A voice boomed from the shadows. “Aye, Johnny Slick, teller of tales, friend of the outlaw, feared by…”
The voice stopped. Henry waited.
The voice was now rather matter-of-fact. “Where’s ma whiskey?” it demanded.
“Sir?”
A lamp went on. As his eyes adjusted, Henry saw the great writer: large and bewhiskered, draped in an ankle-length coat, sprawled in an armchair.
Johnny Slick! My hero – right here in Nelson!
The American’s booted feet rested on a side table, next to an empty whiskey bottle.
“Who are you?”
“Henry Appleton, sir.”
Slick tweaked his bushy moustache. “Are you bringing ma whiskey?”
“No, sir. I’m – I came here to meet you, sir.” He held out his dime novel. “I’ve read all your stories, sir.”
Johnny Slick slapped his boot. “Goddammit, you’re another Western fan. Come to ma lecture tonight.”
“My mother wouldn’t approve, sir.”
As soon as he’d said it, Henry blushed. What kind of adventurer would admit that his mother made the rules?
Johnny Slick roared with laughter. “Your mother wouldn’t ‘approve’! Ha ha ha.”
Henry bowed his head in embarrassment.
As his eyes adjusted, Henry saw the great writer sprawled in an armchair. “I’ve read all your stories, sir.”
“Sonny, I tell ya – some of the most feared outlaws of the Wild West are no older’n you.”
Henry knew it. He could name some of them: Jesse James, Jumping Jack Rogers, Cole Younger, Felipe Espinosa…
He peered at this shambolic spectacle – his hero – and decided to press on. After all, he’d come this far.
“Is it true you met Wild Bill Hickok, sir?”
“Wild Bill? Ha ha! Duck Bill, they call him. On account of his ‘peculiar features’.”
“He killed five outlaws, sir, single-handed.”
“Did he now?” Slick seemed surprised, then he guffawed. “Well, if I wrote that, it must be true.”
“Sir, how did you become a writer?”
“Questions, questions! Come to ma lecture!”
Henry didn’t move.
“Dammit, kid – bring me a bottle and we’ll talk.” He switched off the light.
Henry had won an audience with his hero.
He wasted no time heading back down the stairs to find a bottle of whiskey for Johnny Slick. He did not like alcohol, or what happened when men drank it, but he was keen to extract as much useful information as possible from the American. I want to write dime novels too!
It was only a few minutes before he was rapping on the door to Room Five again.
“Enter, cowboy!” bellowed the American.
Henry was glad the lamp was on as he came back in with the whiskey bottle. He’d charged the cost of the drink to Slick’s room, and was proud of himself for being so resourceful.
“Aha!” grunted Slick. “Ma goddam whiskey at last.” He grabbed it, wrenched it open, and took a slug. “Ah – the elixir of life, sustainer of hope and courage, fuel for the imagination…”
He gestured at Henry, standing in the middle of the room. “Sit!”
Henry took refuge in a plump armchair and fidgeted with a small rip in the velvet.
Slick held up the whiskey bottle and studied it as if he were about to deliver a Shakespearean soliloquy. With dramatic intensity, he pronounced, “In every bottle, there is one song and a hundred fights.”
Such colourful language! marvelled Henry.
“One song and a hundred fights.” Slick spluttered and wiped his lips. “That’s what them Injuns say anyhow. Very poetic. Wish I’d thought of it.”
I’ll warrant you’ll use it in one of your books anyway.
Slick guffawed and took another slug. Then he turned to Henry. “So you’re a wannabe writer.”
Henry nodded, eager.
“Righty-right, then,” said Slick, and leaned back to enjoy a game. “Once upon a time…?” He gestured for Henry to continue.
Henry gulped. The dime novel fell from his hands. “I … I …”
“Come on, kid. Cat got yer tongue?”
Henry crouched to pick up Masters of the Prairie. He straightened the cover. Then he cleared his voice. An idea had jumped into his head: an idea straight from his own life.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a fatherless young man, desperate to save the family farm. So he decided to rob a bank.”
That was impressive, Henry reckoned.
Slick swung the lamp towards Henry and looked hard at him. “Great start, kid. Has this young man got a gun?”
“Yes, sir.” A man needs a gun! “He’s going to steal his father’s rifle.” Henry couldn’t believe that thought came from his own lips. Steal my father’s gun?
“Swell!” said Johnny Slick. He sat up and took another slug of whiskey.
Henry waited till the coughing stopped, and then added: “I can draw, too, sir.” This is no time to be bashful. He reached into his jacket and handed over several crumpled sheets of paper, full of sketches of cowboys with blazing rifles.
Slick nodded. “Not half bad, kid.” He lay back again and sighed. “You know these yarns are mostly baloney, don’tcha. Hokum.”
“That’s what my mother says.”
“Well, you should listen to ’er, son – whad’ya say your name was?”
“Henry, sir. Henry Appleton.”
“Well, Henry Appleton, most of those so-called Wild West heroes are just ornery critters like you and me. ’Ceptin’ they’re stoopid enough to get a gun an’ start shootin’ folks.”
“But –”
“They mostly die young, Henry. Their flesh ripped apart by pieces of lead.” Henry could see that Johnny Slick was sobered up by his own words.
“Then why do you write about them, sir?”
“It’s a livin’, Henry. A very respectable livin’.”
Slick nodded towards Henry’s dime novel. “Folks buy them books ‘cos they’re desperate for heroes. To put a bit o’ sparkle in their own drab lives. Poor suckers.” He took a drink and mumbled something.
He’s drunk! My hero is drunk.
“Sorry to knock the wind outa ya sails, kid.” Aware he still had an audience, Slick continued: “I once challenged Wild Bill to a duel.”
Great – a story! “Really, sir? What happened?”
“We both missed. We were drunk as skunks.” Slick roared with laughter, which ended with more coughing. He took a drink, then leaned forward, serious. “Best advice I can give ya, kid …”
Henry waited. Yes?
“Don’t write about other people. Write yer own story. And live it.”
They stared at each other.
Henry asked, “Live it?”
“Yes. Live it.”
Henry saw Slick reach for the bottle again, and decided this was the end of the interview. He stood. “Thank you, Mister Slick.”
“For hell’s sake, Henry – ma name’s Robert Robertson. The Johnny Slick name, sheesh, it’s all part of the game. Make-believe.”
“Oh,” said Henry. Mother will be pleased to hear this.
“Nice to meet you, Mr – ah – Robertson.” He went to the door.
“Swell meetin’ you too, Henry.”
Henry reached for the handle.
“Henry!”
Henry turned.
“Henry, have ya heard of this guy … wassit – Tempsky?”
“Von Tempsky, sir. Yessir, I have.”
Henry pulled out his slightly battered carte de visite and held it out for the American to study. “He’s famous.”
“So I hear. A soldier and a painter. May I keep this?”
Henry hesitated. He had traded one of his best sketches for this von Tempsky photograph and counted it among his few personal treasures. But he couldn’t say no to this famous author.
“Yessir.” He handed it over. “Are you going to write about him, sir?”
“Well … I’m told he’s takin’ it easy back home in Auckland right now, so I plan on payin’ him a visit when I’m finished here.”
“There’ve been stories about him in the newspapers.”
“I’ve read them. He presents as bein’ a bit of a daredevil. They don’t tend to make old bones.”
“Old bones?”
“They die young, Henry.”
“Oh.”
Johnny Slick began scribbling in his notebook, so Henry slipped out.
As he stood outside Johnny Slick’s door, he heard the legendary storyteller begin to sing: “Early one morn, a young cowboy rode up, A gun in his hand, and fear in his eyes…”
Henry tucked Masters of the Prairie in his jacket and turned away. He was still lamenting the surrender of his von Tempsky carte de visite, but was excited to have met his larger-than-life hero face to face.