Dead Man’s Hand

by John Joseph Adams

  My fans get a little cocky, knowing their guy is always gonna be the winner, knowing that in just a second, I’m going to wipe the smug grin off of the stranger’s face. Knowing, but not knowing anything. Just knowing their guy is going to win.

  And that feels good. I’m not going to lie: it is nice to be loved.

  * * *

  But the feeling doesn’t last long.

  I win. But I don’t feel good about it. Now they’re coming with faster guns, bigger guns. People want me to close my eyes. People are placing bets. It’s not fun, and it’s not fair, and I don’t feel good. This is murder, what I’m doing, even if it looks like self-defense. But what am I supposed to do, turn down the gunfights? Turn my back on my town, my fans? Live looking over my shoulder? Wait until someone catches me in a bathtub, or asleep in my bed?

  I try to shoot some of them in the hand. I’m a good shot, but I’m not that good a shot, and some of them die anyway. And the ones who live through it are madder than hell and demand we go again as soon as their hand heals.

  And before long, the town turns, too. They’ve gone beyond asking for protection. They developed a thirst for it, for the sport of it. Boys line up, imitate my style. The women, now freed from their abusive husbands, look at me different. I get dirty propositions. Sometimes more than that.

  Some of the men who were my fans now sneer at me. I walk into the saloon, and the music stops. People look at me, whisper. Made a deal with the devil. Some kind of witch. Saw him going into an Injun tent and come out without a soul.

  Now the kills are piling up. There are hardly any gunfighters left to come challenge me.

  I walk through town now, alone again. I go back to working at the store. People pretend none of it ever happened. Pretend I didn’t save their asses. People forget quickly.

  I almost forget myself. Almost.

  * * *

  And then comes the day. This day.

  It starts early, with the moon looking out of place, and rain falling from a cloud, there must be a cloud, but it’s nowhere to be found. Maybe up high and thin, a very diffuse cloud, but whatever it is, there’s water cleaning our roofs, there’s a half moon in the morning sky.

  The stranger who rides in today is different. He doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight. At least not in the way the other ones all have.

  And I’m minding the store, selling picks and shovels. Selling dreams and tools. Selling snake oil and stories from my ledger. Keeping the books, feeling the judgment, hearing the thoughts.

  The stranger—and this one is a she—she is just out there, on her horse. Not bothering anyone. Not looking for me. I’m not even sure why she’s here. It’s been so long since we’ve had a sincere visitor that I almost don’t know what to do.

  So the two of us are in agreement: no fight. I feel sure she feels the same, although it’s not quite yet clear why.

  And then I hear it: the town, goading us on. It’s the town who does this, who pushes us together for their amusement.

  They push us together, me and this mysterious woman.

  We are forty paces from each other. The sun seems to have gone into hiding (maybe behind the invisible cloud). But for whatever reason, everything seems wrong again. Like against Deke, but more intense.

  I look over at Ratface.

  Come on. You gotta be my help, back me up.

  This is your battle, he says. I’m here to help.

  It takes a second for it to occur to me what has just happened.

  Oh, that’s what happened. Ratface never opened his mouth while saying any of that to me.

  —You too, I say?

  —Yeah.

  —And you’ve known all along. You’ve just left me out here, to kill all these poor…

  —Hold it right there. Those men came looking for you. They asked for your best, and they got it.

  —But you could have at least told me. Helped me puzzle through this.

  —That’s all part of your learning. Your training, if you will.

  —My training? I’ve killed half a hundred gunslingers.

  —Those men had it coming. You did the world a favor by taking them from it. Gunslingers don’t seek each other out like that. They respect each other. Generally. Like me giving you space. To work it out. Those men weren’t real gunslingers.

  —If they weren’t, then who is?

  —She is, Ratface says, pointing to the woman forty paces from me.

  The town’s whooping and hollering for a fight now. So loud I can barely hear when this stranger puts her lips right up to my mind and says, Welcome to the club, buddy. You thought you were the only one?

  Ratface says, There’s a lot of evil out there, outside of our safe little town, outside of your organized little general store. Welcome to the new world—you ready for it?

  I look back at my opponent, and square off. I don’t do the staring thing, and neither does she. We’re both silent, on the outside, and the inside. I wonder how many others there are like us out there, wonder why a quiet little bookkeeper. But then I think, why not me? People think it’s your hand, that’s what makes you a gunslinger. Or it’s your eyesight, your reflexes. And sure, it is. It’s about who can do the stare-down, about people who don’t flinch. But it’s also about this, right here. This little moment, in between moments. When you and the other person are just waiting. It’s about a moment, knowing what a moment is. It’s about picking the right moment. Knowing that a moment is a coin, you flip it, on one side is death. The other side: life. For one more day. For one more moment.

  HOLY JINGLE

  A MAD AMOS MALONE TALE

  ALAN DEAN FOSTER

  Carson City, Nevada Territory, 1863

  San Francisco was beautiful in the spring, Malone reflected, as he and his horse Worthless ambled toward town. Unfortunately, the town was Carson City, Nevada. Wild, seductive San Francisco still lay many days ride to the west, over the imposing crest of the Sierra Nevada. Malone didn’t brood over the time required, however. He would get there soon enough. He always got there, wherever there happened to be.

  Heading down the last bit of forested hill into the city proper, they were closely watched by a pack of gray wolves. Lying in wait for something small, opportune, and filling, the wolves instead glimpsed Malone and Worthless and, so glimpsing, held their peace. Wolves were intelligent critters, and this pack no less so than the average. Or maybe it was the wolf’s head cap that Malone wore that caused them to shy off, or the fact that the cap turned to look at them with glowing eyes. Instead of the howls of outrage that might have been expected to resound from the pack upon encountering such a sight, there arose from the cluster of close-packed predators little more than a few intimidated whimpers. Also, one or two peed themselves.

  It had to be admitted that there wasn’t much there to Carson City, but its civilized surrounds were a considerable improvement on the vast desert wilderness Malone had just crossed. He was tired and thirsty and hungry and thirsty and sleepy and thirsty. Leaning forward, he gave his mount an encouraging pat on the side of its massive neck.

  “Oats a’comin, Worthless. Oats and a soft straw bed. Enough o’ the former so’s you won’t be tempted to eat the latter, like you did that time in St. Louis.”

  As the steed of impressive size and indecipherable breed turned its head to look back at Malone, the mountain man noted that the leather strap across the animal’s snout was bulging again. Have to attend to that, he told himself. Wouldn’t do to get the locals gossipin’.

  Room and stable stall arranged, Malone repaired to the bar in the front of the hotel, sequestering his odiferous enormity at the dimly lit far end of the counter so as not to unduly panic the other patrons. The husky mustachioed bartender with the wide impressionist apron waited upon him with good cheer, which the mountain man downed steadily and in copious quantities.

  That was where Hank Monk found him. The stagecoach driver noted the impressive number of empty bottles arrayed like so many tenpins on the wo
oden bar in front of the slumped-over giant, carefully appraised the looming imbiber’s degree of sobriety, and determined to embark on the potentially risky business of conversation. While the whip was somewhat smaller than the average man and Malone a bit larger than the average bear, the driver was possessed of the surety of someone who made his living guiding rickety, rattling coaches pell-mell down ungraded mountainsides. He was cautious but not intimidated as he cleared his throat.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Amos Malone?”

  Thundercloud brows drew together and eyes like mouths of Dahlgren cannons swiveled ’round to regard the supplicant. “Don’t know as how many folks regard it as a pleasure, but unless there be another hereabouts sportin’ the same name plate, I’m him.”

  Monk smiled politely. “I have heard it tell that you are a bit mad.” The man seemed fully prepared to chuckle or bolt for the front door, depending on the response.

  The giant shrugged, the action jostling his expansive salt and pepper beard. “So have I.”

  “But not to your face.” Monk stroked his own, far more neatly trimmed, beard. “It would take a brave man to say that.”

  “More usual-like they’re addled. I ignore all that they say. Actually, the entire species is crazy. Mr. Darwin failed to note that observation in his book. I called him on it but have yet to receive the courtesy of a reply.”

  This response, like the name Darwin, held no especial meaning to the stage driver, so Monk continued with his petition. “I would beg your assistance in a small matter of considerable urgency, Mr. Malone.”

  Turning away, the mountain man picked up a bottle with a particularly garish label rich with Spanish words of false promise, and proceeded to down the remaining quarter liter. This explained, Monk now understood, the absence of glasses on the bar.

  “I don’t much cotton to beggin’.”

  Monk pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well then, I’ll pay you.”

  Malone set down the empty bottle. “Better.”

  “I’m presently a bit low on ready cash.” Monk dug into a vest pocket. “But I’ll give you this.”

  Intrigued, Malone turned sideways and leaned forward to inspect the pocket watch. It was beautifully engraved and chased with raised images of horses and a coach. “A fine example o’ the timekeeper’s art, Mr. Monk. Real gold, too.”

  Monk looked proud. “Was given to me by Mr. Horace Greeley of New York, for getting him on time to a meeting in Placerville everyone said he couldn’t make. I’ll give it to you in return for your help.” He nodded at the timepiece. “Worth five or six hundred dollars, I’m told.”

  Malone examined the watch a moment longer before handing it back. “I reckon you’ve used that watch as collateral in more than one dealing, Mr. Monk, and I expect there’ll come a time you’ll need it again. What need is so desperate, then, that you’d be willin’ to hand it over to a stranger like myself with no guarantee o’ receiving its worth in return?”

  “I’ve a shipment to deliver to California and gold to bring back. The only man in either state who I trust to ride shotgun messenger on such a trip is John Barrel. He has been rendered indisposed by an affliction for which I am unable to find a cure. From what I’ve heard whispered and rumored, Amos Malone might be the one man with the wherewithal to bring him back to his duties.”

  “I see.” Half-hidden beneath the lower lip of the wolf’s head cap, furrows appeared in the granitic prominence of the mountain man’s forehead. “And would there be a name for the nature o’ this affliction?”

  Monk nodded curtly. “Love. Or more properly in this instance, infatuation. One so fast and unbreakable that poor John appears unable to move from the proximity of the woman who has caught him fast.” The driver’s expression darkened. “A woman of the East, no less.”

  “New York?” Malone mused aloud. “Chicago? Dare I say Boston?”

  Monk shook his head sharply. “Were that it were so, Mr. Malone, were that it were so. The east to which I refer is at once less and more civilized than those fine upstanding American cities. There are over a thousand Chinee in Carson City, sir, and this woman is of that country that supplies to us both labor and mystery. She has enchanted my friend, Mr. Malone. Bewitched him from the blond curls of his young forehead to the accumulated fungus between his toes. No argument, no logic, no reason or threat or promise of wealth has proven sufficient to bestir him from her quarters. I am not the only one who finds it more than passing strange. If there is not more to this than the straightforward draw of the loins, sir, I’ll gnaw the hindquarters off a northbound polecat!”

  Malone considered. “If your need be so urgent, and the attraction so unambiguous, why not go with a few armed companions and drag him out by the heels?”

  “I thought to do just that, sir, but this woman has friends and a respected employer. Somehow, she commands others with words as well as with movement, to the point that those who might help find themselves dissuaded in her company and depart her presence wondering what became of their senses. I have felt a touch of it myself. The sensation is akin to drunkenness, but without the vomiting. Also, it smells strongly of jasmine.”

  The mountain man sighed and turned back to his drinking. Monk looked on anxiously. As the whip teetered on the cusp of certainty that his appeal had failed, Malone turned back to him once more and rose. He had been slumping on his bar stool in a courteous attempt to somewhat mute his mass, and, now, standing, his head nearly scraped the ceiling. Conversation in the room grew quiet, as though an unearthly presence had suddenly made itself known.

  * * *

  The djinn was out of the bottle, Monk realized. Or rather, out of the bottles. There was no backing down now. It occurred to the driver only briefly to flee. He was a brave man, having in the course of his employment faced down everything from starving catamounts to desperate bandits. All these paled, however, in the shadow of the immense and ripely unwashed simian shape that now stood, swaying ever so slightly from having ingested a truly prodigious quantity of liquor, before him.

  “Let’s go and see if we kin speak some sense to your pal, Mr. Monk. I make no promises. Of all the drugs that befuddle a man’s senses, love is by far the strongest.”

  “Stronger even than, dare I say, sex?” Monk inquired as the room cleared precipitously before them.

  Malone stared solemnly down at the driver. “We have yet to ascertain under which particular affliction your friend reposes. Does he say nothing of his circumstances?”

  “I’ve not seen him in weeks, sir, and despite my most sincere efforts have succeeded in drawing no closer than the door to the rooms where he now resides. I did not see him, and could hear him shouting but one thing over and over before I was summarily ejected. ‘Holy jingle!’ he kept bawling. ‘Holy jingle!’”

  “Interesting,” declared Malone as the two men, one traveling in the umbra of the other, exited the bar. “If naught else, we can believe that whatever has inveigled him is nothing if not costly.”

  * * *

  The building to which Monk brought him in the open buckboard was one of the more substantial structures of Carson City. Several stories tall, it was fashioned of local stone and boasted fine glass windows imported from San Francisco.

  San Francisco. It called to Malone. For a scion of the mountains and the plains, he was inordinately fond of the occasional draught of salt air. Soon enough, he promised himself. Tilting back his head, he let his eyes rove the numerous windows, eventually settling on one on the topmost floor. Light from oil lamps within, the hue of soft butter, lit the rectangular opening. He nodded knowingly.

  “That one. There.”

  Mouth agape, Monk stared up at him. “Now how could you know that, Mr. Malone? You’ve never been here before.”

  Nearly buried beneath an incautious bramble of rabid, unkempt whiskers, a prodigious nose contorted. “I kin smell jasmine. And lotus essence, sandalwood, and other emollients most foreign to this part o’ the world.”


  Frowning, the driver inhaled deeply. “All I can smell is street muck and night soil.”

  Malone grinned. “I once spent some time in Paris sojournin’ with a master parfumerie and have retained a bit o’ that knowledge.” He started forward.

  Monk contemplated the swaying, rolling gait of the giant before him and tried to imagine a connection between the mountain man and the tiny crystal bottles of mostly floral scent he had occasionally seen in rooms occupied by ladies of the evening. Failing quite thoroughly in the attempt, he set the unresolved contradiction aside and followed grimly in the big man’s wake.

  Not all the way, though. He was stopped inside by the redoubtable Bigfoot Terry, the madam of the house, who was quick to inquire as to their purpose in visiting. The question was rhetorical, as her establishment dispensed one class of goods and one kind only. “The best in Nevada,” as the hefty owner was oft heard to declare. She glanced only briefly at Monk, her attention immediately drawn to his companion, her Carolina accent as thick as her thighs.

  “Ah declare, suh, you strike me as a man in need of some serious service.” Blue eyes twinkled amusedly. “The question is, can a sizeable but roughhewn bumpkin like yourself afford the finery for which my establishment is famed?”

  Malone was not looking at her, his gaze drawn instead to the wide walnut stairway that cleaved the back of the parlor as opposed to cleavage of a more neighboring but no less sturdy kind. Brushing past her without a word, he headed directly for the stairs.

  Startled by his indifference, the proprietress seemed about to summon forth the men of unpleasant mien whom she kept on retainer to cope with just such discourtesy. Monk hastened to forestall her.