don’t forget. We ain’t joined at the hip. I only mention that so you’ll know to dust if I should strike up a likely acquaintance with a member of the fair sex.”

  “How do you know,” Josh demanded, “that I won’t get lucky first? Plenty of women like me.”

  Bill laughed. “Hell yes they do. It must be the bowler hat. Or maybe your high-school education. Who wouldn’t fancy a fellow who writes sentences like ‘Wild Bill spends most of his time ducking the ultimate arrow.’”

  Josh flushed. The water heater started clanging in earnest, but both men ignored it.

  “The ultimate arrow—it’s figurative is all. Women admire a man who’s good with words,” Josh protested.

  “Wha’d’ya think I use on ’em, kid, a breaking saddle? Ahh, cheer up. Who knows? This is Santa Fe. We might even find some sweetie in sprigged muslin for you.”

  Josh opened his mouth to retort. An eye blink later, all hell broke loose when the water heater exploded.

  Only Hickok’s razor-honed reflexes saved him from sure decapitation. Just a heartbeat before the front iron plate blew off, shooting only inches above the top of Hickok’s tub, the pressure valve popped loose with a sound like a gun discharging. That too-familiar sound immediately sent Hickok diving to the bottom of his washtub.

  The force of the main explosion blew out one section of wall in a comber of steaming water. It also blew both surprised and naked bathers out of their overturned tubs in a sprawling, sudsy confusion.

  “God kiss me!” Hickok exclaimed. “You all right, Joshua?”

  “I—I think so. Holy Hannah! What happened?”

  The place was a shambles, but nobody was hurt. Most of the scalding water blew over them. The two men scrambled into their clothing even as worried hotel employees rushed inside. All, Josh noticed, except the Chinese kid.

  “A terrible accident, Mr. Hickok,” the manager was sputtering even as Bill tucked in his shirttail. “My profuse apologies.”

  “Accidents happen,” Bill assured him, dismissing the incident in his usual quiet, gentlemanly manner. But Josh noticed how Bill, too, was looking around for that Chinese kid.

  Always nervous in any crowd, Hickok slipped back to his room on the second floor, Josh following him. The youth was about to key his lock when he noticed Wild Bill staring at his own door, motionless as a statue of salt.

  Josh moved a few steps to glance over Hickok’s shoulder. Abruptly, the youth felt his scalp tingling as if lice were crawling all over it.

  Someone had written, evidently with charcoal, the number 65 just above the fancy glass knob of Bill’s door. Josh immediately thought of that board they’d found in the pitfall at Chico Springs. It had an 18 on it, also in charcoal. But what did the numbers mean?

  The two men locked gazes.

  “Kid,” Bill said, his tone weary, “am I a trouble-seeking man by nature?”

  Josh shook his head. “You kidding? You go out of your way to avoid it.”

  “The way you say. But trouble always makes a point of looking me up. That pitfall wasn’t just there by happenchance, kid. And that explosion just now was accidental-on-purpose. Keep a weather eye out. We’ve walked into a stacked deck, and so far its dealer’s game.”

  Chapter Four

  “I don’t get it,” Josh pestered while Wild Bill fussed over himself in the mirror. “First the number eighteen, then the number sixty-five. What does it mean? The year 1865?”

  Hickok continued to carefully comb out his blond mustache. “Who knows?” he replied with little interest. “Who teaches little kids to play hopscotch? Look. I told you, Longfellow, we are not— repeat not—here in Santa Fe so you can get a good story.”

  Wild Bill wore a dark suit of worsted wool with a silk-lined vest and an octagon tie. Josh, too, was all spruced up, his pomaded hair slick and shiny as a new saddle.

  “Yeah? Well, whoever rigged that boiler to blow up seems to have different plans for you,” the young reporter said. “I still say we should find that Chinese kid. You notice how he disappeared right before the explosion?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Bill said, slapping bay rum tonic on his fresh-shaven cheeks. “The manager thinks the pressure-release valve got stuck.”

  “Is that what you think, too?”


  “Oh, it got stuck all right,” Bill agreed, frustrating Josh with his cryptic answer.

  “Eighteen and sixty-five. Could it mean the year 1865?” Josh repeated.

  “Couldn’t tell you, kid,” Bill replied as he strapped on his leather gunbelt. He pulled each Colt from its hand-tooled holster to palm the wheel, checking his loads.

  “You don’t seem too worried about it, either,” Josh pointed out.

  “I didn’t ride all the way down here to worry. Kid, why should I work up a brain sweat? Face the facts. While sheriff in Abilene, I killed a man who needed killing. Texan named Lofley. His old man is a cattle baron. So now there’s a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on me, payable to the hombre who delivers my head to old man Lofley. With all the jaspers who’re trying to kill me, why should I waste time looking for them? Does a man give up on the entire day just because he might have to fight for one minute of it?”

  A hotel valet delivered Bill’s freshly brushed hat. He clapped it on. “Let’s head downstairs,” he added, “and scare up a poker game. Since your ma’s Quaker, you can take over dealing when the stakes get sinfully high.”

  Josh followed Hickok down the spiraling central staircase, feeling a nervousness stirring in his belly. He’d seen Hickok like this before. Once the famed frontiersman decided to cut the wolf loose a bit, everything else ceased to matter until his wild oats were sown.

  Thus, Josh, too, was armed tonight. Nearly a year ago, when Josh first met him in Denver, Bill had given him an old, but well-maintained, LeFaucheux six-shot pinfire revolver. The ornately detailed French firearm was beautiful and even included a foldaway knife blade under the barrel. Now Josh wore the gun in a chamois holster under his left armpit. Thank God he could shoot better than he could ride, thanks to Bill’s tutelage.

  The youth from Philadelphia soon realized why Wild Bill enjoyed returning to Santa Fe and the Hotel La Fonda—he was treated like virtual royalty in the New Mexico Territory. Indeed, Hickok was soon “holding court” in the vast hotel barroom, the grand attraction of the night. Everyone, from weather-rawed cowboys to wealthy cattle buyers, made a point of stopping by his table to “touch him for luck.” Several bottles of Old Taylor, each label signed by Colonel Taylor himself, appeared at Bill’s elbow.

  Hickok remained polite and genial with all comers. But Josh could tell Wild Bill was in the mood for romantic intrigue. Rules of propriety were more relaxed in scandalous Santa Fe, where even “proper” women sometimes smoked and imbibed liquor in public establishments. It was these females Hickok kept an eye out for. And Josh noticed they were watching the handsome legend right back. From dime-a-dance girls to elegant opera stars in ostrich-feather boas.

  He always gets his pick of the litter, Josh thought with a sting of jealousy. The ladies don’t even see any other man, as if his shadow obscures them. And it’s writers like me who’ve created the Wild Bill mystique in the first place.

  Thus wallowing in self-pity, Josh failed to notice when a big, sandy-haired man, wearing fancy oxblood boots and a well-tailored gray suit, made his way closer to the table where Josh sat playing five-card draw with Bill. Two other well-dressed players had joined them.

  “Hickok, you son of a bitch! You’re a low-down, horse-stealing, barn-burning, skirt-chasing, card-cheating prissy yahoo. I’ll make you wear your ass for a hat, you scurvy-infested Irish sot! Or maybe I’ll just plug you right now and cash in your female curls for Texas money.”

  The barroom went silent like a classroom after a tough question. Josh, who was dealing, laid the deck aside. The big man stepped even closer, and the crowd parted like water before the prow of a ship. Josh heard chairs scuff the floor as folks cleared a ballistics lane.

  Bill calmly mulled his cards, a slim cheroot stuck between his teeth.

  “Joshua,” he said, and in that quiet hush his voice carried without effort. “I ever tell you about a poker genius named Mitt McGinnis? Ugly as a pus sore, and the man would steal dead flies from a blind spider. But he was also the best cattleman anywhere near Abilene. The man taught me a valuable rule of poker etiquette: Never clean a man out at cards. You should always leave him burying money as a courtesy.”

  Laughter bubbled through the barroom. The tension eased like a fist relaxing.

  The new arrival raised a jolt glass of amber whiskey high over his head.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! A moment of your time, please! Most of you know me. I’ve been whipping beeves on the butt—excuse me, ladies— since I was a little shaver. Some call me a rich cattleman, though I’m no Rockefeller. But back in ‘71, up in Abilene, Kansas, I stood to lose every red cent I owned. All of us up there did. Banks, trains, coaches, nothing nor no one was safe from outlaws. Gunsels like Stoney MacGruder and Reno Sloan, men that would kill you for your boots.”

  McGinnis paused to nod toward Hickok’s table.

  “But in 1871, James Butler Hickok was hired on as marshal of Abilene. Cost us a hundred and fifty dollars a month to get him, if you can believe that.”

  A murmur of surprise rolled through the crowd.

  “Well, he was worth ten times that! He brought such ironfisted justice with him that not one dollar was stolen during his tenure.”

  “Except by you, Mitt, at the card table,” Bill quipped wryly before he tasted his bourbon. “This man marks the aces with cigar ashes.” More laughter rippled through the barroom.

  “Thanks to that perfumed dandy’s single-handed courage,” McGinnis went on in a burst of heartfelt eloquence, “any hardcases who survived left Abilene wiser if not better men. And that let me and many other westering folk get our start. So ladies and gentlemen, a toast!”

  Now Mitt’s voice was completely sincere.

  “To Wild Bill Hickok! He’s one man, armed with skill and raw courage. And he’s held all the lawless elements at bay in the toughest towns on the frontier. Here’s to a man.”

  Cheers and applause exploded like a thunderclap.

  “Hear, hear!” someone shouted enthusiastically. “To Wild Bill!”

  More cheering and clapping. In that heady moment, Josh felt ashamed of the petty jealousy he’d felt just minutes before. This well-spoken Mitt McGinnis was dead right. Hickok did do those things, and more. Josh was proud to be sitting beside him—even if the arrogant dandy did order him around like a personal valet.

  “Well, Mitt?” Wild Bill asked his old friend when the hubbub died down. “You gonna stand there blubbering and slopping over all night? Or you gonna let me lighten your wallet?”

  “Money in my pocket,” the wealthy cattle buyer boasted. “But say, Bill. My kid sister Liddy is with me—she’s visiting from St. Louis. That’s her sipping lemonade over by the doors—see her in the ribboned hat? May she join us?”

  Josh glanced up from his cards and looked where McGinnis pointed. A strikingly pretty young woman with ash-blond hair gazed curiously around the room, fascinated but also a little intimidated by this exuberant crush of southwestern society. Women from good families were smoking little dark Mexican cigarettes—and exposing so much of their nearly bare breasts that some might as well have been naked!

  “Ladies are always welcome, Mitt,” Bill said without bothering to look up from his cards. “This is Santa Fe, not Hays City. Gents, watch your language and don’t spit or scratch yourselves in front of her.”

  Mitt McGinnis left and returned, leading a tall, slender woman wearing a white silk dress with a bertha of point lace. Her pretty, fine-boned face was lightly dusted with powder. All the men stood up at her arrival. Now, Josh noticed, Bill was indeed paying attention.

  Mitt obviously doted on his kid sister. He installed her in a chair between Josh and Wild Bill. After brief introductions all around, the game went forward, Josh dealing, Liddy observing. She cast several slanted glances at Wild Bill.

  “You know, Miss McGinnis,” Hickok said politely as he tossed down two discards, “La Fonda serves an excellent claret. Shall I order you a glass?”

  “You’re
not getting my sister drunk, you rascal,” Mitt chimed in. “She’s a lass of virtue—an aberration, in my family.”

  “I’d love a glass of claret, Mr. Hickok, thank you,” Liddy said defiantly—in a voice like waltzing violins, thought the admiring Josh. “From everything I’ve read or heard about Wild Bill, he’s a gentleman above all else. A lady’s virtue is safe around him.”

  Sure, thought Josh. Because he doesn’t need to rob what they surrender willingly. He watched Bill and Liddy exchange a private little smile. Josh smarted with jealousy.

  Thus the night progressed. Bill’s legendary luck held this evening. He took trick after trick, and soon gold coins glittered in front of him on the green-baize surface of the table. But even as Hickok’s winnings piled up, he managed to engage Liddy in increasingly flirtatious banter. She gave as good as she got. A second glass of claret helped things along.

  Only Josh, who knew him well by now, realized how vigilant Wild Bill remained even as poker, alcohol, and the hyacinth fragrance of a lovely woman vied for his attention.

  He hadn’t forgotten that “accident” in the washhouse. Early on, Bill had selected a chair with solid wall behind it and a good view of the big barroom. He closely scrutinized anyone who neared the table. And despite his relaxed posture, both pearl-gripped .44s remained close to hand.

  “Bill,” Mitt interjected at one point, “I know you’re camped here in the hotel. But you’ll have to visit my spread, the Lazy M. Plenty of room for you and your friend. Wait till you see how I’m branching out. Besides raising beeves, I’m breeding and training camels for the U.S. Army. The Lazy M is only ten miles south of town on the road to Pecos. We’ve got the fancy carriage tonight—why don’t you and young Joshua here come on back with us?”