Dead Man's Hand

by Judd Cole

  “Satan’s waiting,” Hickok reminded him. “You came up here to get rich, you nickel-chasing son of a bitch. Now earn your blood money!”

  “I said shut up!” Dog Man roared, and with the last shouted word he had his gun out and firing. But Hickok, true to his promise, had already planted two .44 slugs in the killer’s intestines by the time Dog Man twitched off his first round, pulling it wide.

  However, even as the half-breed tripped, rolled hard, then bounced screaming to the ground below, Bill realized a new source of danger.

  He had been vaguely aware, during the tense showdown with Dog Man, that the train’s angle had shifted as it headed downhill. Now that hill was steepening, the train’s speed increasing.

  Bill heard a desperate shout well out ahead, saw a lantern wildly waving from the cars up front.

  “Man the brake wheels!” a hoarse voice half commanded, half pleaded. “Hard turns now, Yellowstone, or we all cop it! Now, Jack, by the Virgin! You’ve picked a rum time to sleep— that’s Crying Horse Canyon ahead!”

  Obviously the front brakeman mistook Bill’s form for Yellowstone’s. Bill ran to the north edge of the roof, craned his neck out to stare ahead in the moonlight, then felt fear slam into him like a mule’s kick.

  The train was still picking up dangerous speed on the long downward slope. At the bottom, the tracks took a sharp, dogleg bend to avoid a steep canyon drop-off. And though Bill didn’t know beans about manning brake wheels, even a soft-brain could see that the Ice Train, and all aboard it, were about to plummet to their destruction.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By now, Bill estimated, the out-of-control train was clipping along at forty miles per hour or better—dangerously fast, especially considering how long it took to stop even a slow train.

  The front brakeman hopped desperately from car to car, cranking his assigned brake wheels until the iron train wheels below fairly screeched and shot sprays of yellow sparks up from the tracks. But his efforts were virtually useless with the rear half of the train shoving on ahead unabated. It was like trying to stop only the front half of a charging elephant. Nor could one brakeman possibly tend to all the cars.

  Guessing the task by feel, Wild Bill grabbed the nearest brake wheel and turned it a spin or two to the right. When it showed resistance, he leaped to the next car and did the same. Bill thus continued to brake both cabooses and two of the passenger coaches—back and forth, back and forth, hustling desperately, turning each wheel as far as he could before leaping to the next and doing it over again.

  During all this, Bill refused to look down each time he made the shaky leap between swaying cars. The train was definitely slowing, but had he braked it hard enough, and in time?

  They slid into the dogleg bend, wheels screaming, sparks flying, and Bill felt the Ice Train lean dangerously to the north—literally teetering at the brim of the adjacent canyon.

  God kiss me, were going over, Bill thought. But then, before he could even leap to safety, the train came back to the level. Moments later, miraculously, it was through the turn and still on rails.

  Bill heaved a huge sigh of relief even as the front brakeman loosed a wild cheer. His calves suddenly felt weak as water, and Bill abruptly sat down on the narrow plank walkway. He waited a couple of minutes to get his breath back.

  “I’ll face a gunfight any damn day,” Bill said out loud to no one.

  With the crisis over, the angry front brakeman was heading back to cuss hell out of Yellowstone Jack for falling asleep on duty. Bill stood up and returned to the top of the last caboose, waiting for the other man to arrive and learn the truth. It would take two of them, at least, to move Yellowstone Jack’s body.

  It was then, after managing to kill Dog Man and save the train, that the inexperienced Bill Hickok made the one unforgivable mistake of walking atop trains: He turned his back, for too long, to the direction of motion. Thus he failed to see the next turn ahead before he could brace his legs and lean into it.

  The train lurched right, but momentum sent an unwary Hickok pitching headlong to the ground below.

  In the Nebraska panhandle country one hundred miles west of the Ice Train’s present position, the warriors of Catch-the-Bear’s tribe had marked their faces with charcoal. Blackened faces symbolized joy at the death of an enemy.

  “There! There is the signal fire!” called out the shaman named Coyote Boy.

  He and Chief Catch-the-Bear shared a sandy knoll about thirty yards above the track bed. The evening bird chatter had fallen silent hours before. Below, in the ghostly moonlight, about a dozen sweating braves were ripping up the tracks with crowbars. These had been stolen from a Wasichu supply train headed for Fort Kearney. Indians knew how to employ them from observation of railroad repair crews.

  “The next Iron Horse has passed Red Hawk’s camp at Crooked Creek,” Coyote Boy said. He was still watching the distant signal fire, an orange finger on the horizon.

  “I have ears for this,” Catch-the-Bear approved. “It will still be dark when they reach this spot. They will not see the missing rails in time.”

  The chief and Coyote Boy, like all the adult males in the tribe, had cropped short their much-esteemed locks to mourn the dead back in their fever-ravaged camp.

  “We will kill and scalp as many as possible,” Catch-the-Bear reiterated. “Remember, only the unborn are innocent! But we must also remember that most important is to escape with a live prisoner.”

  Coyote Boy nodded, understanding his chief perfectly. That prisoner would be tortured for days on end. Not only because torture was a time-honored tribal entertainment; this time it would also be an important offering to propitiate angry gods. Even now, Catch-the-Bear’s delirious daughter, Mountain Laurel, clung to life by a bare thread. Two dozen more lay sick and dying.

  “We failed to act like men when the gold-seeking hair-mouths first invaded our Paha-sapa,” Catch-the-Bear added. He meant the Black Hills just to the north—the sacred center of the Sioux universe. “By that failure, we let the white skins bring their diseases to our ranges, to make women of us! But before our sister the sun is born again in the east, the Holy Ones will once again be proud of their Lakota men!”

  The brakeman saw Bill topple off and shouted to the engineer to vent steam. So it wasn’t long before the battered and dusty Wild Bill was back aboard the Ice Train, his usual slight limp now a bit more pronounced.

  Josh watched Bill fill the washbasin and begin to unbutton his shirt.

  “Nobody tried to get in here while you were up there,” Josh told him. He added in a burst of candor, “Thank God.”

  Bill nodded. “That’s because it wasn’t part of the plan this time. They’ve been watching us. They knew I’d go topside sooner or later to jaw with Yellowstone. This move was meant to get me out of the way. The professor and his machine were next on the list.”

  “Once again Bodmer comes out clean as a whistle,” Josh said angrily. “He’s made sure he had a perfect alibi. He can blame the reward, claim greed made Dog Man act on his own.”

  “Won’t matter,” Bill said with quiet confidence as he quickly and efficiently shaved. “Alibis are for courtrooms. From here on out, I’m making the medicine and Bodmer is taking it.”

  “He won’t give up,” Josh said.

  Bill slapped bay-rum tonic on his face. “No bout adoubt it, kid. You can see that in Bodmer’s eyes. The arrogant son of a bitch senses doom for the first time in his life, all because of the professor’s gizmo there. He’ll foul his nest before too long. Bodmer’s type always does.”

  “Bodmer!” Professor Vogel make a noise like spitting up a bad taste. “Ach, za prophet’s eloquence, but za profiteer’s honesty.”

  Vogel, who had previously shown indifference to the untutored Yellowstone Jack, had been shocked and outraged at the big American’s brutal death. He had insisted on producing sufficient ice to keep the body in cold storage in the baggage car. And he had personally packed it all around the dead man, his
eyes misty with compassionate tears. “He vass a brave man,” Vogel explained apologetically. “He died protecting my Hilda.”

  Josh, his eyes big with excitement, watched Bill dry his hands, then remove each Colt in turn and check his loads.

  “You’re going after Bodmer and Landry, aren’cha?” Josh demanded.

  “Kill one fly,” Bill replied tersely, “kill a million.”

  “Good!”

  Josh felt anger heat flow into his face as he recalled the way Bodmer had lately begun to insult and taunt Elena in front of others. That boorish behavior bothered Josh even more than Big Bat’s stinging whip to his face.

  “The way Bodmer treats Elena,” Josh added, “is a sin to Moses.”

  Bill, carefully inspecting his firing pin for hairline cracks, gave a closemouthed smile. “What’s the matter, kid? You been pining lately. You struck a spark for Bodmer’s woman?”

  Josh felt himself flushing deep. “She’s not Bodmer’s! She hates him!”

  Bill looked up at him, and Josh suddenly regretted the insubordination in his tone. After all, who the hell was he, and just look who he was snapping at! But Wild Bill only shook his head, then holstered his side arms.

  “Ahh, you’ll do to take along, kid. Listen— break out your pencil, wouldja, and take down a note for me.”

  “Well, that just flat out does it,” Randolph Bodmer announced when it was finally crystal clear the Dog Man was once again missing. “This time, I’ll wager, we won’t see him limping back alive.”

  Bodmer and Big Bat Landry had Bodmer’s private Pullman car to themselves, Elena having once again sequestered herself inside her locked sleeper.

  “He’s dead,” Big Bat agreed. “I searched the whole damn train except for Hickok’s caboose.”

  Big Bat, his callused hands trembling, poured himself another shot of good rye. He was getting damned worried. Dog Man was a careful man, no risk taker he. He had ever followed the motto of his Mountain Ute clan: Place no foot down until there is a rock to bear it. And yet, even he had not been careful enough to face down Wild Bill Hickok.

  Besides all that, the superstitious Big Bat had another reason to fret. Some old hag on the third-class coach had a cowl over one eye—a milky membrane that marked her as a visionary. Since she claimed to be an “astrological doctor,” Big Bat paid her four bits to work up his chart.

  She had concluded: “Your fate is in the Eighth House of the Zodiac.” But the Eighth House, she informed him reluctantly when he pressed her, was Death’s house.

  Thus ruminating, Big Bat became aware that his boss, tongue well oiled with liquor, was mixing personal matters in with business.

  “—given Elena enough time to get over her little snit,” Bodmer was confiding. “Hell, I never actually called the woman a whore, anyhow. Damned high-strung, fine-haired bitches! But instead of thawing out, she keeps giving me the frosty mitt! It’s that bastard Hickok, he—”

  Big Bat’s ham-size fist slammed the table between them so hard that the whiskey bottle and glasses leaped.

  “Get over your peeve, poncy man! Never mind your woman, they’re all whores! Get your goddamn head screwed on straight, you hear me, Bodmer? It’s us or Hickok now!”

  Bodmer was shocked sober. Not a man to brook defiance, he couldn’t believe Big Bat had spoken to him that way. But before the angry entrepreneur could even react, a porter knocked and entered with a note.

  Big Bat watched his employer read it, then pale around the lips. Bodmer’s eyes lost their focus, seeing something in his mind’s eye that was inspired by the note.

  “Well, what’s it say?” Big Bat demanded.

  Without a word, Bodmer slid the paper across to his hireling. There were only seven words, but they made the fine hairs on Landry’s nape stiffen: That’s one down and two to go.

  But the note wasn’t signed “Bill Hickok.” The signature, in big, bold strokes of the pen, read: “Yellowstone Jack McQuady, Sergeant, Army of the Potomac.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was in the still, silent, sleepy darkness just before dawn when the bottom suddenly dropped out of the world.

  Or so it seemed to Josh only seconds after he was literally lifted and tossed from his bunk, crashing to rest on the now-tilted south wall of the caboose.

  Vogel shrieked, probably because Hilda, too, had been tossed from her storage crate. She lay, apparently undamaged, against the wall beside Josh, trailing streamers of excelsior packing. Only Wild Bill, whose bunk protruded from the south wall, had not been tossed from bed.

  For a long moment, right after the deafening, bone-shaking jolt, Josh felt everyone on board, himself included, hold their collective breath— as if in expectation. And sure enough, that expectant silence was broken by hideous, yipping shouts that frightened Josh immobile. Suddenly, things were happening ten ways a second.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bill cursed. “That’s a Sioux war cry, gents. With the Crow or Cheyenne tribes, we might pay tribute and pass by. Not the Lakota! Get set for a hell-buster!”

  Sioux! Josh had only seen Sioux braves in towns, and from safe distances, at that. But he knew plenty about them, and he knew damn well they were no tribe to fool with. However, he had no time to be scared—poor Professor Vogel was practically hysterical, and Josh worked to calm him. The old Prussian had already confided to Josh that he would rather be boiled in oil than scalped.

  Shots opened up from outside, and somewhere Josh heard a woman scream. Was it Elena?

  “Damnit, kid!” Bill snapped, kicking the glass out of the window near his bunk. “This is no time to give that old man a sugar tit! Break out your shooter and take up a position! We’re under attack, you young fool, stop gawking like a ninny!”

  Obviously the train had been derailed somehow. But Josh could see now, in the early light, that it had not been too serious here at the rear. Although they had been torqued off the rails by cars in front, they were canting at no more than a forty-five-degree angle, the caboose undamaged.

  More shots erupted while Josh groped in the carpetbag for his revolver. Bill was still holding his fire, waiting for a sure target.

  Josh scootched to the window opposite Bill. Despite the lightening sky, he could make out little at first.

  “They’re concentrating their attack on the front half of the train,” Bill explained. “But Indians don’t concentrate their fire very long before they move on to a new position. You’ll see them soon enough. When you do, don’t waste shots, Longfellow! Against Indians, taking out a horse is as good as the rider. And what did I tell you about how to shoot?”

  Josh’s mouth was so dry he could spit cotton. He swallowed a fear lump and replied, “Don’t aim. Just point and shoot, like the gun was an extension of my finger.”

  “There’s a feisty Quaker,” Bill approved. “Good for thee!”

  Josh spotted an orange streak in the corner of one eye.

  “Wild Bill! They’re shooting fire arrows!”

  “Won’t matter unless they land inside. The Pullmans have metal frames, and the wood on the other cars is coated thick with linseed oil to stop flames.”

  Vogel, convinced he was about to be scalped, crawled back into his bunk and huddled under the cover.

  “There!” Josh exclaimed. “I saw one!”

  In just moments, more mounted braves were visible in the grainy darkness. Some rode bareback on their painted ponies; others sat on flat buffalo-hide saddles. Josh glimpsed upraised rifles and stone war clubs. The hammering racket of their assault was unbelievable.

  “Kid,” Bill said sarcastically above the din, “I don’t mean to spoil your first Indian attack. But don’t you think maybe you better open the window or break that glass out first before you shoot?”

  Josh felt heat in his face. “I was going to,” he muttered defensively.

  Bill’s .44 bucked in his fist, bucked again. Spent cartridges rattled to the floor, and Josh whiffed the sharp scent of spent cordite. He groped for one of his boots to s
mash out the window.

  A heartbeat later, an attacking brave did it for him. Shards of glass suddenly exploded inward when a double-bladed throwing hatchet destroyed the window.

  “Man alive!”

  Josh leaped backward as glass cut his face, the pain like dozens of fiery ant bites. But the blade missed Josh by an inch or so. The hatchet embedded itself hard in the wall just above Vogel’s head. The old man screeched like a damned soul in torment.

  “Let her rip!” Bill sang out, enjoying himself immensely.

  But Josh failed to see the enjoyment—that hatchet had unstrung his nerves completely. He stared at it, snake-tranced, unable to move a muscle.

  “Damnit, kid!” Wild Bill switched to his left Colt. “One useless old man per caboose is enough! Getcher thumb outta your sitter, Longfellow, and bust some caps!”

  Much later, Elena realized it must have been all her pillows that saved her life—pillows imported from Paris and London and Canton, pillows thick with satin stitch and French knots.

  The Ice Train had been traveling at about half speed—perhaps twenty miles per hour—when it plowed into the sabotaged stretch of tracks. The locomotive and tender had snapped free, ending up well away from the rest of the wrecked train. Elena’s sleeper compartment, at one end of Bodmer’s private car, was close enough to the front that she was thrown violently when the Pullman derailed.

  But pillows cushioned that blow. And now they had also absorbed at least two bullets that might otherwise have found her wildly beating heart.

  However, despite her good fortune, pillows couldn’t cushion all the danger. The door to her sleeper had bent in its frame, and she wasn’t strong enough to force it open. Even worse, when the Pullman tilted, gaslights shattered and set all the rich fabrics instantly ablaze. Elena was already coughing as acrid smoke filled the tiny room.