Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  One edge of the beam had been worn smooth, its rough finish almost glossy. I pictured the marshal resting his shoulder against that beam, arms folded across his chest, one boot hooked over the other in a casual pose. Cameras flashing. Hint of a smile frozen on his face. “Come on, boys and girls. Stand over here and get your picture taken with the marshal,” he might say, beckoning to the timid.

  Like a serpent warming itself on a dusty trail, the marshal had tried to cast himself as nothing more than an easygoing lawman in a make-believe ghost town. A harmless brown stick on the side of a footpath. But I knew better. I’d seen a flash of anger in his eyes when I’d questioned his investigative skills. The challenge from Marshal Buckleberry was clear: bend down and mess with that old brown stick and you’ll pay.

  I heard the jingle of the marshal’s spurs and went in, taking the only spare chair in the room. He moved to the other side of the desk and rolled his chair back, angling it so we could talk over the corner of the desk.

  “You let one get away,” I told the marshal when he arrived. “Was that part of the act?”

  “No act, son. What you saw out there was the real deal.” He hung his hat on a peg and pulled the door shut behind him. “I keep telling you this is a ghost town. At some point you’ll start believing me.”

  I explained how I’d done some checking and learned that ghosts and creditors were about the only visitors stopping by Deadwood.

  “Sounds like you’ve been talking to Jess.”

  “I have.”

  “He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. Talking out of character can get you fired.”

  “Any truth to what he said about you having financial difficulties?”

  “He probably made it sound worse than it is. Sour grapes because I didn’t give him a glowing endorsement like he wanted. But sure, it’s been a tough couple of years. No point acting like it hasn’t.”

  “How bad?”

  “This is off the record, you understand. I’m just telling you this because I know you’re all wrapped up in this imaginary murder case.” He pivoted and pointed out the window toward Main Street. “Bookings are down. Costs keep rising. Insurance has gone through the roof. You have no idea how difficult it can be to run a venture of this size on a shoestring budget. Families don’t take trips like they used to. Kids today are into movies and video games. But then I’m not telling you something you don’t already know.” He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. “You said you had something you wanted to show me?”

  “I understand you took a loan from Billy the Kid.”

  “I did?”

  “As I understand it, Bill Bell loaned you fifty thousand dollars.”

  “We’re a small county tucked way up in the hills. This town and the tourists it brings are about the only attraction we have in these parts. Except for the ski resorts, of course, but that’s seasonal. Good seasonal, but there’s a wide spread between May and December, and people need work year-round.”

  “The economy of Deadwood isn’t really my concern, Marshal. But finding Bill Bell’s killer is.”

  The marshal sighed and rocked forward in his chair, looking at me with hound dog eyes.

  “Four years ago you wouldn’t have recognized this place. We had fresh tar on the highway and plans for a regional airport with shuttle service to Denver. Had a stack of resumes taller than that wastebasket of people wanting to work in Deadwood. Pick of the best actors this side of California. Then the county went and passed a tourism tax. Idea was to get visitors coming to enjoy our county to pay for the road improvements and new school buildings. Sounded like a good idea at the time. First season we hardly noticed the dip in attendance. The next year, bookings were down, but we cut expenses some and did okay. By the next spring I started to notice fewer ads in the chamber of commerce magazine for mom-and-pop shops. You know, the handcrafted quilting boutiques, river tours, eco hikes, those sorts of places. Last summer the price I had been paying for a quarter page ad in the magazine got me the whole back cover. Those ad people did a real nice job. Made us look like Disneyland. Didn’t help at all. Ticket sales fell by half. Word had finally gotten around that our county wasn’t tourist friendly. That we were milking visitors so every kid in our public schools could have his own tablet. Was a lie, of course, but it’s hard to change the public’s perception once they get their minds made up.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Did you and Billy have a financial agreement of some kind, and if so, was he pressuring you to make good on your end of the arrangement?”

  “Bill comes from money. I come from farming and working hard and not much else. Yeah, I’m a little behind on my payments. What of it?”

  “Was he pressuring you to pay up?”

  “Don’t recall that he said one way or the other. Last time I mentioned it to Bill he acted like it wasn’t any big deal. You said there was something you wanted to show me?”

  I’d planned to mention the incident in the graveyard and see if he’d walk with me up to Boot Hill, but now I couldn’t be certain that the marshal wasn’t involved somehow. Maybe that’s why Annie hadn’t wanted to go to her uncle. Maybe he was the one we’d seen on Boot Hill. He was about the same height as the man we’d seen.

  I switched tactics and reached into my pocket. Placing the smashed slug on his desk, I said, “Found this earlier today. Any chance you can have it tested?”

  “Found it where? In the barn?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “That barn’s off-limits. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, sir. It came from someplace else.”

  He pulled open a drawer and swept the slug into a small manila envelope. “I have a currier coming by in a few minutes to drop off a few rush supplies for tonight’s hoedown. A special barbeque sauce we like in these parts. I’ll send it along with the driver.”

  “Thanks, Marshal.” I wasn’t sure how to ask my last question so I just blurted out, “Is this Deadwood’s last summer?”

  The marshal looked away. For a few seconds I thought he hadn’t heard the question. Or had heard and was refusing to answer. Finally, he shifted in his chair and replied, “Doubt it. I can trim the staff a little more. Hate to do it. Most of the ones left started with me. A few volunteered to work part time this year. Only call them when there’s a crowd coming. Haven’t had to in a long while. Look, you want to talk to Billy and ask him about the loan, be my guest. You heard him on the phone last night. He’ll probably be back before you leave.”

  “I would if I thought that were possible. But I know for a fact he’s not coming back. Not ever.”

  For an instant the marshal’s stare narrowed, but he recovered quickly. “I’ll give you this. You’re awful sure of yourself, son. Cocky is another word that comes to mind. That kind of attitude can come in handy sometimes. This is not one of those times.”

  “Just trying to establish motive, Marshal.”

  “You mean mine for wanting Bill Bell dead?”

  I held his stare and said nothing.

  “Look, if you think I had anything to do with Billy’s disappearance—and note I said disappearance, not death—you should speak to my deputy. He’s at Rattlesnake Gulch replacing some timbers on the train trestle.”

  “Is this the deputy who used to be a mall cop?”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t enforce the law. Pat’s okay at what he does. I just have to make sure I don’t give him too much responsibility, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Marshal Buckleberry rose from his chair and walked to the door, signaling our interview was over.

  “Marshal, I don’t know if this ghost town is going to make it or not, and I don’t care. It’s obvious you’ve put a lot of work into it. But one thing’s for sure. You have a killer running loose.”

  Marshal Buckleberry chuckled. “Son, I don’t know if your mom and dad and sister are having fun, but I can tell from the way you’re going on about this so-called murder, you are. Just
remember our agreement. If I get word that our guests are asking about Billy the Kid’s disappearance, I’m going to assume it was you that started the rumor, understand?”

  “Yes, Marshal.”

  “Not to mention that if there were a killer running loose like you say, he might want to keep you quiet. Know what I mean?”

  I couldn’t tell from those sad, hound dog eyes if he was joking or trying to threaten me. I thanked him again for his time and started through the door when he said to me, “You know, son, if you decide to go into law enforcement, count on me as a reference. I’d be happy to vouch for you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RATTLESNAKE RODEO

  I picked up my pony and helmet and trotted up the canyon road in the direction of Rattlesnake Gulch. My pony and I got along fine as long as I let him go at whatever pace suited him. Slow seemed to be his preferred speed.

  A mile west of town I turned off the road and made my way up a rutted drive toward a pasture dotted with Black Angus cattle. Salt blocks sat like deformed ice sculptures in open pastureland. Narrow fingers of matted grass showed the way toward a wide watering hole. In a nearby grove the lower branches of some knobby hardwoods had been nibbled clean of leaves. When I reached the railroad tracks, I aimed my trusty steed toward Twilight Tunnel and went clomp-clomping down the middle of the tracks. Maybe a half mile up the tracks I passed the burial mounds. With the morning mist burned off by the heat of the afternoon, the sacred graves looked less imposing. No ethereal spirits beckoning me closer. Maybe the spirits of the Native Americans were taking a siesta. Or were never there in the first place.

  My thoughts drifted back to the Bible in my room and the highlighted verses. Were they code? Was someone trying to tip me off as to who the killer was? Or was someone really trying to warn me that ghosts and spirits and demons were real?

  I poked my pony into the tunnel and trotted ahead.

  About halfway into the tunnel that old saying came to mind: “The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.” I hoped it wasn’t, but just to be sure I stopped and listened hard to make sure I didn’t hear the Big Sky rumbling toward me. Or racing up from behind. I spurred my pony and he shifted into a full-on trot.

  I found the marshal’s deputy working on a section of tracks overlooking Rattlesnake Gulch.

  Deputy Pat Garrett appeared to be in his early forties and as wide as a linebacker. He stood bent over the rails, wresting a railroad tie from the gravel bed. He’d stripped to the waist, leaving a dark band of sweat around the top of his jeans. Sweat rolled down his sun-browned back, giving his skin the appearance of varnished mahogany. I parked my pony at the bottom of the railroad bed a good ways back from the edge of the gulch. Still, I was close enough to see the muddy river below and take note of the way it had carved away large chunks of earth along the banks. There was enough of a westward tilt to the sun to turn the terra-cotta layers of sand into shades of purple and deep blue.

  “Lose your way, cowboy?” Garrett pried off his work gloves and plucked his shirt from a pile of new timbers. With the blue denim sleeve he dried sweat from his wind-chapped cheeks. Scowling, he shouldered into the shirt, snapping the first few buttons.

  I expected him to offer his hand but wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he used it to shade his eyes, giving me a hard look.

  “The boy investigating a murder that wasn’t.”

  I said, “Marshal told me I’d find you here.”

  “Not supposed to be up here except on the train.”

  “Trying to clear up some confusion about where everyone was yesterday evening.”

  “He did?” Garrett snapped two more buttons and tucked the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his pants.

  “Until just before my family arrived.”

  “Oh, right. I guess he’s talking about when I stopped by his office. We’ve had some trouble with a bear coming down from the hills and spooking the livestock. I thought the marshal ought to know that I’d checked the perimeter and hadn’t seen anything.”

  “Remember what time you got to his office?”

  “Which one? The one on Main Street or that little dumpy trailer he works out of?”

  “Whichever one he was working out of just before we arrived.”

  “That’d be the one on Main Street. Marshal tries to stay there until around six. That way kids can stop in and get their picture taken in a cell. Makes a good postcard moment. Sometimes he’ll run back to the trailer if he needs to do serious work, but that doesn’t happen often. About the only crime we have around here is petty theft. Usually turns out someone misplaced their iPod or cell phone.”

  “Time?” I said again.

  He nodded toward a dirt bike resting on its kickstand. “When I’m riding that, it doesn’t take long to get around the compound. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe five thirty.”

  “So the two of you were together until almost six?”

  “Sounds about right.” I couldn’t tell if he was lying to cover for his boss or just giving me the answers I wanted to get me to go away.

  He propped the heel of his boot on the pile of timbers and eyed me. “We about done? I need to get back to these ties.”

  “Almost. How did you hear about the murder?”

  “Alleged murder. Marshal said to make sure I didn’t call it something it wasn’t.” Deputy Garrett staked his fists on his hips, arched his back, and stretched. “I think one of the barmaids from the saloon came running over yelling about someone being shot. Stuff like that happens all the time, of course. No big deal. Just part of the drill. But we have to pretend like it matters, so I lit out for the barn.”

  “You and the marshal?”

  “Right. Me and Marshal Buckleberry. I checked the whole first level and didn’t see anything. Went into the loft. Nothing. Wandered outside to where you folks were, and the marshal tells me to check again, I guess because you seemed pretty certain there was a body. I hunted all around and found that slug, but that was all.”

  “The one you pulled from the wall.”

  “Marshal was upset about that. Said I should’ve left it for him. But like I said, we don’t get too many serious crimes in Deadwood. Certainly nothing like a murder. I just figured someone had been taking target practice up there.”

  “Who’d want to see Billy dead?”

  “Hooo-eee, that’s a good one.” He massaged the back of his neck with his hand and let his eyes sweep the area around us. “Who’d want Bill dead? Well now, let’s see. I guess if I had to say, it’d be …”

  But his voice trailed off.

  He kept his gaze aimed in my general direction, but his eyes shifted slightly as if he were looking past me. Moving his hand slowly he gripped the shovel handle resting against his hip and lifted it, aiming the blade at my feet. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing until I heard the rattler’s beaded husk quivering.

  I froze. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the snake slither past my foot. Four feet. Maybe longer, though I couldn’t be sure because it had begun to coil itself into a knot.

  “Don’t move, not even an inch. They can sense a change in body temperature. Right now being scared is the absolute wrong reaction.”

  As if I have another choice.

  “You twitch, even a little, and—”

  He jabbed the shovel at my legs, striking the dusty ground and flicking his wrist in one swift motion. His thrust of the shovel sent the snake catapulting backwards. It landed with a “whump” and went slithering off under a pile of jumbled timbers.

  “Why didn’t you kill it?”

  “Snakes got a right to live same as us.” Garrett put his gloves back on, shouldered the shovel, and trudged up the railbed, stopping next to the tracks. “You were asking about who’d benefit from Bill’s death. If I had to guess, I’d say probably that old man at the guardhouse.”

  “Wyatt Earp? You kidding me? That’s guy’s a dinosaur.”

  Garrett scooped a shovel full of
gravel from beneath an old timber and tossed it aside. Scoop and toss, scoop and toss, until he’d burrowed a good size trough under the rails. Dropping the shovel, he clamped two gloved hands on the beam and pulled it free.

  “Getting old doesn’t make a man mellow. Some folks only get meaner. He doesn’t have much range as an actor, Earp doesn’t. But don’t get fooled by that grandfatherly act. Oh he’s a charmer, that one is. That’s how come the marshal keeps him around. Kids like listening to his stories. He’s got all sorts of tales about this place. Some of them are true. But I know for a fact that a few months back Billy caught Earp poking around an abandoned mine. Why, I don’t know. Nothing up there except more of these.” I followed his gaze and saw another snake slither over rocks and disappear into the brush. “Wouldn’t catch me messing around up there in that mine, no sir.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. Garrett didn’t strike me as the kind of man who scared easily, so I asked him if it was because of the snakes.

  He responded with a look of mock surprise. “Rattlers don’t bother me none. Stay out of their way, they’ll leave you alone. Fact is, I’m claustrophobic.”

  He slapped his gloves together, sending a cloud of dust ballooning skyward, and skated down the embankment toward the pile of timber.

  “That mine’s been off-limits for years,” he called out to me. “But that doesn’t keep people out. Last summer we caught some kids sneaking up there and having themselves a fine old time. Yes, sir. Cigarette butts, beer cans, liquor bottles. Other things,” he said, winking. “Had a young man get bit not more’n twenty feet inside the mine’s entrance. Had to medevac him out. Boy nearly lost his leg ‘cause of messing around in that shaft.”

  “So if it’s that dangerous, what makes you think Mr. Earp would be up there?”

  “Man’s a drunk. Claims to have it licked, but a thing like that don’t ever stay dead. You can go years without a drink and then one day you take a sip, slip off the wagon, and fall so far and fast they don’t find you until the paramedics bring you in with a sheet over your head.”