Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  Mom stepped onto the porch and gently closed the screen door. Noticing the small red Bible she said, “I don’t know that I would necessarily believe everything you read in that book. Back then people knew a lot less about science and how the world worked. It’s been my experience that if you try to have a reasonable debate with someone who takes the Bible literally, they end up calling you an overeducated elitist who doesn’t believe in God.”

  “Wow, Mom. I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like that.”

  “Please understand, son. It’s not what’s in the Bible that bothers me. It’s what it does to people. They just seem to lose the ability to reason and think for themselves. But if I’d known coming here would have raised these sorts of questions, I’d have voted for Las Vegas.”

  “I’m glad we didn’t. I’m having a blast now that there’s a murder to solve.”

  “He means a gun blast,” Wendy said.

  Mom peeped over her shoulder, then back at us. “Dad’s up. Guess I better hop in the shower before he uses all the hot water.” Mom turned to go inside and added, “You know, Nick, there’s no way to prove that what’s in the Bible is true or not.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Or that there is a God. What I’m saying is, you can gather all the clues you want, but in the end, it’s just a matter of believing something you can’t prove. I would think you of all people would have trouble with that.”

  Mom returned to her room. Wendy followed, leaving me alone on the porch to make sense of the bizarre Bible verses.

  As I thought back to my nightmare, an oppressive dread settled over me. I remembered it had started with me in the barn near where I’d seen the Dodge Charger. The stall doors were open. Fresh sawdust covered the floor, emitting a sweet, woody smell. I’d been standing there burrowing my bare toes in the sawdust when I felt something sticky on the balls of my feet. When I lifted my leg I saw I’d been standing in a puddle of blood. I followed the trail into an empty stall. Annie’s horse lay on its side, a large gash in its left hindquarter. Next to the animal was a worm-eaten sign, similar to the one we’d seen at the base of Boot Hill, except instead of faded painted letters, someone had drawn a smiley face in blood—a crude circle with two beady eyes and a crooked smile. Beneath the sign and next to the horse lay Annie’s sombrero. There was a single bullet hole through the front. I knew better than to look under it—I knew what I’d find when I did. I peeked anyway. Annie’s silver-coin eyes peered up at me, her face pale, lips gray. In her mouth were the keys to the Charger.

  I gazed across the silver puddles toward the O.K. Corral with a brooding sense of dread. Whoever it was that we’d seen in the graveyard had followed me home. They had waited in the darkness and invaded my dreams, chasing away the bravado I’d felt the evening before when the marshal had deputized me.

  Question was, were they still following me, or was a phantom killer stalking me?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THINGS NOT OKAY AT THE O.K. CORRAL

  Things were not okay at the O.K. Corral. For one, my eyewitness to the graveyard attack on Boot Hill was late. For another, the rain had temporarily washed out our buffalo hunt. Fine by me—I’d have more time to talk to Annie. Only problem was, after checking the stalls, blacksmith shop, and tack room, the only people I found were grumbling guests arguing about whether we should attend a cowboy poetry reading in the tanner’s shop or take a ride on the Big Sky train. While the crowd bickered, I wandered up the drive to the guardhouse to chat with the security guard.

  “Well now let me see,” said Wyatt Earp, making room for me in his small guardhouse. “Yesterday afternoon. At my age, it’s hard to remember back that far.”

  He sat in a wooden swivel chair wearing a tawny leather vest, green shirt faded to the color of okra, and black jeans. He’d hooked a pair of Tony Lama boots on the edge of his tiny desk and locked his hands behind his downy white head while he gazed up at the ceiling.

  “Stepped away to reset the security system ‘bout the time you folks pulled up. That’s why I wasn’t here when you arrived.”

  He rubbed his forehead with the pad of his thumb as if trying to conjure up a memory. The cramped room smelled of burned coffee. A bow-hunting magazine lay open on his small desk.

  “A coyote must’ve jumped the fence and set it off,” Earp continued, pointing to the flashing green light on the security panel. “I couldn’t have been gone more than fifteen minutes.”

  “You sure? No chance you were gone longer?”

  “Oh sure. Anything’s possible. But the marshal, he gets upset if he calls up here and no one answers. That time of the day I wasn’t too worried. Weren’t expecting but the one vehicle—yours. And your mom had called to say you were running late. Good thing she phoned too. I’d ‘bout decided to lock up for the evening and walk down for dinner.”

  I glanced at his empty holster. This was the thing I remembered from our arrival; how when he’d dismounted and approached our car I’d thought it odd that a security guard would be wearing a holster but not a gun.

  “Where’s your sidearm?”

  “Loaned it to Jess. Called yesterday afternoon asking if he could borrow mine. Told me to leave it on a nail in the first stall of the barn. He’d pick it up there.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Misplaced his. Not the first time it’s happened. Jess tends to forget things. Not that I have any room to talk. Anyhow, I knew he’d need it for that scene in the saloon last night. Hard to gun down that hayseed farmer without a piece.”

  “Except that it wasn’t loaded,” I replied. This make-believe gunfight business was definitely getting on my nerves.

  “You’re right there,” Earp said. “Mine never is anyway. Not with anything but blanks. Doesn’t mean it can’t shoot real bullets though. But I don’t have a permit to carry a loaded sidearm. Got a hunting license but that’s for shooting coyotes and prairie dogs and such. Fact is, no one in Deadwood carries a loaded weapon but the marshal and his deputy. They’re the only real sworn peace officers. The rest of us just have these for show.”

  “So you left your gun in Lazy Jack’s at what time?”

  Wyatt Earp swirled his coffee and frowned. “Let’s see. You folks got here a little before six. Jess called maybe a couple hours earlier. If I had to make a guess, I’d say I walked down to the barn and dropped it off around four thirty. Maybe a tad earlier.”

  “Was there anyone with you while you reset the alarm?” This was the question I’d been waiting to ask. If someone could verify his story, my list of suspects became smaller, though I doubted Wyatt Earp was the killer. He was definitely rounder and shorter than the man I’d seen in the graveyard.

  He shook his head. “Never is. We run a thin staff here. Didn’t used to be that way. Few years back I had an assistant, but not anymore.”

  “So no one can verify where you were just before we arrived?”

  A smile creased Wyatt’s lips. “Reckon not. ‘Course if you’re thinkin’ I was at Lazy Jack’s right ‘fore you pulled up, then my Marge would have to be some kind of fast racehorse. See, for me to ride from here to that barn and shoot someone, then get to the place where the fence needed fixing and back ‘fore you folks arrived would take close to forty-five minutes. And that wouldn’t even hardly give me time to hop off and restring the wire in that busted section.”

  “So if I look at that fence I’ll find where you made the repair?”

  “Take you there myself if you like. Course you’ll need a ride. Marge can’t carry the two of us. Can barely carry me. You can get yourself a horse and ride down there yourself. Have to have one of the hands go with you, though. Not supposed to let guests ride alone. ‘Cept for if they’re ridin’ a pony. Fall off a pony and we’d probably sue you for clumsiness.”

  He smiled at his lame joke; I did not.

  “That’s how come they make you sign those waivers. Bust a bone, it’s on you. Here, I’ll show you where the break was.”

 
Wyatt pulled a welcome map from the display case and circled a spot near a green area marked “nature preserve.”

  “What you do is, ride back up this road about a quarter mile. You’ll come to a steer skull. The pair of horns points east. Head off that way and when you come to the ditch, follow it a quarter mile until you see a watering hole. Then turn south. You’ll see where the fence starts. When you get to a wide patch of sagebrush, you’ll find the new section. Shiny as a new nickel that wire is.” Wyatt blew steam from his cup and sipped. “If you want to, we’ll ride out there now and take a look.”

  “Maybe later.” He still had the same jolly smile, but I had a feeling my questions had put him on edge somewhat. “Who would benefit from Billy the Kid’s death?”

  Earp shifted in his chair and looked out the window. “Been wondering when you’d get to that one. Given it some thought too. Can’t think of a soul unless it’s Jess. I know, sounds bad me saying that. What with what I just told you ‘bout my gun and all. But the two of them were up for the supporting role in the remake of Rio Bravo.”

  “So it’s possible your gun is the murder weapon?”

  “Hold on, partner. Didn’t say that. You asked me who stands to gain if something happened to Billy. I’m saying the two of them were both angling for the same role. Don’t mean Jess had anything to do with Bill’s death—assuming Bill is dead. Which I doubt. Takes a special kind of man to shoot someone. Least that’s what I hear.”

  “Is the actor who plays Jesse James that kind of someone?”

  “Jess? Don’t rightly know. Could be. He can be hotheaded sometimes. Got a reputation as a brawler. Been questioned about it a few times too. Involved in a few scuffles in bars. Last one led to an assault charge. Not sure how that turned out. But that don’t make him a murderer.”

  “Have you asked him about your gun?”

  “Didn’t see any reason to. You’re the only one who’s taken an interest in it. And like I said earlier, I only wear it for decoration. I figured Jess would return it once he found his. But eventually I will need it back. Lose that revolver and it comes out of my paycheck. One like that, a replica of a .44 caliber Smith & Wesson Schofield would set me back a good piece of change.”

  Wyatt folded his arms across his chest and studied me. I wondered if in another setting, like maybe in a hayloft with a grudge, he would be as friendly.

  “You seem pretty certain Billy was killed,” said Earp. “You got any evidence to prove it? I mean, other than what you think you saw in the barn?”

  The good ones are like that, feigning ignorance, stumbling over their story. They drop in facts here and there that the investigator probably already knows. When they see which way the questioning is going, they send the detective down a rabbit trail, feeding him bits of information that have no bearing on the case. Wyatt Earp seemed like the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland white rabbit, wiggling a white tail at me and watching to see if I’d follow.

  “I get lots of practice putting pieces together,” I said at last. “I don’t always guess right, but I do more times than not.”

  “But you don’t really have any evidence,” said Wyatt, erasing that grandfatherly smile. “I mean, fact is you’re just playing detective, aren’t you? This isn’t like a real crime in a real town where you could really get hurt if you got too close to the truth.”

  I couldn’t tell if his words were a threat or a warning. Wyatt Earp didn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer, but if I’d learned anything from studying true crime case files, it was that even the most seasoned law officer could become a killer.

  “No, I’ve never actually been in the room with a murderer,” I said.

  “Don’t look so disappointed, partner. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll get the chance.”

  I pulled on my jacket. “I better get back to the corral before Mom and Dad wonder what happened to me.”

  Earp asked, “Buffalo roundup still on?”

  “Too wet. They’re talking about either doing the train ride or the cowboy poetry reading.”

  “Shame. A lot of folks say the buffalo hunt is the best part of their vacation. Takes you right by the Native American burial grounds. ‘Course the train does too, but it doesn’t stop. You know they say it’s haunted, right?”

  “The train?” I asked.

  “Native American mounds. People swear they’ve seen campfires snuffed out, trees rustling even when there’s no wind, animals acting strange. Hard to know what goes on up there once that phantom fog rolls in. Covers the ground every place ‘cept over the grave mounds themselves. Now, if you really want to investigate spooks and such, that’s where I’d be spending my time.”

  I thanked Wyatt Earp, exited the guardhouse, and walked back toward the O.K. Corral. As I passed Tex’s Tannery Depot, I pictured the old man in his comfy little security booth with his Tony Lama leather boots propped up on the desk, cup of coffee in his hand, and smug smile at having sent that “young whippersnapper detective” down a bunny trail.

  The train whistle blew. Mom, Dad, and Wendy had already boarded while I had interviewed Earp. I jogged toward the train station, reaching the loading platform just as the last guest boarded the Big Sky. I stepped aboard and snagged a seat in the last row of the passenger car next to the window. Moments later the train lurched and pulled away from the station, ushering in the start of the great Reading Railroad train ride. Near the front of the car a rawhide-tough cowboy rose from his seat, opened a small hardback book, and began reading a ballad by poet Donn Taylor. Wendy squealed with delight. I groaned.

  Compromise is a killer, and the best way to ruin a good time is to include someone like me who has no appreciation for sonnets, bonnets, and prairie-home prose. But, as I was about to discover, there are worse things than being trapped on a train with a poetry-reading cowboy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROUGHING IT ON THE READING RAILROAD

  The Big Sky rambled along over hill and dale as the train’s tracks traced the curves and dips of a winding creek. Outside my window, elk grazed in misty meadows and prairie dogs scurried across grassy fields before disappearing into their burrows. Inside, I thought of Annie.

  The business in the graveyard at Boot Hill left me rattled, and it wasn’t just that I’d almost had my skull caved in by a shovel. That was scary enough, but the way Annie reacted when we reached her horse and then the dream … Was my grizzly nightmare a premonition? A warning of trouble to come? Or was it (like Mom was always telling me) the result of downing junk food just before bedtime? I couldn’t imagine that a fistful of M&M’s and Skittles could ignite such gruesome thoughts, but something had tripped my imaginary security fence and awakened me.

  Then there was Annie’s mysterious absence at the not so O.K. Corral.

  On we choo-choo-chugged toward Rattlesnake Gulch and Twilight Tunnel. Gold curtain tassels swayed; steel wheels vibrated beneath my sneakers. Closing my eyes, I immediately thought of Annie. I slouched in my seat and rested my head against the worn leather cushion. I like planes okay. They’re fun on takeoff and landings—unless there’s ice on the wings and runway, which there is sometimes where we live. But there’s something personal about a train. Maybe it’s the rocking motion and the constant drone of the locomotive’s engine. On a deeper, subconscious level, maybe riding a train takes me back to before I was born and was jostling around in my mother’s belly and hearing muffled voices but not caring because I didn’t know the dangers that lay just beyond the walls of my protective bubble.

  I think about this sort of stuff when I’d rather not think about what’s really bothering me, and right then I didn’t want to think about Annie and Billy the Kid’s killer.

  But I did anyway.

  My conversation with Wyatt Earp concerned me. His explanation for why he’d been away from his post seemed too convenient. Without an eyewitness to verify his whereabouts during the murder, he could have been anywhere, including the barn. He didn’t look like a murderer, but I’d studied en
ough real murders to know cold-blooded killers rarely look dangerous. They’re schoolteachers and youth pastors and stay-at-home-moms who flip out under pressure. Wyatt Earp might have been fixing the fence. Or he might have been fixing it so Bill Bell never took another breath. I wouldn’t know for certain until I learned more about Earp’s needs. Find his motive and I might have the killer.

  Then there was Marshal Buckleberry. Even though he’d deputized me, he hadn’t shown any real interest in taking the murder seriously. I had the impression that for him, the killing of Billy the Kid and my infatuation with the murder was a joke: some extracurricular activity meant to keep my parents happy and me occupied. What better cover than to say he let a kid detective investigate the crime and found no evidence of a murder?

  The door swung open next to me. I peeked out and saw Dad enter the passenger car.

  “We missed you this morning at breakfast,” he announced, taking the seat beside me. “Everything okay?”

  I told him I wasn’t interested in sitting around listening to people debate how they were going to spend their vacation, especially since I had a murder to solve.

  “So you still think that scene you saw in the hayloft was real and not just two actors practicing?”

  “I know it, Dad. No one can stare at the ceiling that long without blinking.”

  “Okay. Just wanted to make sure our vacation isn’t boring you.”

  “It’s a lot more exciting than I expected. Thanks for going to bat for me with the marshal.”

  “Just keep in mind, Nick. He’s doing you a favor. Don’t do anything that’ll give him or me a reason to regret this.”

  Mom and Wendy sat in front of Dad and me. Other passengers were still filtering in and getting settled. At the front of the car the conductor pulled out a small leather book and began reading. I slumped against the window, enduring a ballad about a black crow. The track had veered away from the creek and begun a long, curving climb up the mountain. Below my window a muddy river wound its way through a deep gorge. The train’s whistle rebounded off canyon walls, giving the experience a nostalgic flavor.