The Six-Gun Tarot

by R. S. Belcher

  “I like things you can figure out, that make sense. Things that always perform the same way.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  The bell on the store’s door jingled. Both men jumped. Clay placed an oily cloth over the tank and Auggie stepped out through the curtain to greet his customer.

  It was Gillian Proctor.

  “Augustus, are you all right? You look flushed!”

  “Nein, nein, I am well, Gillian. How are you today?”

  “I didn’t sleep too well with all the stomping and shouting last night,” she said, resting her basket on the counter. “The deputy, that Jim boy, some of the other men were back and forth all night. You heard what happened?”

  “Ja, Arthur Stapleton was killed. That is horrible that such things happen in such a peaceful town. Horrible.”

  “Augustus,” the widow said, “I was hoping that I could ask a big favor of you.”

  Auggie frowned and crossed his arms.

  Gillian smiled and continued. “The church assembly asked me to help out with the food and the refreshments for the big church social on Saturday night and I … Well, I kind of volunteered you to help me.”

  “Gillian!”

  “Please,” she said, taking his forearm. “It will only be for a while and when was the last time you went to a social event, Auggie?”

  The shopkeeper stammered. He liked the feel of her hands on his arm, the playful argument. It all felt good. It wasn’t like they were courting; it was helping out the Protestant assembly and they were good customers to him. He sighed and made a big deal of it to her. Her dark eyes were shining and her cheeks were pink.

  “Please?”

  “Very well,” he said.

  Gillian hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Oh thank you, Auggie. I’ll come by tomorrow and we can plan the refreshments. And don’t think you are going to get out of giving me at least one dance Saturday night!”

  In the storeroom Clay listened to them laugh and chat casually. He slipped off the jeweler’s loupe and carefully turned one of the small cogs twice. Gerta’s eyes snapped open. They were beautiful. Just as beautiful as they had been when he had first met her all those years ago. And though he loved Auggie, and was his best and dearest friend, it was nothing compared to the fire that burned in his cold heart for Gerta.

  When Auggie had been ready to let her slip into the blackness, due to his own despair, it had been Clay who had sworn to defy the gods themselves to save her, to bring her back. For love. The only love he had ever known.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Gerta’s unseeing eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He pressed his lips to the cold glass of the tank and dreamed of the lips on the other side.

  The Seven of Pentacles

  “Poison,” Dr. Tumblety said, his florid face jutting across the table. “I’d stake my letters upon it. Stapleton was done in by some insidious yellow toxin from the inscrutable Orient.”

  “The Chinamen poisoned him?” Highfather said.

  “Scoff if you care to, Jonathan,” Tumblety said, his dark eyes blazing. “But I am a man of science and I have made an intensive study of the inferior breeds. I assure you that the substance I uncovered in that man’s blood is obviously the residue of their damn lotus plants. I mean what else could it be? It’s classic Chinese subterfuge, you see. Obviously Stapleton came upon some nefarious plan of that old coolie who runs Johnny Town—Wang, isn’t it? He was poisoned by those yellow bastards and left in that alleyway like trash.”

  Harry Pratt gave Highfather a sideways look across his desk. The sheriff and doctor were here in the mayor’s office this morning so they could both learn of the findings of Tumblety’s examination of Arthur Stapleton’s body. So far the doctor had been long on wind and short on hard facts.

  “Doc, you’re sure opium poisoning was the cause of his death?” Highfather said. “’Cause we had those two Chinamen that died a year back from that; you remember, Harry, it was right before that trouble with that giant bat thing swooping in and carrying people off?”

  “How could I forget that? We lost the best barber this town ever had.”

  “But this doesn’t seem the same. Stapleton’s teeth, his complexion, they all seemed different—they’d been injecting the stuff, but I sure didn’t find needle marks on Stapleton’s arms.”

  “That is of course because the site of injection was at the base of his neck, Jonathan,” Tumblety said. “It was beneath his collar and very fine, even for a hypodermic, almost like an insect sting.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t do that to himself,” Pratt offered. “Could he have been injected at the Celestial Palace, overdosed and then dropped in the alley?”

  “Doubt it,” Highfather said. “Huang is too clever for any of that. He only allows pipes since those two fellas died and there is no way he’d leave a dead, overdosed white businessman a few doors down from his place of business.”

  “I think you give old Mr. Charley far too much credit, Jonathan,” Tumblety said. “The yellow mind is often difficult to understand for the uneducated, but I assure you, they do not value human life as we do. I’m surprised they didn’t dispose of the deceased in a stew pot, to be honest with you.”

  “You, ah … You don’t care much for the Chinese, Doctor?” Pratt said.

  Tumblety gestured dismissively with one hand while he nonchalantly picked his nose with the other.

  “The little yellow devils can all take a slow boat back to Hell for all I care. As a man of medicine, I am simply concerned with the non-hygienic nature of them, you see. Their communities are like rat nests. Cannibalism and all manner of unnatural rites are carried on behind closed doors. They are a public health concern.”

  “Look, Doc,” Highfather said with a sigh. “I got no love in my heart for Ch’eng Huang or his hatchet boys , but there are a lot of decent folk in Johnny Town, just trying to make their way in the—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, Jonathan. Spare me your progressive claptrap. The scientific facts are clear. The white man is obviously superior to the other mongrel races—physically, mentally and morally!”

  “I think my deputy and a few other folks in this town might dispute your opinion there, Doc.”

  “It’s been proven by all the sciences, m’boy—biology, alienism, phrenology. One must simply face facts.”

  “This is all very enlightening,” Pratt said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “but getting back to one of our town’s most prominent businessmen being murdered, are you sure this was opium poisoning, Dr. Tumblety?”

  “Well, what else could it be?”

  “Were you able to positively identify this … substance as opium?”

  “No,” Tumblety said, slouching back in his chair. “It eludes chemical description in both the few experiments I could do upon it and in my texts. Since mine are the only medical books in this hamlet, I had to use my extensive training plus my own powerful gift of deduction to reach my finding.”

  “And the fact you aren’t too fond of Chinamen has nothing to do with all this,” Harry added. “Right?”

  Tumblety grew purple almost immediately. He rose from his chair, fists clenched.

  “By my oath, sir, I am outraged you would dare impugn my honor and my word as a physician!”

  Highfather stood and placed his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders.

  “Easy now, Doc, easy.”

  Tumblety shook himself loose. His whole body vibrated with rage. He jabbed a dirty finger at the mayor.

  “I stand by my assessment, Mr. Mayor. Mark my words, those celestial devils are up to skullduggery! Weak-hearted fools like you will wish you had heeded me when your throats are slit by those devils in the night!”

  He pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his jacket and slammed it down on Harry’s desk.

  “An accounting of my time and a receipt for recompense, sir. Good day to you!”

  He pushed past Highfather and slammed the doo
r on his way out.

  “Well, he certainly gets huffed in a hurry,” Harry said, examining the doctor’s bill. “He overcharges too. I’m surprised he’s never had anything pop, as red as he gets.”

  “He’s a mite ornery, I’d allow,” Highfather said. “But he’s also the closest thing we got to a doctor in these here parts. Even if he is as crazy as a rattlesnake in the sun.”

  “Whatever happened with that giant bat-thing, Jon?”

  There was a knock at the door. Harry’s secretary, Martha Poole, a tall, slender woman with a stern face and steel-gray hair worn up in a tight, no-nonsense chignon, poked her head inside

  “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Deerfield and Mr. Moore are here to see you.”

  “Thank you, please send them in.”

  They both looked the way Mutt had described them, Highfather thought. Oscar Deerfield was tall and redheaded, with buck teeth. Highfather put him at around twenty-five years old, give or take a year. Jacob Moore was older, about thirty or so. He was squat, dark and fat. His hair ran in black curls around his face.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for coming,” Harry said, meeting them at the door and glad-handing them.

  “Your Injun deputy didn’t make it out to sound like we had much choice in the matter,” Deerfield said.

  Harry chuckled. “Yes, well, he’s very enthusiastic about his job. This is Jon Highfather, our local sheriff.”

  Highfather shook their hands. The two men looked rumpled, dusty and tired. They groaned as they slid into the seats Pratt offered them.

  “I understand you gentlemen knew Arthur Stapleton,” Highfather began.

  “What is this?” Moore said. “Are we being considered as suspects in whatever went on last night?”

  “How do you know about that?” Harry asked.

  “This is a small town, Mr. Pratt,” Deerfield said. “You can’t walk from the coach station to the mayor’s office without someone blurting out the news. We know Arthur was killed last night. We heard that it was coolies that did him in.”

  “We’re looking into that,” Highfather said. “We’re looking into every possibility right now, including the possibility of a business scam that went wrong.”

  Moore looked to Deerfield and slapped a meaty hand across his own face. “This is ridiculous! Is everyone with a badge in this dammed town crazy?”

  “It helps,” Highfather said.

  “Look, Sheriff, Oscar and I were on the coach from Virginia City last night. We have four other passengers who can vouch for our whereabouts for the last day or so. Your own deputy, that shifty little half-breed of yours, practically pulled us off the stage at the station himself, and dragged us here. We didn’t kill Arthur and our transaction with him was fair and square!”

  “You won the deed to the Bick family silver mine in a game of poker,” Highfather said. “Fair and square. Right.”

  “We didn’t march him into the Virginia City magistrate’s office with a gun pointed at his head,” Deerfield said. “Everything was transferred legally. Arthur said one of his business partners, this Mr. Bick, had signed the property and several others in and around Golgotha over to him years ago.”

  Harry and Highfather exchanged glances.

  “Why?” Harry asked.

  “Well, since you can’t ask Arthur, why not ask Mr. Bick?” Deerfield said. “I honestly don’t know and care even less.”

  “You know,” Moore said, “come to think of it, he did mention something about it once, just in passing—”

  “Are we done?” Deerfield interrupted. “We have a mine to get open and you gentlemen have already delayed us long enough.”

  “Do you honestly think you’re going to pull any more silver out of that hole?” Highfather said. “That mine went bust years ago.”

  “That’s not what we’ve been told,” Moore said as he slid a small pouch out of his pocket. He opened it and several blacked, shiny pieces dropped into his wide palm. “It’s pure. Some of the purest silver the assayer in Virginia City has ever seen! Seems old Bick gave up on the place too soon!”

  Deerfield gave his partner a withering look and Moore sheepishly returned the silver ingots to their pouch and into his pocket.

  “Are we done, then?” Deerfield said again.

  “Good day to you, gentlemen, and good prospecting,” Harry said with a smile. The two businessmen left quickly and quietly.

  “I smell a hidden partner,” Harry said when the door closed. “Someone is helping them out; they didn’t just blunder into all this. Maybe Malachi has a business competitor, trying to move in on him.”

  “I can’t believe as sly as Bick is, he’d overlook any silver veins in the Argent Mine,” Highfather said. “I’ll talk to him again, but I already know I won’t get a straight answer.”

  “We still have an unsolved murder, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll tell Mutt to take Stapleton’s body over to Clay’s place. He has nearly as many medical books as Tumblety, and I think he actually reads them.”

  “Tell Mr. Turlough to be quick in his examinations, Jon. I promised the widow I’d have the body to her for a proper burial by tomorrow.”

  “Will do, Mr. Mayor.”

  Highfather paused at the door. “Harry, are you all right? You look a little worried.”

  “Jon, sit down, please.”

  The sheriff returned to his chair.

  “Did you notice anything strange last night, Jon? Feel anything—like the ground shaking?”

  Highfather shook his head and frowned.

  “Do you think it might be wise to cancel the social? Have a curfew until we find out more about who killed Arthur and why?”

  “You know something I don’t, Harry?”

  The mayor was silent.

  Highfather leaned toward his desk. “Folks in this town have to give up a lot due to the nature of this place sometimes. I know of some young couples who are supposed to announce engagements at the social. Few new babies born this winter haven’t been shown off enough. Those things are good for people, Harry, especially our people. Like sunshine cleaning out a wound. Unless you think it’s a danger to the public in general for some reason you want to inform me of…”

  Harry shrugged. “It’s nothing, Jon. Keep me informed about what you find. You’re right. People here have too much death and fear and darkness. Let’s give them some sunlight.”

  “Yessir.”

  The door closed and Harry was alone. He looked out his window and saw his father’s house up on Rose Hill. He thought about Holly up there alone, sad and drunk. Blaming herself for not being woman enough, hating him for being who he was. Holly wasn’t like his other wife, Sarah. Holly had really wanted to make a life, a family, with him. Sarah had been content to live with the Pratt name and the Pratt money and leave him the hell alone. Holly—poor, infuriating, hellcat Holly—she had been willing to fight for him, to hang on and never let go. She had only realized recently it was a fight she could never win and it was killing her. He was killing her.

  He considered riding up there and having lunch with her, like he used to do when they were first married, back before they had accumulated the scar tissue of countless recriminations. Back when they were new and soft. The potential outcome of the lunchtime scenario played out in his mind and he put the notion away. It was too late. Too late for them both.

  It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t his fault. It was just the way things played out. God’s will.

  He went back to work, taking solace in the press of the mundane and banal.

  The Empress

  “Another one of these, my good man,” Holly Pratt said, laughing. She handed the empty shot glass to the man behind the bar with the unruly whiskers and the one eye that was as milky as a fish’s belly. “In fact, one for everyone!”

  A cheer went up through the Mother Lode. The squatters and lowlifes who made up the shanty-bar’s clientele circled the drunken well-dressed lady from the town below like sharks smelling blood.

  Holly dum
ped a wad of crumpled bills onto the rough wooden bar. Milk-Eye reached for them, but Holly refused to release them.

  “All the filthy rotgut you have. All of it, all night long. For me and my new friends. Understand?”

  The bartender did the crude math in less than a second and placed a full bottle of the homemade mash on the bar with a thud. Holly relinquished the cash and held the bottle aloft like a conquering hero. The drunks and the destitute cheered again for their new champion.

  She knew it was night, but she had lost track of the time long ago. She had drunk every drop of alcohol in the mansion and had the servants hook up the carriage. Descending Rose Hill, she had seen the lights of the squatters up on Argent and it had been like a beacon to her. Up there was warmth and life and stink and dirt. People who didn’t give a damn who you were or what you did. Up there was freedom, and no self-respecting lady, let alone the mayor’s wife, would ever go up there. So she did. She found the bar easy enough and started drinking; pretty soon she had plenty of company.

  “Hey, ain’t you one a that sumbitch Pratt’s wives?” an old man who smelled of rotten eggs and whiskey had muttered to her not long after she had arrived at the Lode.

  Holly raised a glass to the old man. “I am indeed one of that son of a bitch’s three wives!” She tossed back the mash and it clawed its way down her throat and caught fire in her belly. “One of us plays the piano real sweet too! Care for a drink on Mayor Son of a Bitch, old-timer?”

  The time had become elastic. Slurred conversations with a kaleidoscope of bleary-eyed companions seemed to be the focus of the universe—all time stopped. Then some external event—an entrance, a departure—would give her insight into how long she had actually been here, been drinking, and time suddenly seemed to be galloping like a frightened mare toward dawn or oblivion. She didn’t care which one she reached first.

  Harry would be worried by now. The servants would be telling him she had left in the shay, how much she had drank. How she had carelessly thrown on a half-buttoned silk blouse and traveling skirt, which barely concealed her inexpressibles. Her hair, which began the day in a high, tight, proper bun, had continued to fall loose in golden strands as the night wore on, until now it lighted upon her shoulders in a most wanton and familiar manner.