Dead Man’s Hand

by John Joseph Adams

  “I’m very flattered,” she replied, almost but not quite smiling. “And of course you can have another.” She reached into the basket and handed him one.

  “You’re sure it’s not an imposition, ma’am?”

  “I packed enough for a long trip,” she said.

  “Well, I’ll be proud and pleased to ride all the way to the end with you.” He took a bite and smiled at her. “You know, usually I’m tongue-tied around women, but you put me at my ease.”

  This time she did smile. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid to me. I thank you for it.”

  He looked out the window while he ate, watching a dust storm off in the distance. When he finished eating he turned back to her and found that she was reading a book. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he just leaned back and tried to sleep. Sleep didn’t come to him, but he relaxed and tried to remember the events of the past few days, which were fast becoming a blur. I gotta cut down on my drinking, he thought, or one of these days I won’t even remember my own name.

  Suddenly the stagecoach began slowing down.

  “What’s the problem?” Bradshaw called up to the driver.

  “No problem at all,” was the answer. “Got to stop for another passenger.”

  “Out here?” said Bradshaw, frowning. “Looks like we’re fifty miles from anywhere.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the gnarly driver.

  “Wonder what the hell he’s doing out here?” He turned to Abigail. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” she assured him.

  The coach finally came to a halt, Bradshaw opened the door, and the new passenger entered. He was dressed all in black—hat, coat, tie, pants, holster, gloves, boots; even his long, drooping mustache was black. He wore a Colt .45 on each hip, and their ivory handles provided the only relief from the blackness that was everywhere else on him.

  “Good day, all,” he said when he’d taken a seat next to Bradshaw, across from Abigail. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” said Abigail disapprovingly. “I’ve seen your face on enough posters. You’re the Wichita Kid.”

  He smiled. “Do I look like a kid?”

  “No,” she said. “But you look like a man who’s much too handy with those.” She gestured toward his guns.

  “Well, it just so happens that I am the Wichita Kid, and I’m more than a little bit proficient with my weapons,” he replied. “But out here you have to be. Anyway, I’m too old to be a kid, so please just call me Wichita.”

  “I’m sure you’re proficient,” she said. “But if you can get what you want with your brain…”

  “Don’t argue with him, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “You’re not going to change his mind, and it’s not worth the effort.”

  “If you say so, young man,” replied Abigail with a shrug.

  “You listen to this young man, do you?” asked Wichita in amused tones.

  “He’s a very nice young man who respects his elders,” she said.

  “Those who live,” chuckled Wichita.

  She frowned. “What are you talking about, sir?”

  “Don’t you know you’ve been sharing a coach with Bloody Ben Bradshaw? You’d be hard-pressed to name a place from the Dakotas to Texas, or from Missouri to Nevada, that hasn’t offered a reward for him, dead or alive.”

  She stared at Bradshaw for a long moment. “Is that true?”

  “I can’t deny it, ma’am,” admitted Bradshaw. “But don’t you worry none. You’re perfectly safe with me.”

  She seemed to consider his answer for another moment, then shrugged. “We’re all here together,” she said. “I suppose we might as well make the best of it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “I certainly don’t mean to distress or upset you.”

  “Nor do I,” Wichita chimed in. “I’m just a passenger.” His gaze fell on her basket. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extra vittles in there, would you, ma’am?” he asked. “I can hardly remember the last time I ate.”

  She opened the basket and looked into it. “Would you prefer a biscuit, a muffin, or perhaps some home-made bread?”

  “Why, a muffin would be just fine, Mrs…?”

  “It’s Miss,” she told him. “Miss Abigail Fletcher.”

  “And a lovely name it is, Miss Abigail,” said Wichita, taking the proffered muffin and biting into it. “This is quite tasty. Certainly better than any I’ve ever had in a restaurant.”

  “It’s my own recipe,” she said, not without a trace of pride.

  “There’s some kind of berry in it, isn’t there?”

  She nodded.

  “Blueberry?” he asked. “Elderberry?”

  She smiled. “My secret.”

  “Well, the recipe may be your secret, but it’s a crying shame that the taste is pretty much a secret too. You should open a restaurant. People would flock to your door.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Wichita smiled. “They would if Bloody Ben and myself were urging them.”

  She returned the smile. “You know, somehow you two just don’t seem like notorious killers.”

  “I’m a notorious gambler, Miss Abigail,” replied Wichita. “I almost never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to cheat me or shoot me.”

  “Almost never?” she repeated.

  “There are exceptions to every rule, Miss Abigail,” he said. “I figure a church lady like yourself must know that.”

  “Why should you think I’m a church lady?”

  “You dress modestly, you sit up properly, you display Christian charity by feeding a hungry man…”

  “Two hungry men,” Bradshaw corrected him.

  “Well, I’m certainly flattered by your judgment, Mister…” She frowned. “It seems very awkward to call you Mr. Kid.”

  He laughed at that. “Just call me Wichita, Miss Abigail. ’Most everyone else does.”

  “All right, then,” she said. “Mr. Wichita.”

  “Just Wichita will do.”

  “Where are you bound to, Wichita?” she asked.

  “As far from here as I can get,” he answered with a smile. “Things were getting a mite unsettled, if you know what I mean—and if you don’t, Bloody Ben sure does.”

  Bradshaw nodded his agreement. “It goes with the territory.”

  “So where are you headed, Miss Abigail?”

  “You know,” she replied, “it’s the strangest thing, but I can’t quite remember.”

  “Let’s find out,” said Wichita. “Hey, Driver—how far is the lady going?”

  “To the end of the line,” answered the driver.

  “Hope you brought a bunch of vittles,” said Wichita. “I have a feeling this line don’t make too many stops.”

  “It stopped for you,” she noted.

  “I just stood out there and waited,” replied Wichita. “I knew that sooner or later there’d be a coach along.”

  “What happened to your horse?” she asked. “I don’t mean this quite the way I’m sure it will sound, but I thought all desperados had horses.”

  Wichita frowned. “Must have gone lame, I suppose, or I wouldn’t have been standing out there waiting for a stage.”

  “You were all alone out there,” she noted. “You must have walked a long way without your horse.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “Come to think of it, I can’t recollect where I left Diamond,” said Bradshaw.

  “Diamond?” she repeated.

  “My horse, ma’am. Pinto, but mostly white. Now and then, when the sun hits him just right, he glows like a diamond.”

  “That’s almost poetic,” said Abigail.

  “Are you alright, Miss Abigail?” asked Wichita suddenly.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “When you turned your head to face Ben, I thought I saw a little blood just behind your temple.”

  “Really?” said Abigail. She gin
gerly touched the spot he had indicated, then stared at her fingers. “Whatever it is, it’s dried. There’s nothing on my hand.”

  “Turn your head just a bit more,” suggested Wichita.

  She did so. “Well?” she asked.

  “Looks for all the world like a bullet hole, Miss Abigail.”

  She frowned and blinked her eyes very rapidly. “You know, I vaguely remember telling Ezra—he chops wood and does other chores for me—that if I caught him drinking one more time I would fire him. He went into a rage… and that’s the very last thing I remember.”

  “And you don’t feel nothing, ma’am?” asked Bradshaw. “No pain, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “Not a thing.” She frowned again. “Does that mean I’m dead?”

  “I hate to put it this way, Miss Abigail,” said Wichita. “But I’ve never seen anyone survive a wound like that.”

  She frowned. “Who’s going to weed my garden, or get it ready for the next planting season?” She looked across at her two fellow passengers. “If I’m dead, what are you two doing here?”

  “Beats me,” said Wichita. “Let’s have a look.” He unbuttoned his black coat and opened it wide, revealing a small, neat hole.

  “There you go,” said Bradshaw. “One shot, right through the heart.”

  “Damn!” muttered Wichita. “How about you? You’re not wearing a coat, and I don’t see any holes in you.”

  “I’d love to think I got on this here coach by mistake, but I don’t suppose it stops for the wrong passengers,” said Bradshaw.

  “Turn and face out the window,” suggested Abigail. “No, not just your head. Your whole body.”

  “Yep, there it is,” said Wichita. “You’ve been backshot.”

  “Just my luck,” said Bradshaw bitterly. “Now I don’t even know who to come back and haunt.”

  Wichita stared at Abigail for a long moment. “I have enormous respect for you, Miss Abigail,” he said at last. “Me and Ben here, we’re not surprised to be on this coach, or at least we shouldn’t be. We live with death every day, and there’s no such thing as an old gunfighter, or even a middle-aged one. But you, Miss Abigail—I just admire the way you’re taking this, not turning a hair and just worrying about what’ll happen to your garden.”

  “I loved that garden,” she replied. “I never had a husband or children, so everything I had went into it.”

  Bradshaw reached over and gently patted her hand. “I wish there was something we could do, ma’am.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” she said, “but it’s a little late to worry about it.”

  They rode in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for a few miles. Then Wichita spoke up.

  “I always thought one of the advantages of being dead was that I wouldn’t be so all-fired hungry all the time—but could I trouble you for another muffin, Miss Abigail?”

  “Try this instead,” she said, handing him a piece of bread.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said, taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, and got a puzzled expression on his face. “It tastes like there was something sweet mixed into the batter. It’s sort of half bread and half cake.”

  “I’m very proud of it,” she replied.

  “What’s it made of?”

  She smiled. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be my own any more, would it?”

  “No,” he agreed, returning her smile, “I guess it wouldn’t.”

  It seemed to them that the horses had picked up speed, and had been galloping for miles. Then, finally, they started slowing down.

  “I was wondering if those horses ever got tired,” remarked Bradshaw.

  “Ain’t tired,” announced the driver. “Got one last passenger to pick up.”

  “Him?” said Wichita, looking out the window as the figure came into view. “Never expected to see him here this soon.”

  “Who is it?” asked Abigail.

  “Apache Jack Keller,” answered Wichita.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him,” she said.

  “He’s a white man who grew up with the Apaches, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “Fought for Victorio and Geronimo for a few years, then turned in his feathers for a ten-gallon Stetson, and his bow and arrows for a pair of six-guns. He’s sent a lot of Indians and a lot of white men off to meet this stagecoach or one of its sisters.”

  The coach came to a stop, and Apache Jack Keller climbed aboard. He tipped his hat to Abigail, offered her a “Howdy, ma’am,” and seated himself next to her. “Well, sure looks like it’s Bloody Ben and the Kid from Wichita,” he said. “Never expected to find you both on the same stagecoach.”

  “How are you doing, Jack?” said Bradshaw.

  “Not too well, evidently, or I wouldn’t be sharing this ride with you,” replied Keller with a laugh. “I took quite a while dying—and they always told me that Billy One-Eye was a dead shot.”

  “Then you know what this coach is?”

  “Yeah, can’t spend that long dying and not know.” He called up to the driver. “Howdy, friend. What do we call you?”

  “Scratch’ll do,” was the answer. The driver tipped his hat, showing off his horns.

  “Now wait a minute!” said Bradshaw. “That’s got to be wrong.”

  “You don’t think you’ve done enough sinning to get in?” asked Keller with a smile.

  “I done my share and then some, and so have you two,” replied Bradshaw. “But Miss Abigail shouldn’t be on this here stagecoach. There’s been a serious mistake.”

  “No, Ben,” she said. “I belong here.”

  “I don’t believe it!” said Bradshaw.

  “It is kind of hard to imagine, a nice, proper, well-mannered lady like you,” added Wichita.

  “It happened a long time ago,” said Abigail. “My sister was very much in love with a young man, who betrayed and humiliated her. It broke her heart, so I got a gun and broke his. Literally.” She sighed. “He had so many enemies that they never even considered that I might have been the one who killed him.”

  “Well, if you did it, ma’am,” said Bradshaw, “I’m sure he deserved it.” He turned to Keller. “You at all hungry, Jack? She’s packed some of the tastiest vittles you’ve ever encountered.”

  “I’d certainly like to try one out, if you’re willing, ma’am,” said Keller.

  She reached into her basket and handed him a pastry.

  “Those look even better than the muffins and the biscuits,” said Wichita.

  “Have one,” said Abigail, handing him one. “Here, you too, Ben.” She turned to Keller, who’d already bit into his. “How do you like it?”

  “It’s just about worth dying for, ma’am,” he replied. “If the Apaches could cook like this, I’d never have gone back to living with white folks.” He smiled. “Except that none of the white folks could cook like this either.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You almost made me blush.”

  “Seems a damned shame, pardon my language, ma’am, that no one else’ll ever get a chance to partake of your cooking,” said Keller.

  “You know,” said Wichita thoughtfully, “just maybe we can do something about that.”

  “Where we’re going?” scoffed Bradshaw. “They got a lot bigger oven than she needs.”

  “Probably they do,” agreed Wichita. “But maybe I ain’t ready to go there yet.”

  “None of us are,” said Bradshaw. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You know,” said Keller thoughtfully, “the Kid’s got a point.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Scratch—stop the stage!”

  “Got a full coach,” answered Scratch. “Can’t handle any more passengers this trip.”

  “Stop anyway,” said Keller.

  “This better be important,” said Scratch, bringing the coach to a halt. Abigail leaned her head out the window and saw that the horses were snorting smoke, and their eyes glowed like hot coals. “Okay, we’re stopped,” continued Scratch, who remained perched atop
the driver’s seat. “Now what’s this all about?”

  “We’re not ready to ride to the end of the line,” said Keller.

  Scratch uttered an amused laugh. “Hardly anyone is. But that’s where you’re headed.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Wichita.

  “Me neither,” added Keller. “I think we’ll get off up the road a ways.”

  “Nosir!” snapped Scratch. “Your souls are mine!”

  “I should think you’d be a little more reasonable, given all the souls we’ve already sent your way,” said Bradshaw.

  “I thank you for them,” said Scratch, “but that doesn’t change anything.”

  “So you insist on taking us all the way?” said Keller.

  “Absolutely,” said Scratch.

  “Got a nice spread, have you?”

  “Magnificent,” replied Scratch. He uttered a harsh chuckle. “You’ll see it soon enough.”

  “Hey, Ben,” said Keller, “how did the Earp Brothers wind up owning the Oriental Saloon down in Tombstone?”

  “Pretty much the same way Jubal Pickett took over the Crosshatch Ranch,” said Bradshaw. “They ran the old owners off.”

  “And I hear that’s how Red Jim McCabe got hold of half the gambling halls in Denver,” added Wichita.

  “So if we go all the way to the end of the line with you,” said Keller, “and we like what we see, why, we just may take it over.”

  “After all,” said Wichita with a smile, “what are you gonna do—kill us?”

  “It’s out of the question,” growled Scratch.

  “You’d better think twice about this, Scratch,” suggested Wichita.

  “Or you’re going to see just how much hell we three can raise,” added Keller.

  “Just remember,” said Bradshaw. “We’re already dead, so what’s the worst you can do to us compared to what we can do to you?”

  They couldn’t see Scratch’s face, but they could hear him muttering and grumbling to himself.

  “Well?” said Keller after a couple of minutes had passed.

  “Just the three of you?” said Scratch. “No members of your gangs?”

  “We don’t belong to gangs,” said Wichita.