Dead Man’s Hand

by John Joseph Adams

  Gordon said, “This is Sandro. He’s our tracker.”

  I nodded to the new man, but he gave no sign of recognition. He was thin and wiry and very still, but I got the sense he could be fast as a snake if he wanted to be. The instant I thought that, he smiled as if he knew I had. Trimmed mustache and a prodigious head of black hair. Dark eyes. I’d never met one, but I figured Sandro must be a Mexican. His guns had ivory handles.

  While I was sleeping, the deputy had a horse chosen and outfitted for me. It was a mustang, brown and white, with a white mane. Tied on was a bedroll and a string of eight canteens. “Climb aboard, Franklin,” said Gordon. I removed the LeMat from my satchel and stowed it in the waist of my drawers. Stepping up into the stirrup, I lifted myself onto the saddle. The deputy got on his horse, a sleek Arabian that was loaded up with supplies. Sandro also rode a mustang, gray, smaller than mine.

  We passed through the stable doors as the sun was setting. There in the yard outside sat Fat Bob on an American Saddlebred. Something didn’t seem right about a man in a checkered suit on a horse, but it was clear he’d ridden before. He held the reins in front of him like an old woman clutching a purse closed, and he sat straight-backed as he could.

  Once our mounts all stood in close together, the deputy said, “No one drinks water unless I tell them to. Understand? If anything happens to me out on the trail, Sandro is in charge.” We nodded. “Let’s move out,” said Gordon. The Mexican gave his horse a verbal command and the creature took off down the dirt byway that was the main street. I followed him. Fat Bob was behind me and Gordon brought up the rear. Folks who saw us making our way out of town pointed and laughed as we went by.

  Las Cruces faded behind us into twilight. There was a line of orange behind the distant mountain range, and the fresh night was becoming considerably cooler, offering relief. Before the night finally settled itself upon the land, I looked out into the distance and saw nothing but dry flatness—creosote bushes here and there, some pepper grass.

  We rode for a couple of hours, nobody speaking, the horses remaining an equal distance apart. I was beginning to get a little sore as I’d not rode a horse in some time. Most I rode was the stage from St. Louis. So when Gordon raced past me and told me to hold up, I was thankful for the chance to get down for a spell. He allowed us to drink from one of the eight canteens we each carried. “Two shots is it,” he said. Turning to Sandro, who’d just ridden up and slipped sideways off his horse, the deputy asked, “You got a bead on him?”

  The Mexican nodded.

  “How do you see anything in the dark?” I asked.

  “The moon will soon be in the sky,” he said.

  Before getting back on his horse, Fat Bob pulled a pint bottle from his pocket, uncorked it and took a swig. “Any of you gentlemen care to join me?” he asked.

  I reached for the bottle, but Gordon held my arm. “That’ll dry you out quick,” he said to me. He looked up at Bob and said, “You’re gonna turn into a little ball of dust, Fat Man, if you keep drinking that whiskey.”

  “I need to lose a few pounds, Deputy. You keep an eye on the boy. I’ve been on these jaunts before, don’t you know.”

  Gordon shrugged, mounted his horse, and we began again.

  Slowly the moon came up, creamy white and big as a platter. It cast a glow across the landscape. Bits of mineral in the busted rock strewn along the ground sparkled with its light. The weather dropped cooler still, and I had a slight shiver, but not enough to fetch my coat. We rode on through the night. There was a point where I suddenly woke up and caught myself from tipping off the horse. I immediately peered ahead to make sure that Sandro was still in front of me. He was, the clouds of dust from his horse’s hooves visible in the moonlight. We rode through dawn and kept going until the sun was well up in the sky.

  The Mexican led us to a large outcropping of rock about twice the size of the saloon in town. It had an overhanging ledge. He dismounted, took his horse by the reins and guided it into the shadows under the rock face. I did as he did. The heat of the day had already become nearly unbearable, but under that ledge it was still cool from the night. We sat down with our backs against the rock and waited for Fat Bob and the deputy. They came along soon enough, and we were all together like insects under a rock.

  The sun showed its power and you could smell the landscape roasting. Waves of heat rose rippling in the distance. I’d heard about mirages. Gordon gave us all the order to drink and we did. We had to give the horses some of our supply. “Tonight, we’ll reach the Pool of the Little Dog and we can water them for a few minutes there, but we’ll have to start out late afternoon, so rest up.” He unpacked some dried beef and biscuit for us. The deputy gave the order to drink our fill, within reason. We did. And then we just settled back, kept as still as could be, and sweated. The coolness I’d noticed under the rock overhang was gone within an hour of our arrival.

  The deputy rolled a cigarette; Sandro closed his eyes and went to sleep; and Fat Bob, who never removed that little hat, took a small book out of his inner jacket pocket, pushed the specs an inch up the bridge of his nose, and commenced reading, moving his lips and whispering. I was curious to find out what book it was, but I kept quiet. I don’t really know how much time passed, but somewhere in there, Gordon piped up and said to Bob, “You’re a hired gun, ain’t you? I heard of you before. You killed every member of the Falan gang.”

  Fat Bob never took his eyes off the page. A small smile formed amidst his jowls, which were bunched up atop his tight collar. “That would be a fact, Deputy,” he said.

  “Did somebody hire you to hunt down Bastard George?”

  “That’s right,” said Bob, and turned the page.

  “Who?” asked the deputy.

  “You.”

  “You ain’t here at the behest of no one else?”

  “I’m a free agent. My best days are behind me. I’m just a fat man trying to scrape by.”

  “How many did you kill?” I asked.

  “Mind your manners, sonny,” said Fat Bob.

  “Franklin,” said the deputy, “if you want a long life, I’d suggest you not ask a gunman how many people he killed.”

  I thought Sandro was sleeping, but with eyes still closed, he laughed.

  “My apologies,” I said to Fat Bob. He reached up and touched the tip of his hat, and we went back to quietly baking.

  We rode out in the late afternoon. The sun was unforgiving, and those few hours before dusk lasted forever. When night finally came and with it the cool breeze, I realized just how jumbled my thoughts had been. When the moon came up, it seemed to ease my confusion and leave me with a clear head. About an hour after dark, we came to the Pool of the Little Dog and let the horses have their fill. We didn’t light a fire so as not to be spotted by Mescaleros. Gordon rolled me a cigarette, and I smoked with him and Sandro.

  “I thought he’d head north into the white sands,” said the Mexican, “but he’s changed direction and is running east to the San Andres.”

  “He might have a hideout in the foothills, but shit, I don’t want to be chasing the wretch that far. We gotta catch him and kill him in the next couple days,” said Gordon.

  The shadow of Fat Bob moved among our circle. He was puffing on a pipe, sending smoke rings out into the moonlight. “What do you know about George Slatten?” he asked.

  “Not much,” said Gordon. “He shows up in town every couple months. Usually starts some kind of trouble. We’ve had him in the lockup a few times—mostly raging drunk or fighting. He bit Bill’s ear off in a brawl. I had a feeling I’d have to kill him sooner or later.”

  “And you are saying he ate this young woman, Miss Gates?”

  The deputy nodded. “It was a sight chilled me straight through.”

  “What do you mean when you say he ‘ate’ her? I need particulars. Did he cook her?”

  The deputy said, “Nope. He just ate right into her with his teeth. The Doc said she was still alive when he started. Wen
t for the soft parts—stomach, cheeks, rear end, you get my drift. He probably whacked her on the head with something and just started chewing.”

  “Hijo de perra,” said Sandro and tossed the butt of his cigarette. “I heard he crawled out of an abandoned mine when he was a baby. A gold mine out here dug by the Conquistadores.”

  “Who put him in there?” I asked.

  Sandro shrugged. “When he crawled out, that’s the first time he was ever seen. Like he was born way back in the mine somewhere.”

  “Did they find the mother?” asked Gordon.

  “She was down there fucking El Diablo,” said Sandro. There was a moment of silence in which I got a chill, and then the Mexican burst out laughing. “Gringos.” He shook his head as he walked toward his horse.

  “Deranged,” said Fat Bob.

  There were a few more moments of silence, and the deputy said to Bob, “Don’t that suit itch the hell out of you?”

  We rode hard for a few more hours, and I dozed. Luckily, I woke just in time to pull my horse up sharp next to Sandro’s riderless mount. I looked around and saw the tracker’s shadow a few feet away, crouched near the ground. I got off my horse and went over to him. He looked at me as I approached.

  “The rider let his horse go here and went on by foot,” he said.

  Fat Bob and Gordon rode up on us. The deputy asked Sandro to fill him in.

  “So, he should be right out here somewhere,” said Gordon.

  Sandro stood and pointed away into the night. “He left the horse maybe an hour, maybe two hours ago.”

  “We can catch him tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  We saddled up fast and struck out. Gordon had us ride four abreast now, some distance between our mounts. He wanted to make sure we kept up the pace and swept like a net across the desert. We rode hard for an hour straight, and at one point my horse leaped over a tall line of creosote bush to keep its place in the formation. I was delirious with lack of sleep, caught up in the whirling bright stars of the night sky, speeding headlong in pursuit of Bastard George.

  As we rode on, the hard-baked dirt of the desert floor gave way to white sand, and soon enough we were traveling over tall dunes. That’s when I realized the wind was beginning to pick up. I looked at the moon and saw dark clouds approaching. Then I felt the sand against my face and knuckles. I affixed the chin strap of my new hat so as not to lose it. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves had slowed as the wind grew more powerful. It soon became necessary to squint in order to see any distance.

  Sandro cried out, “There he is, ahead.” We halted and Gordon pulled out a spyglass.

  I looked up into the blowing desert and thought I saw a shadow twitch at the very edge of night. It could have been the Bastard. Gordon nodded, as if he also saw the fugitive. He reached back on his horse and grabbed a Sharps rifle from its saddle holster. He took aim and fired.

  “He’s still running,” said Sandro.

  The deputy handed over the rifle to the Mexican, who barely took any time to aim, but fired off a shot. With the sound of the report still in our ears, we were hit by a blast of wind that pushed even the horses backward. The sand followed in a rush, stinging face and neck and hands. The wind was suddenly screeching. Last thing I saw was Sandro hand the rifle back to Gordon, and then I could no longer open my eyes. My horse was turning in circles. I was numb with fear.

  Who knows how many times we went round before I felt the presence of another horse next to mine and realized I’d stopped circling. I heard Sandro’s voice, weak beneath the scream of the wind. “I know a place to hide,” he said. Then we were off through the storm. Somehow the Mexican had tethered my horse to his, so I gave myself up to huddling in my saddle with my arms over my face.

  Eventually, we passed behind something that blocked the wind, and I looked up. Without the moon and stars and with all the debris in the air it was difficult to see anything. I stared for a long while until my eyes finally adjusted to the sight of a huge outcropping of rock. It was bigger than any we’d sought refuge from the sun beneath. This one, as well as being wide, went straight up a good ways and appeared to turn into a spire.

  Sandro was on his horse next to mine. I could see him in the dark; he didn’t look the least frightened, as I certainly was. Instead, he seemed to be listening intently. How he could hear anything was beyond me. I got off my horse and moved next to the rock wall. Sandro followed me. He sat down and took out his tobacco pouch and papers. Before he lit that cigarette, Fat Bob came riding in out of the storm.

  “You see Gordon?” Sandro yelled to him.

  Fat Bob took his specs out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He got down off his horse, and I thought I heard the beast sigh with relief. Taking a seat next to us, he heaved to catch his breath. Finally, he said, “No. I think he was behind me for a while, but then not.”

  “That’s not good,” said Sandro.

  “It’s a bitch out there,” said Bob, and then leaned back against the wall.

  I was so tired I fell asleep even amid the roar of the storm.

  Later, when I woke to the whispered sound of my name, the world was calm. I opened my eyes and there was light on the horizon. The air was still cool. Fat Bob was standing over me. When he saw I’d awakened, he motioned with his arm for me to get ready. Sandro was already on his horse. He waited patiently for me and the gunslinger to mount up. Once we did, he said, in a low voice, “Keep the guns handy.” Then he turned and we started out, riding away from the rock wall. At a distance I glanced back, and in the weird morning light it looked like a small cathedral.

  We found Deputy Gordon before the sun was halfway to noon. He lay in the white sand. Half his face was eaten and his bowels had been chewed out. There was blood and a prodigious number of flies. The air buzzed with them like the remains of Gordon’s last scream. The horses were spooked by the stench of the carnage and did an erratic dance. None of us dismounted to inspect closer.

  “I’m impressed by the Bastard’s appetite,” said Fat Bob.

  I started shaking, and Sandro gave me a quick, sharp look. It prevented me from getting hysterical, and I managed to eventually calm down.

  “Do we go on?” he asked.

  Fat Bob said, “I don’t know about you two, but I need the money. I’ll be bringing back Bastard George by myself if I have to.”

  “And what about you, ‘dog of the little pool’?” said Sandro. “Do you need the money?”

  I did.

  “Watch for vultures,” he said, and we rode.

  It was full daylight and we moved along at a slow clip, it being already too hot to run the horses. As it was, we’d given them a good portion of our water. It was clear Sandro was going to have to find another pool before tomorrow.

  As we lurched along, Fat Bob rode up next to me. “If I were you, sonny, I’d not take Gordon’s demise too hard. He was a fine enough fellow, but, let’s face it, he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  Fat Bob gave a quiet bark of a laugh. “Well, he was eaten to death by the very man he’d been sent to apprehend. That’s not what I would call a man who knows his craft. But take this fellow, here, Sandro.” He pointed at the Mexican, who rode about thirty yards ahead of us. “He knows what he’s doing. He’ll find George Slatten. And when he does, I’ll kill the Bastard, because that’s what I do. And I know what I’m doing. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, what is it you’re doing?” he asked.

  I didn’t even try to think, but said, “I don’t know.”

  “Exactly,” he said, and rode on ahead to join Sandro.

  I don’t know how much time passed then under the beating sun. We seemed lost in an ocean of white dunes, up and over. I grilled in the saddle, delirious, for miles it seemed, before Sandro stopped to point at something. There were birds circling over the next dune.

  I came more awake and drew my gun. We didn’t advance an
y more quickly. We couldn’t—the horses needed water as it was. As we crested the dune, I noticed the sun was finally going down. The next thing I noticed was the body, lying in the sand a few yards down the descent from us. Sandro got off his horse and walked to it. He waved his arms and made noise to shoo off a big vulture.

  Fat Bob and I dismounted and went over to stand with Sandro. This poor fellow had also been face chewed, gut chomped, and his ass was all but missing. The only thing left of his face was the part that held his beard. I turned away and vomited from the sight and smell of it.

  “Is it him?” asked Fat Bob.

  Sandro nodded. “Bastard George.”

  I was confused.

  “I don’t suppose he ate himself,” said the gunman.

  Sandro crouched down. “The ground shows there was someone else. Very strange foot mark, though. Not an animal. On two feet.”

  “Maybe the wind changed the prints. I’ve seen that,” said Bob.

  Sandro nodded and stood.

  “Apache?” I asked.

  “Never,” he said.

  “Maybe Bastard George has a bastard kid out here,” said the gunman.

  Fat Bob was the lookout while Sandro and I bagged what was left of Bastard George in a tarpaulin the Mexican carried. We bound that package with ropes and tied it onto the back of my horse. The smell was wretched, and the thought of riding in the heat with it made me dizzy, but I knew I dare not complain. We were all jumpy, looking over each shoulder and then again. Fat Bob said he didn’t like it at all and stood with his pair of Colt Dragoons drawn.

  “Are we going to hunt down the killer?” I asked as we finished up the job.

  Sandro laughed.

  “You should tell jokes for drinks at a saloon, sonny,” said Bob.

  We mounted up and headed back toward town, each riding with a gun drawn. Dusk was coming on, and since we’d ridden through the day, there was no way the horses would make it without rest and water. I knew this meant that we’d have to put up at one of Sandro’s rock formations just off the white sands. The prospect of spending a night in the desert, sitting still while whoever ate Bastard George was roaming around in the dark, twisted my outlook.