The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  I should have become very afraid when I saw him sitting there, dealing casually, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Instead, I thought that I had gotten even luckier than I could have hoped for. After all, Dodge City wasn't that far away. Beaseley was still sitting effectively in Morg Allen's backyard. Instead of being worried about this turn of events, I figured the esteemed Mr. Beaseley was stupid. After all, if you got run out of town, you generally went a little further than a day's ride to make sure that you got clean away.

  Once again, the lure of easy money was upon me. I took a swig of whiskey from the bottle, and figured I could collect my money tomorrow. Then I swaggered over to the table to confirm that this was the man I was looking for.

  There were three farmers playing with the man I took to be Beaseley. As the cards were dealt out, none of them seemed to pay any attention to me. I stood behind the man who was directly across from Beaseley. He was poorly dressed, which I

  might have expected. He smelled of liquor. I didn't get the impression that he was in command of his senses.

  Beaseley dealt him two jacks, two aces, and a three. He called for one card when it was his turn, casting aside the three. It was replaced with an eight. The man swore silently to himself and gripped his cards tighter. Beaseley cast away three cards and replaced them with three fresh ones from the deck.

  The man to Beaseley's left folded. I watched the farmer in front of me sweat a little before deciding to bet ten dollars. The man to his left immediately folded.

  "Too rich for me, Abel," he said.

  Abel cursed himself for betting too high initially. I began to perceive that he had already lost a fair sum of money and was recklessly attempting to get it back. I winced inwardly. Such a stunt almost never worked.

  "I'll see your ten dollars," the man I guessed was Beaseley said, "and raise you another five."

  Abel looked down at his cards and then over at Beaseley. He looked at the money in front of him and saw that he was down to fifteen dollars. Off-handedly, I began to wonder where poor farmers got that kind of money. He'd already bet fifteen including the ante. How much money must he have lost?

  "Alright, Mr. Beaseley," he said, determinedly, "your luck's got to run out some time, and I figure this is when it does." He tossed five dollars into the pot.

  "That's very brave, Abel," Beaseley said. "I wonder, though, just how brave you are?"

  "Brave enough," Abel said.

  "Oh good," Beaseley said, delighted. "Then you won't mind if I raise another ten dollars?"

  I could hear the gulp in Abel's throat. He hadn't been altogether confident in his own hand, but now that Beaseley had raised the stakes, he was considerably worried. Two pair was a decent hand. What was the mysterious Mr. Beaseley holding? Three of a kind? A full house? A straight? Or was he just bluffing?

  "Damn you, Beaseley," Abel said. "You know that's all I got left."

  "True," he answered. "But the question remains: how brave are you, Abel Kennard? How far are you willing to go?" He said this last bit with a wicked glint in his eye.

  Abel didn't say anything. He just stared at his cards. Beaseley reached across the table and put his hand on the money to rake it in. Abel stopped him.

  "Wait just a darn minute," he said. "I ain't folded yet." Abel threw his last ten dollars on the table. "I see your ten dollars and call you."

  Beaseley put his cards on the table. He had two jacks, two aces, and a nine. Abel Kennard blinked at it. He couldn't believe his misfortune. The other two men at the table laughed when they saw Abel's hand.

  "Darn, Abel," one of them said. "That's got to be the worst run of luck I've ever seen."

  Abel looked as though he were going to cry. Beaseley had clearly cleaned him out. The sly gambler smiled magnanimously.

  "Tell you what," he said as he collected the money. "You come see me tomorrow morning Abel, and I'll give you the opportunity to earn it back."

  Abel Kennard got up glumly from the table and turned and went out. Then Beaseley turned his attention to me.

  "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, ma'am?" he drawled.

  "I'm looking for Robert Beaseley," I said. "You appear to meet the description I was given."

  "Well, little darlin'," he replied. "Your search is over. You have found me at last."

  "You're Robert Beaseley then?" I asked, reaching into my bag for a pair of wrist irons.

  "I am," he said. "And please, call me Bob."

  "Well I'm Sandy Locke," I said, "and I've been hired by Morgan Allen to bring you back to Dodge City."

  "Really?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised. "Why would old Morg Allen be interested in seeing me? He seemed perfectly content to see me go a few months ago."

  "He says you ravished his daughter," I answered uneasily. Something about this conversation didn't feel right. Beaseley couldn't possibly be that stupid. He had to know why Morg Allen would have hired me.

  "Does he now?" Beaseley said. "Well, as I recall, his daughter Annie wasn't the sort one really 'ravished,' if you take my meaning. You usually just had to ask to get what you wanted from her." He leered at me as he said this, and I wanted to shoot him right then and there. After all, Morg Allen didn't specify if he wanted the man dead or alive.

  "Regardless," I said, "he believes that you left her with a little something extra for her trouble, and he wants recompense."

  "I'm sorry, but no," Beaseley responded.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I'm not in the habit of paying dowries on young girls whose fathers can't teach them to behave better than hussies."

  I'd heard enough at this point. This man was arrogant and rude, and I'd had enough of it. I drew my Colt and leveled it right at his eyes.

  "You're coming with me, Mr. Beaseley, whether you like it or not," I said.

  I suddenly became aware that the music had stopped. Everyone in the place had turned to see what was happening. All eyes were upon me and the mysterious Mr. Beaseley.

  "Oh, very well," he said at last. "But let's wait until tomorrow. It's getting late and the Kansas Plains are not a safe place to journey"

  "Now," I said flatly. I wasn't in the mood to trifle with this dandy.

  Beaseley looked me dead in the eyes, and I felt strange sensations seep through my body. I found my muscles relaxing just a little. I found myself becoming a little less angry It was all very strange.

  "Tell you what, Miss Locke," he said. "You seem like a sporting woman. Why don't we play a quick hand of poker? If you win, I'll go quietly as you say. But if I win, we spend the night here in Flatbush before journeying back to Dodge in the morning. What do you say?"

  This was obviously a trap. I'd been in this business long enough to know that you didn't cut deals with the quarry. They were always up to something. Also, Beaseley made his living playing cards. I didn't for one minute believe he would play fairly with his freedom on the line.

  And yet, I found myself sitting down at the table with him. Something was drawing me to this particular confrontation with him. I would set my own terms, but I wanted to beat him at his own game.

  As I look back on it, it was probably too late at that point. I'd ridden into town with my guard down. The strange Mr. Beaseley had found all the weak spots and exploited them before I even knew they were under attack, and he had done it so well that I didn't realize what was happening.

  "Fine," I heard myself say, "but I'll deal."

  "Just as you wish," Beaseley said and turned over the cards to me.

  I made sure I shuffled them thoroughly. A card shark once told me you needed to shuffle a deck of cards a minimum of seven times to achieve a completely random assortment. I shuffled them fifteen times just to make doubly sure. Then I dealt out five cards to each of us.

  If I'd been thinking, I'd have played stud poker. It would have made it far harder for him to cheat. But as I said, that strange sensation had broken over me, and I was feeling confident.

  I looked at my cards a
nd discovered that I had two queens, an eight, a five, and an ace. Not a bad start. Beaseley asked for two cards. I dealt them to him and collected his discards.

  Then I had to make a decision. I could have cast away all three single cards to increase the odds of getting more queens, but something told me to hold on to that ace. So I ditched the eight and the five, kept the ace and the queens, and drew two more cards.

  The gamble paid off. I drew two more aces. I was looking at a full house. I smiled broadly at Beaseley and laid my cards on the table.

  "That'll be hard to beat, Mr. Beaseley," I said triumphantly.

  "Oh, not too terribly hard, my dear," he said and put his cards down.

  My eyes widened when I saw that he was holding three queens. He'd cheated. And he'd cheated badly since my two queens were showing as well. But then something made me nervous. He was leering at me again.

  Instinctively, I looked at my cards. Involuntarily, I gasped. I wasn't looking at a full house of aces and queens. I had the two black aces, the two black eight's, and the jack of diamonds: a Dead Man's Hand.

  "How did-" I began.

  "Ooh, bad luck, my dear," Beaseley clucked. "You should be more careful with the cards you draw."

  I wanted to jump up and accuse him right then and there of cheating. But I wasn't certain how he'd done it, and it was bad form to accuse a man of cheating without proof, even if you were arresting him.

  It also occurred to me that Beaseley wasn't going to be as easy to bring back as I had originally thought. This extra night in town would allow me to observe him more carefully so that the ride back tomorrow would be less troublesome. At least, that's what I told myself to calm the feeling of uneasiness that was rising up inside me.

  I had dinner with Beaseley that night. I wasn't about to let him out of my sight. I was certain he was playing for any chance to escape, and for that reason, I was determined to make sure he didn't get it.

  He engaged me in conversation after our food arrived. He wanted to know all about me, where I'd come from, why I'd chosen to be a bounty hunter, and what my parents were like. It was very unusual. I'd never had a bounty take any interest in me before. Usually, they were content to try to kill me and to curse my name when I turned them in. Beyond that, they didn't try to interact.

  But Beaseley was interested. He was a fine conversationalist who was clearly very skilled at keeping people talking. He knew just what to say and when to say it to keep the conversation going. Since I don't often get to converse with anyone on a meaningful level, I found myself wanting to talk. Over the course of the conversation, I found myself becoming further disarmed. It was clear to see how he had charmed Annie Allen right out of her bustle.

  I told him about Mama. She'd always wanted to be a debutante, but she didn't come from a fine enough background. She married my pa thinking that he would work hard enough that she would eventually be able to get all the things she wanted. Well, he worked hard enough, alright, but not in the way she wanted him to. He packed her up and moved her from the East Coast to Joplin, Missouri.

  Sometime after that, I was born and ripped away from the social life she had always desired. My mama set about trying to raise me to be the debutante she had always wanted to become. But I never took to that. Dresses were stuffy and uncomfortable, and the ladies that one had to speak with had nothing of any interest to say. No, I much preferred the hard work on our ranch that my pa did. I learned to ride and handle the animals.

  Then the wealthier ranchers in the area got greedy. My pa had good land and decent cattle. He died when they came to try to take it from him. They killed him, stole his land, and butchered his steers. Mama decided to go back east, but I was old enough to make my own decisions by then, and I decided to stay. I taught myself to shoot, and when I felt ready, I went after the man who had killed my pa.

  When it turned out that he had the local judge in his back pocket, I had to resort to more difficult means. Suffice it to say that I became quite the thorn in his side. I managed to get him angry in town once, and he was foolish enough to draw on me. I shot him down then and there. Got acquitted on self-defense. Justice was served.

  All this and more I told to Bob Beaseley. He listened attentively to me. He even seemed interested. More interested than any man had been before in anything I had to say. Truth to tell, it was good to talk about it. Everyone should tell their story to someone.

  After dinner, I asked him why there was so much activity here in Flatbush. He seemed confused by my question, as though he didn't understand what I was asking.

  "I mean," I said, "that these people should have fields to tend. They're farmers aren't they? Who's tending the crops if they're not?"

  "Who cares?" Beaseley said.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, flabbergasted. Beaseley just laughed, though.

  "My dear, Miss Locke," he said, "I mean, who cares who's tending the crops? It's not really my business or yours, is it?"

  "Well, no," I said. "It just seems awfully unusual."

  "Too many people concern themselves with what is and isn't unusual," Beaseley said. "I'm more concerned with how things feel."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," he continued, "that I'm interested in here and now. For instance, isn't it a lovely night for a walk? I'd love to do that right now with you. And I'm not concerned if the weather is unusually warm for this time of the year. Do you see what I mean?"

  I had to confess that I did. Bob Beaseley was making a great deal of sense. It all seemed very natural. I was almost completely in his power at that point. I was in so deeply that I couldn't even hear the warning bells going off in my head anymore.

  "So how about that walk?" he asked.

  "I don't know, Mr. Beaseley," I said trying to remain cautious. "This sounds like an excuse for you to try to escape."

  "My dear Miss Locke," he said with mock pain. "What kind of man do you take me for?"

  "I think you're a scoundrel," I said quickly, but the accusation had no conviction to it.

  "Perhaps you like scoundrels," he replied. "You don't like the high-collared, stiff-necked life of society. You much prefer a rogue, a man whom you can't entirely trust."

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "Why don't we find out?" he asked. "How about that walk?"

  I could scarcely believe it, but I heard myself tell him "yes." Nervous that he would try to escape, but throwing caution to the wind, I allowed him to lead me out into the night air.

  There was a great deal of activity on the streets of Flatbush. The saloon was livelier than when I first came, and many women had come into town for the evening. There was a great deal of carousing which I thought was highly unusual for a quiet farming community. I remarked so to Mr. Beaseley.

  "They have just found a better way, my dear," he said.

  "Better way?"

  "They have learned to accept that the now is more important than rules and regulations. They have come to celebrate life."

  My head began screaming at me that there was something horribly wrong here. Beaseley had a smug look on his face that made me extremely nervous. He was up to something. I could sense it.

  But the more I tried to think about this, the more tired I became. It had been a long day filled with confusing events, and I found it beginning to wear on me. I wanted to sleep. At the very least I wanted to lie down and relax as I tried to sort this little mystery through.

  Beaseley slipped his arm in mine and began casually directing me towards the hotel. My body followed him willingly, but a part of my brain was yelling at me. It was as though I was asleep and my better judgment was trying to get me to wake up.

  "You look tired, my dear," Beaseley soothed. "Let's get you back to the hotel."

  ***

  At the door to his room, Beaseley stopped. He turned to me with a roguish grin.

  "Until the morning then," he said, tipping his hat.

  "Wrong," I told him. "You're not getting out of my sight until I've handed y
ou over to Morg Allen."

  Beaseley put a look of mock shame upon his face. Then he leered at me. "But, my dear Miss Locke," he said, "it would be unseemly for you to accompany me into my chambers."

  "Just unlock the door, Mr. Beaseley," I said flatly. "And can the charade. I don't care what anyone thinks, so long as I get my five hundred dollars from Morg Allen tomorrow."

  "As you wish," he said as though he were relenting on some serious issue. He put the key in the door to the hotel room, turned it in the lock, and then threw it open. "My humble chamber."

  Humble indeed. He had rented some sort of suite. The "chamber" had three separate rooms, the largest of which was the bedroom. It had a magnificent four poster canopy bed in it. There were several Persian rugs, fine paintings on the wall, fine oak furniture. The place looked like the Ritz. It occurred to me that this was pretty lavish for a small farming town out in the middle of nowhere.

  I stepped in behind Beaseley and shut the door behind me. He tossed his hat casually onto the desk and turned to me.

  "Can I offer you a drink, madam?" he asked.

  "No thank you," I replied. "I don't drink when I'm watching a prisoner."

  "Oh, I see," he said. "So now I'm a prisoner."

  "You always were, Mr. Beaseley," I said. "We may have had dinner, but we are not friends. This is a business transaction. I bring you back to Dodge. I collect five hundred dollars. Simple and straightforward."

  "Five hundred dollars?" he asked. "Is that all Morg Allen is paying you? I'll double it."

  I've heard this sort of thing before. When the prey gets desperate, he usually tries to buy me off for more than the bounty is worth. It's not a bad strategy when you consider the only good reason for becoming a bounty hunter is greed. It's a lousy business overall.

  But I've learned-and so has any good bounty hunter that's survived out here in the Weird West for any amount of time-that such promises are often airy and made without any conviction. "Let me go, and I'll tell you where the treasure is buried," they often say. Or "I just have to get back to Deadwood where my money is stashed, and I can pay you." It never works out that way. They wait for you to lower your guard, and then they blow you away.