Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  After polite applause, the conductor introduced our next lecturer: a “rip-snorting, hard-charging, straight-shooting cow-poke comic named Quick Draw Guffaw.”

  I took this as my cue to stretch my legs and wander the train, checking out the dining car (vending machines), gambling car (small booths set up for bingo), and restroom car (Gunslingers, Miss Kitty). Tour completed, I returned to my seat.

  “Since many of you are unfamiliar with the ways and history of these parts,” Guffaw announced, “I’d like to give a full and inaccurate accounting of the significant historic events that shaped the Old West.”

  Dad nudged me with his elbow. “You listening, Nick?”

  I nodded, even though my mind was still on the case. And on the Bible in my room. I wanted to ask Dad if he and Mom had found a Bible marked up with verses about ghosts but decided against it. I figured the less I said about the scary scripture, the easier it would be for me to determine if they were clues to the killer.

  Guffaw, wearing white pants, vest, and coat, stood erect, one hand resting on the doorway for balance, the other clasping an unlit cigar. “Years ago in a galaxy far, far away, during a time when writers such as Mark Twain, John Steinbeck, and Louis L’Amour wrote descriptive and sometimes boring novels about the harsh environment settlers faced on the great American frontier, buffalo roamed and ranged and left large pie-shaped piles, all-natural organic fertilizer, on the messy plains. This made tracking, hunting, and killing buffalo easy. You only needed to follow the smell.”

  I sat up, smiling. Dad, too.

  “Whole states, many of which hadn’t even been invented yet, scrambled to accommodate the buffalo; not to mention those notoriously wily varmints, politicians.”

  Dad leaned over. “Better than the poetry reading?”

  “Definitely. And way better than the history lectures I got in civics class.”

  Wendy turned and glared. “Would you two hush? I can’t hear.”

  “Within this rustic, rustbelt political landscape,” Guffaw continued, “young male and female deer and antelope frolicked and fawned all over each other to such a degree that parents often forbade these rambunctious couples from seeing each other outside of school. This led to such great works of literature as Romeo and Joliet, from which we get the classic line: ‘Romeo, Romeo, where art thou commuter train to Chicago, oh Romeo?’”

  I saw the side of Mom’s face and her furrowed brow. Leaning forward I explained that the city of Joliet was the fourth largest city in the state of Illinois, located just forty-five miles southwest of Chicago. She brightened once she caught on to the punch line.

  “Meanwhile in the Old West, displaced residents from Manhattan’s Upper West Side sat around campfires singing folk songs and wearing mink stoles and listening to really bad harmonica music.”

  The Big Sky turned away from the river and gorge and chugged toward a series of chimney-shaped outcroppings. Goats stood on rocky slopes eyeing the train as it passed. Just for fun I glanced around to see if Annie had snuck aboard without me noticing, but I didn’t see her.

  “Such was the era of western exploration. A period in American history unlike any before it. And hopefully never to be seen again. This was America’s first ‘lost generation.’ A term normally ascribed to uneducated and unemployable teens, but which fit these hearty folks due to the fact that no one, not even the renowned explorers Huey Lewis and the Dave Clark candy bar, had a clue what they were doing or where they were going since the GPS and highway maps hadn’t been invented yet. What am I saying? HIGHWAYS HADN’T BEEN INVENTED. In fact, the 75-watt GE lightbulb was just a flicker in the eye of the American inventor ‘Tommy Boy’ Edison.”

  I could tell the comic was feeding off the audience’s energy, holding the pause just long enough to draw the listeners forward in their seats. There’s a skill to holding a crowd’s attention. Last semester we studied the technique in drama class. Not that I was any good at acting or wanted to be in a play. But the course was an easy A because it focused primarily on technique and if there was one thing I’m good at, it’s analyzing facts and memorizing technique. That’s one reason all this detective stuff is so much fun for me.

  I nudged Dad. “I need to get up and move around.”

  “But this guy’s a hoot. Don’t tell me you’re bored.”

  “Oh, no. He’s way better than the poetry guy. But I’m tired of sitting.”

  No further explanation needed. Dad understood, even if Mom didn’t.

  The one time I’d mentioned to my father how hard it was for me to sit still, he’d shared how when he was a boy he suffered from what Grandmamma Caden called “fidgety pants.”

  “You probably got it from me, Nick. Not that I’m an expert on ADD or anything. Your mom’s the one who keeps up with all these childhood syndromes. But I almost flunked ninth grade because I couldn’t stay seated. Teacher kept threatening to tie me into my chair. Part of it was because I was bored and spent too much time daydreaming. Now it’s not so bad. Only flares up when I’m sitting in a sales meeting or listening to your sister recite those poems she writes,” he’d said, winking.

  He swung his legs and I slid out, mirroring the comic cowboy’s posture by taking a position at the rear of the car.

  “Bushwhackers, desperados, and hornswagglers roamed, ranged, and terrified the settlers of the Old West, ruling the Bad Lands from the Dakotas to Duluth, adding a mystical aura to U.S. social studies classes. Tracking these lawless men was easy. You only needed to follow the smell. The indigenous people—Indians, so named in honor of a country clear on the other side of the globe—found themselves rounded up and shuttled onto tour buses where they spent days, sometimes months, visiting scenic national monuments like the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone National Park, and Frank Stoeber’s giant ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas. As often happens during such tours, the buses broke down, leaving the group stranded in desolate areas. The marooned passengers called such places Death Valley, Broken Bow, and Cleveland. Miles from civilization and out of cell phone range, these resolute Native Americans began walking along a path known as the Trail of Tears—so called because of the scorching hot desert sand and the fact that the very last pair of moccasins in all of the United States was at that very moment in history on the feet of a guy named James Fenimore Gary Cooper, a famous American author who would later write a poem that would become mandatory reading in all U.S. literature classes, but at the time was struggling to find a publisher due to Cooper’s insistence that the title remain, The Last of the Moccasins.”

  The train’s side-to-side rocking lessened, and I noticed we’d begun to slow. Holding onto the back of Dad’s seat, I leaned toward the window and peered out. A hand-lettered sign warned that we’d reached HOLE IN THE WALL JUNCTION: HOME TO BROWN BARES (Not another misspelling.) AND BLACK BART. The shudder of steel wheels braking brought the Big Sky to a halt, and steam billowed outside our windows. Quick Draw Guffaw announced that we’d reached the halfway point of our ride and he would be taking a break while the engine took on water. Passengers were free to disembark and have their picture taken with him in front of the locomotive.

  I filed out with the others and found myself standing near the base of an old mining camp. Rusty picks, sifting pans, and wooden flues lay scattered about the ground. A rocky stream sliced through the camp and disappeared into a gully choked with scrub trees and sagebrush. Sheer rock walls towered above the russet peaks. Fractured clouds left wide patches of blue poking through gray. While others lined up to have their pictures taken in front of the cowcatcher, I headed in the opposite direction and caught not a cow, but a break in the case.

  Annie rode toward us on her black mare. Had it not been for her reddish-blonde ponytail bouncing off her shoulders I might have mistaken her for Black Bart, with her black hat sitting snugly on her head, front brim flattened by wind and speed, black pants, shirt, and leather vest.

  I stood in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose, arms folded across my ch
est, head slightly cocked, giving her my best John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Val Kilmer stance. I hoped to appear indifferent, but honestly I was relieved. I feared something had happened to her.

  Tugging on the reins, she brought her horse to a stop and dismounted.

  “Oversleep?” I said dryly.

  “Needed to take care of some things.”

  “You could’ve left a message with someone at the corral. I waited a long time.”

  “I said I was busy, okay? You’re not my mom, you know.”

  Taking the reins, she walked her horse up the tracks and let it drink from the rocky stream.

  “Just saying, meeting at the corral was your idea, not mine.”

  She pushed the hat back on her head and wiped her brow with the back of her riding glove. When she did, I noticed the saffron bruise just below her hairline.

  I stepped toward her to get a better look. “Did you get walloped?”

  “Did I get what?”

  “Looks like you ran into a tree,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the contusion. “Or a fist.”

  “I … fell off my horse.”

  She pushed my hand away and ruffled her bangs.

  Leaning closer I replied, “Face first and on your head?”

  “Hey, look. It’s not like you’re an expert on horseback riding, okay? The buckle on my saddle broke and I slipped off. End of story.”

  “Sure, whatever. So who was it, really?”

  She stared upwards with a look of surprise. “I told you! Nobody. I fell.”

  “I meant, who did we see last night in the graveyard. You said you’d tell me.”

  “I, ah … was mistaken.”

  “Oh, come on. You know exactly who it was.”

  “Boy, my uncle is right. You are paranoid.”

  “Here’s what I know. Someone took a swing at me with a shovel.”

  “We were trespassing. You read the sign.”

  It was obvious she was covering for somebody. Who, I couldn’t tell. But pushing her for answers wasn’t going to get me the name of the killer. Better to play along and let the truth find me.

  “So no one threatened you?” I said. “No one told you to keep quiet about what you saw?”

  She shook her head. “The only reason I rode out here was to tell you to be careful.” Leaning into me, she murmured, “And to maybe not ask so many questions. This isn’t a game, Nick.”

  “So that means it’s okay if I go to the marshal and tell him what we saw?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “But you just said—”

  I hadn’t realized she’d been resting her hand on my hip until she pulled away. “Couldn’t we just keep it our little secret for now?”

  “But Billy the Kid’s body is buried up there.”

  “Please, Nick. If you tell my uncle about what we saw he’ll want to know why I was hanging out with you after midnight. He’s very protective. Still treats me like I’m in grade school. Deal?”

  “For now,” I answered. “But at some point I’ll have to tell him about the body buried on Boot Hill.”

  “Later is fine. Just not now.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE DALTON GANG

  The train’s shrill whistle blast hustled us back aboard the Big Sky. Annie climbed aboard her horse and galloped away. I returned to my seat in the passenger car. Minutes later we rolled away from the Hole in the Wall Junction, and the comic cowboy returned to his act.

  “After many months of walking on the Trail of Tears, the Native Americans finally reached their destination—Detroit. Having failed again to find a peaceful place void of riots, gangs, and interstates choked with American-made automobiles, the Native Americans moved west and settled in the desert. Overnight, a new industry blossomed in the middle of this barren wasteland—gambling.”

  “Soon casinos competed with sagebrush on the forlorn moonscape, a countryside so void of moisture that the Native Americans aptly named it Loss Vegas. The name stuck and soon the more industrious tribal members subdivided the sandlots into city blocks, choking it with strip malls and cheap hotels that rented rooms by the hour. Unaccustomed to running such sprawling and corrupt institutions, the Native Americans turned the management of these casinos, nightclubs, and brothels over to government officials who, in turn, outsourced the work to another tribe of indigenous people. A tribe hunkered on the shores of New Jersey who had spent years beating plowshares into swords and kneecaps into pulp. This tribe was known simply as “The Mob.” Soon, crowds flocked to the desert oasis to listen to really old and inebriated singers mumble songs no one had ever heard of. The Wild West had been tamed. And so it remains tame to this day. Only … not all the Wild West is tamed, and if you’ll look out the windows to your right, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Pulling alongside the train was a posse of riders kicking up a cloud of dust.

  Bursting into the car, the conductor shrieked: “The Dalton Gang!”

  Aiming pistols into the air and firing at random, the Daltons pressed closer to the train. Out my window I saw the lead rider leap from his horse and grab the railing on the steps, swinging himself aboard.

  The rest of the gang rode alongside, firing randomly at the train. The window next to me shattered and I ducked. Even though I knew the robbery was staged and the hole where the bullet supposedly hit was planted with some type of small explosive, the bang still left me jumpy. Besides, I couldn’t be certain they weren’t using real ammo. Annie did ride all the way out here to warn me to be careful. Was the killer one of the Daltons?

  The train’s engineer threw the brake and we lurched forward. The sound of hissing steam blended with the rumble of a boxcar door being rolled open. More gunfire erupted outside my window. Beside me the rear door flew open and in burst a hook-nosed fellow with whiskered cheeks, thick black eyebrows, and a red bandana synched over his mouth and chin. Holding his gun upwards, he fired two shots and ordered us out. I noticed there were no holes in the wood paneling on the ceiling above his head, suggesting to me that his pistol was loaded with blanks. Still, the quick succession of loud bangs produced more shrieks of panic, my sister’s sounding the loudest.

  Thirty or so passengers filed past my seat. I joined the end of the line, jostled by the comic cowboy bumping into me and urging me to hurry. Outside we lined up beside the train. The gunmen leveled their pistols at us, daring us to move. An older fellow with a rubbery belly sagging over his belt ordered two members of the gang inside the boxcar.

  “Big Daddy Dalton,” Wendy said to me in a low voice. “I read about him in my welcome packet.”

  Seconds later there was a small explosion from inside the boxcar. I leaned out and looked down the line far enough to spy a small safe standing near the door of the boxcar.

  A sturdy-looking wooden chest flew out and landed on the ground. Big Daddy quickly drew his revolver and fired, blowing off the lock. The two outlaws jumped down from the boxcar and lifted the lid. Inside were bricks of cash, each brick banded with a cord of string. The pair began tossing packets of cash to the other train robbers.

  I eyed each member of the gang as they caught the packets of money, trying my best to see if any of their eyes matched those of the man who’d come at me with the shovel.

  Daddy Dalton, sitting high in the saddle, slowly walked his horse past us, examining each passenger carefully. We stood with our backs to the railcar, no one speaking. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Wendy was sobbing. Come on, sis. You can’t really be scared. It’s all an act. Just a Hollywood stunt.

  Daddy Dalton’s gaze settled on me; the hair on my neck stiffened.

  No, you’re not the one I saw on Boot Hill. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t kill Billy the Kid.

  Breaking eye contact, Daddy Dalton called in a mocking voice, “Bushwhackers, desperados, and hornswagglers roamed, ranged, and terrified the settlers of the Old West.” Big Daddy aimed his beady eyes at the comic cowboy. “Tracking these lawless men was easy. You
only needed to follow the smell.”

  Wheeling his horse around, Daddy Dalton aimed both revolvers at the comic and fired both guns. The cowboy comic twisted, staggered back. Blood (or corn syrup mixed with red food coloring) soaked his white jacket and vest. In typical dramatic fashion, the comic tried to claw his way up the steps—as though climbing to safety with five bullet holes in his chest and belly would save him. In real life you don’t walk, crawl, or stagger away from multiple gunshot wounds. That only works in television.

  In real life the body goes into shock, focusing all resources on the injury. It’s a primal reaction: find the source of the bleeding, evaluate the damage, and repair it. Big Daddy Dalton wasn’t going to give Quick Draw Guffaw that option. Big Daddy emptied his guns into the cowboy, and Guffaw collapsed onto the platform—his top half lying face down on the steps, his legs tangled beneath him, knees resting on the gravel railbed.

  Then, like in the saloon, the dead man vanished.

  Big Daddy ordered the Dalton boys to mount up. Yanking the reins of his horse, he scowled at me and rode off, leading his men back down the tracks in the direction from which they’d come.

  “Come on, Nick,” Dad said, rushing toward the bloody steps. “Let’s go see how he disappeared.”

  But I had another idea. My plan was to confront the comic. I was tired of the smoke and mirrors and theatrical magic that kept the guests entertained and me guessing how Billy the Kid’s body had disappeared from Lazy Jack’s. I wanted to shake the funny actor by the shoulders and force him to explain how both he and the farmer in the saloon vanished. I needed to know if it was possible for someone to pull off a similar stunt in the hayloft. The comic struck me as just enough of an oddball that he might be willing to share a few of Deadwood’s secrets.

  While Dad went in search of the trapdoor he was sure he’d find built into the steps, I circled around to the other side of the train, confident I’d find the comic resting from and reflecting upon his performance.