Dead Man’s Hand

by John Joseph Adams

  Ray left his empty on the bar and moved closer to the crowd.

  “It looks real,” the saloon girl said, leaning over the short man’s shoulder.

  “Ain’t,” the man said. He touched the thing again, and it stopped moving.

  Ray finally had a good peep at the thing—a spider, about the size of a double-eagle gold piece, all black and spindly legs. It was motionless in the man’s hand now, and Ray could tell the man hadn’t been lying—it wasn’t a real spider. But when the man stroked the back of it again, the spider jumped to life, scuttling over his hand and between his fingers.

  “You wanna hold it?” the short man mocked, holding the spider out to the saloon girl.

  She smacked his hand, and the spider leapt from the short man’s palm right at Ray. Ray instinctively raised his hand to protect his face, and he felt the light tickle of the spider on his skin. Pulling his hand down, he looked at the thing. It felt like a real spider, but Ray could hear the faint sound of metal clacking against metal as the spider’s legs danced along the back of his hand.

  Ray hadn’t noticed how quiet the bar had gotten until he looked up and saw the short man right in front of him.

  “It’s mine,” the man said, his voice lower than when he was teasing the saloon girl.

  Ray shrugged and turned his hand over so the spider dropped into the short man’s hand.

  “Where’d you get that?” Ray asked.

  The man looked suspiciously at him. “From an In’din,” he said finally.

  “Which kind?” Ray asked.

  “What you mean?”

  “There’s more than one kind of Indian. Arapaho? Hopi? Ute?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Why so curious?”

  “Ain’t,” Ray said, shrugging. “I only came here for cards, anyway.”

  He moved away from the bar toward one of the tables near the window, where there was gambling. A couple of men were crowing over a faro table, but Ray steered himself to the on-going poker game instead. It was getting on in the day, but the bar wasn’t as crowded as it would be later. Only two men were playing, and the poorer of them was eager to get fresh blood in on the game. Ray sat down. Opposite him, the short feller pulled up a chair. The mechanical spider scuttled out of the man’s hand and then froze on the edge of the table, unnaturally still.

  “I ain’t never seen nothing like that before,” the man dealing cards said, his attention half on the spider.

  Ray could tell that the short man was torn: show off the spider and let everyone envy him, or protect it and hide it away. His pride won out.

  Soon, though, everyone’s attention went back to the cards. Ray bet sparingly in the first few hands. He was a betting man, and he was good at what he did, and what he did was pay attention. He had a friend—back before the War killed him, more than fifteen years ago—who would sometimes accuse Ray of cheating. But Ray never cheated. He just watched.

  And after a while, he started betting.

  It didn’t take long for one of the men to bow out. Soon enough, it was just Ray and the short feller.

  “What’s your name?” the short feller asked, peering over the cards.

  Ray didn’t answer. The short feller only talked when his hand was bad, though, so Ray pushed some more money into the pot. The short feller folded.

  At the next hand, the short feller asked, “You with the railroad?”

  “Railroad?” Ray asked.

  “Some surveyors came in ’bout a month ago,” one of the men who had quit the game said. “Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, gonna be just a bit south o’ here.”

  Ray grunted and folded his hand.

  The short feller didn’t say a word at the next hand. Finally, he had something worth betting on, Ray could tell. He glanced at his own cards. A pair of fours and three deuces. Low cards, but a good hand.

  “I bet everything on the table,” Ray said, sweeping his money into the center.

  The short feller’s eyes widened for a second, then shot down to his own cards, then back to Ray. Ah. A good hand, but not that good.

  “Well?” Ray asked softly.

  “All in,” the short feller said.

  “Everything on the table?”

  The short feller nodded and slid his money toward the pot.

  “Let’s see ’em,” Ray said.

  The short feller flipped his cards over. Two kings.

  Ray allowed himself a tiny tilt in the corner of his lips, the closest he came to smiling.

  “If I win this pot,” the short feller said, “I reckon I’ll have enough money to keep going south. If you’re headin’ that way, stranger, I’ll take you to the place where I got the spider.”

  Well, shit.

  Ray folded his hands without showing his cards. “Looks like you won,” he said.

  * * *

  The short feller got his supplies that evening, and Ray helped him pack his horse the next morning. “Heard there might be gold, up past the Big Canyon,” he said. “If you think you can find any, you’re welcome to it. Too many In’dins there, and it’s damn hard to navigate anyway.”

  Ray helped the man sling the last pack onto the horse’s back, then turned to his own mount.

  “That all you got?” the short feller asked.

  “It’s all I need,” Ray said.

  Ray figured it was a good thing the short feller liked the sound of his own voice, as that was the only sound either of them could hear the whole ride. They went southeast, through some logging land that gave way to sandier ground and scragglier trees.

  “This here’s Walnut Canyon,” the short feller said. “I thought I might get lucky around here; my pa always said if you want to find gold, you gotta go by the canyons. But I reckon he might not’ve known what he was talking about, seeing as how he weren’t sober since ’fore I was born, and when he died the undertaker said his blood stank of whiskey. I was heading up to the Big Canyon, but maybe I should just do what other folks are doin’ and hit the California Trail.”

  Ray ignored the short feller, staring out at the canyon. “This is where you found the mechanical spider?”

  The short feller shifted in his saddle, and for the first time since they left, he didn’t seem like he wanted to talk. Ray turned to stare at him, waiting for his answer.

  “Well,” the short feller finally said, “not ’xactly here.”

  “Then where?”

  The short feller heaved a sigh. “Come on,” he said, leading his horse down the trail.

  “Some In’dins used to live here, that’s what the Spaniard said. Called ’em Sinaguas.”

  Ray had no idea who the Spaniard might be, nor had he ever heard of a tribe called the Sinagua. As soon as the horse rounded the corner into the canyon, he knew why: whatever Indians had once lived here were now long gone. The cliff dwellings were carved directly into the rock, each house hollowed out of the stone side of the canyon. But there was nothing here now beside rocks and dust; no sign of life or civilization.

  Or clockwork spiders.

  Ray pulled his horse up and turned to look at the short feller.

  “I ain’t lying,” the man said immediately.

  Ray narrowed his eyes.

  “In there.” The man pointed to one of the few cliffside dwellings that it would be possible for someone to enter without a ladder. Ray got off his horse and grappled up the rocks.

  He could smell death before he saw the corpse.

  “That In’din there,” the short feller said, “weren’t bein’ fair. I tried to make a fair bargain with him, and he tried to trick me.”

  “So you killed him and robbed his body?”

  “He woulda killed me, if I didn’t shoot first!”

  Ray knelt beside the stinking corpse and examined his clothing. “He wouldn’t have. This man’s a Hopi. One of the most peaceful tribes.”

  “An In’din is an In’din,” the short feller said, his voice rising.

  “Most Hopi live near Black Mesa,” Ray sa
id. “What was he doing all the way out here?”

  “Well then, see, he probably weren’t no Hope-pee then,” the short feller said immediately. “This one said he was from the Big Canyon. Didn’t never mention Black Mesa.”

  Ray frowned.

  “Well,” the short feller said. “I’ve held up my end. I’ll take my leave.”

  Ray stayed with the corpse of the Hopi man long after he heard the hooves of the short feller’s horse galloping away. He had been looking for answers for a long time, and he wasn’t happy that the one man who might have had some for him was dead and stinking on the floor of an abandoned cave.

  * * *

  It wasn’t hard to find the Big Canyon—due north until a giant rip in the ground stopped him. He stood on the edge at the highest part of the canyon at dusk, watching as the colors of the sunset blended in with the colors of the canyon. Yellow, red, orange. And at the bottom, the Colorado River, sparkling like a line of diamonds.

  “Whelp,” Ray said to no one, looking over the edge, “I ain’t getting down there on horseback.”

  As the sun set, Ray set up camp. The air was cool and dry and still too early for snakes, so Ray gathered some firewood. Before he had a chance to light it, though, he was out cold.

  He woke up when he smacked himself in the face.

  “The hell?” he muttered, sitting up. A scuttling sound clacked past his ears.

  Spiders.

  And not just any spiders: mechanical ones. They were all heading north, toward the canyon’s edge. Ray pushed himself up and stumbled after the click-clack of dozens of clockwork arachnids.

  “Are you the man who killed my brother?” a deep voice rang out through the cool night air.

  Ray froze, his hand already on the butt of his gun. “I’ve killed a lot of men, might’ve been your brother,” Ray said. “Might not have been, though.”

  The clouds shifted, and the moonlight grew. Ray saw the outline of a man on the edge of the canyon. The mechanical spiders scuttled past the man’s feet, over the edge, into the unknown.

  Ray stepped forward, his hand still on his gun. The man wore a simple tunic and loose trousers, a wide band of dark cloth around his head, and a beaded necklace. Around his waist hung a heavy belt decorated with silver ovals that didn’t hide its true purpose: on one hip, a gun; on the other, a knife with a horn handle. The gun looked to be a Colt, with a well-worn grip. The cartridges in the man’s belt loops showed it was a .44-40. Within reaching distance of the man lay a ’73 Winchester, obviously of the same caliber.

  “I didn’t kill your brother,” Ray said, his voice strong.

  “How do you know this?” the man asked, his voice lilting in an elegant accent. “If, as you have stated, you have killed many men, how do you know you have not killed my brother? He was in the south, and you rode up from that direction.”

  “I ain’t never killed an Indian,” Ray said.

  “My people are peaceful,” the man said. “But we know the scent of death. It clings to you now.”

  “I did see a dead man today. Indian.”

  “But you did not kill him?”

  Ray shook his head.

  “You know who did?”

  “A short man, heading south.”

  “Why?”

  Ray shook his head again. It could have been over the mechanical spider, or it could have been some other matter, but whatever made the short feller kill the Indian was none of his business.

  “I have said,” the Indian continued, “we are a peaceful people. We must now ask that you peacefully leave this place.”

  Ray frowned. “I can’t do that.”

  The Indian didn’t move. “Why can you not?”

  “I have a powerful curiosity ’bout them spiders.”

  “So you intend to follow them into the bottom of the Big Canyon?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “There are more than spiders within the canyon,” the Indian said.

  Silence wove around them for a heartbeat, then Ray said, “I’m still going to find out ’bout them spiders.”

  “Why do you care so much?” the Indian asked.

  Ray didn’t answer. He had his reasons, he just didn’t much feel like sharing them. He hadn’t told hardly anyone, not in all his long, long life. Ray didn’t look half as old as he really was, but he felt the years, and the distrust they’d given him twisted in his gut.

  The Indian stepped closer. Ray’s fingers pressed into the cool ivory at the butt of his gun, but he didn’t think the Indian meant to threaten him.

  “You are a man with two-hearts,” the Indian said finally. “You do not listen to the heart you carry here—” He poked Ray in the chest “—but instead you listen only to your heart here.” He thumped Ray on the head. “This is dangerous, to be of so many hearts.”

  Ray barked in laughter. “Funny you say that,” he said, no humor in his voice. “Most people reckon I ain’t got no heart at all.”

  * * *

  Ray intended to follow the spiders into the canyon, but not in the middle of the night. He didn’t think the Indian would hurt him—Hopi were known to be peaceful, and it was against their way for undue violence. Still, he slept with his boots on and his gun nearby.

  When the sun rose, he made his way back to the canyon’s edge. The Indian was already there, kneeling, his face toward the sun. Ray thought for a moment that he was praying, but the man ducked down and Ray saw he was drawing in the dusty earth. He leaned over, trying to see what the man drew, but he could barely register the shapes outlined in the dirt before the Indian stood, sweeping away the drawing.

  “You are still here,” the Indian said.

  “I aim to go down the canyon.”

  “The spiders are no longer there.”

  “I aim to go down the canyon anyway.”

  “If you are not looking for clockwork spiders,” the Indian said, “what are you looking for?”

  “Answers.”

  This surprised the Indian. “Come. Sit with me.” The Indian opened a sack near him and pulled out bread and dried meat. He passed it to Ray before taking any for himself.

  “My name is Cheveyo,” the man said. “My brother’s name was Hania. Together, we have been guarding the Canyon.”

  “Guarding it from what?”

  “People like you.”

  Ray swallowed. “I told you I didn’t kill your brother. I’m peaceful, like your people.”

  “You are here, and you do not intend to leave. That is dangerous enough.” Cheveyo held a piece of bread in his hand, but Ray noticed he did not eat it.

  “I would be very interested to know where you came from,” Cheveyo said when Ray didn’t reply.

  “So would I,” Ray said.

  Cheveyo watched Ray intently, like a bird of prey watching a mouse.

  “What was your brother doing south, if y’all were supposed to be guarding this canyon?” Ray asked. If they were going to talk, at least they could talk about someone other than himself.

  “He went to the land of the Ancient Ones, seeking answers.”

  “Answers?”

  Cheveyo didn’t reply. After a while, he put away his uneaten meal and turned to face the edge of the canyon. “This is sacred ground, White Man.”

  “It’s a canyon.”

  “It is the birthplace of the world.”

  Ray swallowed the last of his bread and rolled his eyes at the Indian’s back. He didn’t need any of Cheveyo’s religious nonsense.

  “It is, in fact, the sipapu, from which all worlds originate.”

  “All worlds?” Ray scoffed, wiping his hands on his pants as he stood.

  “All worlds,” Cheveyo repeated. “This is but one of four.”

  “Oh, four worlds?” Ray said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “You think those spiders are from this one?” Cheveyo challenged.

  Ray paused. The mechanical spiders were unlike any he had ever seen. A perfect recreation of a
spider, but mechanical. Clever clockwork… or otherworldly?

  Ray shook himself. He didn’t have time for that.

  “Thanks for the meal,” he said. He turned away from Cheveyo, looking for a place to safely start his descent into the canyon.

  “No mere man can reach the bottom!” Cheveyo called behind him. “Do not attempt it.”

  “Will you try to stop me?” Ray asked. His fingers went to the gun at his hip, just touching the cool ivory of the grip.

  “No,” Cheveyo said. “But you will be stopped.”

  * * *

  Ray wasn’t sure if Cheveyo’s threat implied monsters or not, but he was having a hard time just navigating the canyon itself. Perhaps it would have been better to try to reach the bottom of the canyon by going west or east, at Lee’s Ferry or some other point where he could take a boat through the Colorado River. But this was where the spiders were, and the canyon was far too vast. It would take days, maybe weeks to reach one end of the canyon or the other, and Ray was tired of waiting. Besides, the river wasn’t safe. A decade or so ago, the government had sent out a steamboat through the canyon, but it had crashed. The river wound around like an angry snake and had viper’s teeth along the bottom to boot. So Ray had taken his tack from his horse and hid it, then let the horse go, shouldering a small pack and descending into the canyon Cheveyo had said no man could conquer.

  At midday, Ray stopped. He traveled light—a little food, two canteens, his knife and guns. As he drained the first canteen, he paused to consider that he might not be up for such an expedition. He let himself collapse along the path he’d discovered—nothing bigger than the barely-there trail of a deer or a goat. His feet dangled over air, and a rock jutted into his back, but it was the best rest he’d had all day.

  A spider dropped onto his shoulder. Ray could just barely hear the whirring of the gears inside it. He held out the flat of his hand, and the spider scuttled into his palm.

  Ray held the creature up to his face. A part of him wanted nothing more than to crack it open and look at the gears that made the thing work. Ray liked knowing how things worked. That’s why he was so good at cards, at shooting. He watched, he learned, he figured out the way people worked, the number of cards that had been played, the calculated chances he took. Inside a man was a beating heart and pumping lungs and stomach and guts, but those things were just squishier versions of gears and clockwork, far as he could see.