Dead Man's Hand

by Judd Cole

  “Randolph!” she shouted desperately. “Randolph! Please help me, I’m trapped!”

  Bodmer heard her, all right. But the snapping flames urged him to save his own hide. However, despite the lead ball of fear in his belly, the businessman couldn’t help appreciating the poetic justice of this moment.

  As far as he was concerned, Elena turned out to be nothing but money down the drainpipe. Why in hell should he chain himself, and his money, to a woman who refused a man the pleasures of the marital couch after all he had bought her? Since law wouldn’t let him back out of a binding engagement, let fire or savages free him.

  “Please help me!” Elena begged.

  “Ain’t she silky-satin?” he taunted through her blocked door. “Just too goddamn fine to touch, she is! Well, guess what? Where I come from, an empty hand is no lure for a hawk, m’love. You wouldn’t come into my sleeper—why should I come into yours?”

  “Please, Randolph, oh please! The smoke, it’s choking me—help me—!”

  “In a pig’s ass, you snotty bitch! Let your famous ‘Vargas pride’ save you!”

  Despite the terrible fear distorting Elena’s pretty features, Bodmer’s filthy and callous words filled her with loathing and contempt for him. She would beg no more—not from the likes of him.

  Now the devout Catholic serenely sought shelter in her deep faith. As she often did in a crisis, she drew solace from the noble words of Perpetua, the Christian heroine who insisted on death by torture rather than renounce Jesus as her lord: “In the blood of the martyrs lie the seeds of the church!”

  Thus resigned to death, Elena next came face-to-face with something even more frightening and unexpected.

  There was a small ventilation window, barely big enough for a person to crawl through, just to her right. The glass abruptly shattered inward, and Elena was staring directly into a hideously distorted face covered with black stripes.

  She was slow to move, but the battle-frenzied Sioux was not. Elena felt two strong hands like eagle talons seize her. She was halfway out the window before the terrified woman managed to scream.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “We won’t be missed,” explained the senior conductor, “until late today when we’re due in Cheyenne.”

  “Then what happens?” Wild Bill demanded. He and Josh stood with a group of male passengers off to one side of the derailed train. The women and children had taken shelter in the two least-damaged coaches.

  “The yardmaster in Cheyenne will telegraph Fort Robinson,” the conductor replied. “The fort is about forty miles southeast of us. A search party will come looking for us. Course, they won’t know exactly where to start.”

  Josh watched Bill nod as he mulled all this. It was well past sunup by now. Sparrow hawks circled in the empty sky. The men had just finished burying the engineer and fireman—both men had survived the crash but succumbed to Sioux arrows. No one else had been seriously hurt in the attack. Nor any prisoner taken except Elena Vargas. The Indians had taken their dead with them. But several dead ponies lay nearby.

  “So you’re saying that a search party,” Bill said, “wouldn’t likely get here for, say, two days at best? Maybe longer?”

  The conductor nodded. “Two days is about the same time it will take for number twenty-four out of Omaha to reach us from behind. That’s the next train scheduled on this spur. We’ll have to backtrack and leave a warning for them so they don’t ram us.”

  Josh watched Bill consider whatever options they might have. A repair crew, made up of train crewmen and male volunteers, was already at work on the damaged tracks. But a service train from the Cheyenne rail yard, equipped with hoists, would be needed to set the Ice Train back on rails.

  Josh had noticed how the men, in the confused aftermath of the attack, had naturally turned to Hickok for leadership. All except Randolph Bodmer and Big Bat Landry. These two hung well back, sneering, but also very wary of Hickok. His note was still fresh in their minds. Not only was Landry armed to the teeth, he carried his deadly whip everywhere now.

  Bodmer, Josh realized with contempt, couldn’t care less about Elena’s fate. Look at him, the bastard! Paring his fingernails like a rajah at his leisure.

  “We can hold out two days with no real trouble,” Bill said. “But Elena hasn’t got a chance of surviving that long. Those braves didn’t try to loot the train—nor were they painted and dressed for actual war. That means the whole point of the attack was probably big medicine. They need to get a prisoner.”

  “Why?” Josh asked.

  “Knowing the Sioux and their grievances, especially since Iron Butt Custer, it probably means Elena will be sacrificed as blood atonement to their gods.”

  Bodmer, Josh noticed, continued to clip his nails and look bored.

  “So what can we do?” spoke up Caswell Jones, the brakeman. “You want volunteers, count me in, Bill. That Miss Vargas is a little snooty, mebbe, but she’s a quality lady.”

  At these words, Josh watched Bodmer say something privately to Landry. Both men snickered. Wild Bill, Josh saw, also noticed this. But he answered Cas in his quiet, businesslike manner.

  “The usual way, in a hostage scrape with most tribes,” replied the experienced frontier scout, “is to send a delegation to parley. But I don’t think this is a hostage-for-ransom deal. So the usual way won’t work.”

  Josh’s belly growled loudly. His first set-to with real by-God savages had left him famished for a big plate of buckwheat cakes and hot soda biscuits smothered in sausage gravy. But he felt a stab of guilt for worrying about his belly while poor Elena was up against trouble something awful.

  Bill tossed an arm around the shoulders of Josh and Cas Jones, easing them aside.

  “Look,” he said quietly, “this is the way of it. I’m caught between the sap and the bark. I’ve got to pick up that Sioux trail and scout ahead quick, or else Elena . . . well, you take my meaning. But I can’t leave Vogel and his machine vulnerable, either.”

  Bill looked at the brakeman. “Cas, the kid here can hold his own with a barking iron. If you’ll strap on a shooter and join him in the caboose while I’m gone, I’ll see that you draw good wages for your trouble.”

  “Draw a cat’s tail, Wild Bill. Any friend of Yellowstone Jack’s, may he rest in peace, is a friend of mine. I’ll join the lad gladly. But say! How will you scout without a horse, Bill? If that’s Catch-the-Bear’s bunch, their camp is a full day away on foot. With hard slogging in the sand hills. You ever walk in deep sand?”

  “With any luck,” Bill replied, nodding toward the west, “my providential horse is coming right now.”

  Josh glanced left. A slouch-hatted homesteader driving a big manure wagon was lumbering alongside the tracks toward them. In addition to the dray team pulling the wagon, an old gray plowing nag was tied by a lead line to the tailgate.

  Josh watched the farmer’s conveyance rattle to a stop when he slapped the reins over the backs of his team. The man was big-framed, but so skinny his backbone was rubbing his ribs. His face was tanned hickory-nut brown, and one of his suspender loops was unbuttoned.

  Bill was about to greet the new arrival. Bodmer, however, had evidently decided to assert his undeniable authority. He stepped forward to greet the homesteader.

  “Timely met, my good fellow! We’re in a little trouble here.”

  “No misdoubting that,” the man replied, and Bodmer frowned at his sarcastic tone.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Bodmer snapped. “How far is the closest settlement?”

  Josh watched the weathered sodbuster gaze with undisguised contempt on this overdressed pack of city whippersnappers.

  “Hell’s right under your shoes, mister,” he finally replied. “That close enough for you?”

  Bodmer turned choleric with rage. Before he could sputter anything else, the homesteader added, his mouth set like a trap: “You can bawl like a bay steer, for aught I care. I don’t let no son of a bitch talk down to me. Wheat’s hea
ding up, and the corn’s well-tassled. I got better things to do than listen to your guff.”

  “Kid,” Bill told Josh in a low voice, admiration clear in his tone. “You take a good look at that jasper. That’s the backbone of America. A mild man until pushed, and then a hellcat unleashed. No more fear in him than a rifle.”

  The homesteader, having spoke his piece and spat into the dirt at Bodmer’s feet, clucked to his team, about to move on. Wild Bill raised a hand to stop him.

  “Never mind him, old roadster,” Bill said evenly. “I’m the big bushway here. Mr. Bodmer there likes to talk loud to cover up his yellow spots.”

  The homesteader nodded. “Don’t surprise me, mister. Mr. Bodmer is loud enough, all right. But ’pears to me he’s got less get-up than a gourd vine.”

  Laughter rippled through the assembled men. Bodmer squared his shoulders as if in preparation for some action. “You setting up to be in charge here, Hickok?” he demanded.

  “It’s past setting up,” Bill told him bluntly. “It’s set. Now, shut your goddamn mouth or I’ll kill you like I killed your murdering half-breed.”

  This did indeed shut Bodmer up. But not before Josh heard him mutter, “Don’t worry, woman stealer, I been keeping accounts.”

  “Hickok!” the homesteader exclaimed. “Why, so it is, there’s the fancy pearl grips! My name is Junebug Clark of Zanesville, Ohio, Bill. I fought under Colonel Martinson with the Ohio Rifles—you scouted for my unit when our Negro recruits whipped the Rebs at Milliken’s Bend. Touch you for luck, Wild Bill?”

  Josh noticed a sea change in the farmer’s manner. Clark informed Bill that there was no real settlement within a day’s ride in any direction, just some stubborn and isolated homesteaders trying to prove up government land in rain-scarce grazing country.

  Bill nodded toward the swaybacked nag tied to the wagon’s tailgate. Its hips drooped with exhaustion. “That noble beast been broke to riders?

  “Maybe last century.”

  “How much to rent him for a bit?” Bill asked.

  “It’ll cost you one souvenir bullet from your gun—unfired,” Clark hastened to add.

  Bill nodded. Since fame had overtaken him, he gave away far more bullets than he fired.

  Bill caught the eye of one of the stewards. “Knock up some grub for the trail, wouldja? Meat and bread.”

  Then Bill turned to Cas Jones and Josh. “While I’m gone, you two keep your noses to the wind. Bodmer is a bigger fool than God made him. And that Landry is shiftier than a creased buck. I’ll be back quick as I can.”

  All morning long, while the sun inched higher and higher in a cloudless sky, Wild Bill bore north toward the Niobrara River.

  If Bill hadn’t felt so tired, he might have found his present situation laughable. He had a fine little roan going to waste in a Denver livery; meantime, Bill found himself jostling along on a rough-gaited nag that was due to be sold for glue.

  He had neither saddle nor bridle; no stirrups for his feet, no cantle for his tired back. Bill clung to rough mane and hung on with his knees, constantly coaxing the placid animal in the voice of a patient old friend.

  Picking up sign of the war party had been easier than rolling off a log. The Indians had made no effort to hide their trail. For the first few hours, Bill actually enjoyed the hardships of being in the field again—he had practically been driven to “cabin fever” cooped up aboard the train so long. It felt good to remember how summer sun had weight, too, not just heat.

  Soon, however, a dark thunderhead boiled up on the horizon. Before long it was pouring gray sheets of rain. There was no hope of cover in this open vastness, nor did Bill have a slicker. Scowling, soaked to the skin, he plodded on. Without a saddle, each jarring step of the plow horse was like a hammer to Bill’s tailbone.

  By early afternoon the sun blazed again, hotter than ever, Mud daubers were still active in the last puddles. Bill had finally worked his way out of the open, grassy flats into the hilly and forested tableland above the Niobrara River.

  Bill let the gray take off the grass for a while as he, too, ate a meal and smoked a cheroot, resting. He figured the camp couldn’t be much farther now. So tired his eyes were burning, he decided to sleep until evening, then move in closer for a reconnoiter.

  When Bill’s eyes eased open again, it was well after dark. Wild Bill felt rested and revived, and the evening air was soft as the breath of a young girl. A circle around the moon told him it would rain again before morning, but for now the weather was with him.

  In less than an hour, Bill had reached a low bluff overlooking the clan circles of Catch-the-Bear’s camp. As the hide tepee covers had aged, they had thinned like parchment, and now they let plenty of light through. With so many cooking fires going inside, cones of yellow-orange light dotted the camp.

  Bill used his belt to hobble the gray. He left the animal grazing in a little hollow sheltered by boughs. Constantly sending his hearing out ahead of him, Bill moved in closer.

  Here and there, in the light of a big clan fire, he glimpsed a clay-colored Indian. But the camp seemed oddly quiet—especially considering that a war party had just returned. But soon Bill understood why: With nightfall, the old grandmothers began their singsong chanting.

  Cure songs, Bill realized. This was a fever camp. That explained the lack of the usual bustling activity one found in Indian camps by night. This camp, in contrast, was quiet as Boot Hill.

  Bill soon located what must be the pest lodge—a big, temporary structure made from stretching hides over a bent-willow frame. And quickly enough, Bill also figured out where Elena must be—in that central tepee, in front of which sat several guards. At least she was still alive.

  Bill made all these observations from behind a fallen tree. He had been careful to stay downwind of the camp, for Indians kept plenty of dogs around for security. All the dogs, and those guards, convinced Bill he could never slip in, free Elena, and slip back out. They’d both be killed.

  But what could not be done by dint of sheer force might be accomplished by wit and wile.

  The nucleus of a plan had formed in Bill’s mind from the moment he realized this was a fever camp. It would be risky—especially in the first few critical minutes. But risk was Wild Bill Hickok’s watchword. This plan would be a bold gamble, like staking it all on one poker hand.

  What if you’re dealt aces and eights? an inner voice warned him.

  Bill made up his mind. He stood and unbuckled his guns, draping the leather gun belt carefully from a tree limb.

  For a moment, Bill wished he were pious so he could say a little prayer. Then, taking a deep breath to fortify himself, an unarmed Bill Hickok started boldly downhill toward the camp.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I found a handy little spot about an hour north of here,” Big Bat Landry told his employer. “Handy as a pocket in a shirt, matter of fact. It’s an erosion gully in the sand hills. A man could hide in it easy, make him a little wallow. I could settle Hickok’s hash for him and never show myself.”

  Randolph Bodmer liked the sound of this plan. He nodded his approval. Hickok had left hours earlier; now it was well after dark. The men were taking turns on sentry duty outside the derailed train—mostly just showing off for the women, Bodmer figured. The rest of the passengers had filed into the two least-damaged coaches at the rear. Bodmer and his lackey, however, chose to remain in Bodmer’s severely tilting Pullman.

  “If you mean to do it,” Bodmer said, “you’d better take up your position soon. We can’t know when Hickok might return.”

  Big Bat nodded. “Dog Man was a careful man, boss. But he still wasn’t careful enough for Hickok. Me? I’m bound and goddamn determined to be ready for him.”

  Big Bat’s present actions verified his boast: He had an arsenal arrayed before him in the guttering light of a candle. A weapon for any contingency: the dead Dog Man’s scattergun for nighttime fights; the Sharps Fifty for distance shooting; his double-action .44 for close-in
daylight fighting; a .38 derringer hideout gun to tuck up his sleeve; and a thin Spanish boot dagger when silence was desirable. And of course, his beloved blacksnake whip so’s a man might have some fun while he earned his pay.

  “What if Elena is with him?” Big Bat asked. “What do I do with her?”

  “That’s your concern,” Bodmer replied coldly. “But I don’t want to see her back here, you take my meaning?”

  Big Bat grinned. “Don’t worry. She won’t come back. And she won’t go to waste, neither. I don’t mind eating off another man’s plate.”

  “She’s not mine,” Bodmer insisted. “To quote Hickok: ‘She’s a free-range maverick. There for the taking.’ Listen, have you seen Vogel or the kid since you got back?”

  Big Bat, still busy inspecting weapons, shook his head. “They’re not budging from the caboose.”

  “Well, we have to trot before we can canter. First we’ll get Hickok out of the picture. By the time this train reaches San Francisco, Albert Vogel and that snot-nosed punk will join Hickok in the happy hunting grounds. And I’m going to have the design of that damned refrigeration compressor.”

  Faint heart never won fair lady. And a brazen man often outstrips the cautious one. Wild Bill discovered the truth of both old sayings as he walked closer and closer to the heart of the Sioux camp.

  The dogs, which should have gone into a barking frenzy, either never caught wind of Bill or liked his scent. Soon, he was actually down among the circle of tepees. And several of the half-wild, half-starved mongrels had already licked his hand in welcome!

  Bill crept up to the rear of the guarded tepee. He lifted the hide cover enough to peek inside.

  There sat Elena near the center pole, unbound and apparently still unharmed. Her huge, dark eyes were water-galled from weeping, her complexion pale and opaque in the firelight. She had been taken from her sleeper before she could don the usual layers of petticoats and corsets. A thin blue anchor-print dress clung to the shapely curves of her body.

  She reminded Bill of a pretty bouquet one day after the ball—still quite pretty, but starting to wilt. The look on her face said it all: What a viper she had taken to her bosom when she accepted Bodmer!