Dead Man's Hand

by Pati Nagle

  Finally the vehicle slowed as they reached the bottom of the valley, and rolled to a halt next to a large red sign labeled “STOP” in white letters. Stage stop, James wondered? There didn’t seem to be a station or even a shed. The stage hadn’t even come to Deadwood in his day, but it looked like the place had grown a considerable lot since then.

  A light started blinking on the front wall and the car started moving again, turning right onto a larger road, more of an avenue. There were buildings here, houses and such with big, fine lawns out in front. Deadwood had proved its promise, it seemed. Lot of folks must have made a fortune in gold to afford such nice houses as these. Some of them looked to belong in a big city, like Chicago or New York.

  Chicago. That would be a good place to head for, he decided. If he could make enough to buy a horse he could ride there, then sell the horse and get a railroad ticket to Cincinnati, to look for Agnes. He frowned, wondering if maybe the stage would be cheaper, only he didn’t know if the stage came to Deadwood. There had been that stop, but it didn’t look like it was in use.

  The sheriff made a couple more turns, and though James continued to cling to the wire screen, their pace was not so fast any more. They passed more houses—street after street of them. He was amazed, and a little frightened, at what Deadwood had become. It looked to be a city now, a full-blown, fancy city!

  There were lights shining everywhere, brightening up the place like daylight, brighter than the gas lamps he’d seen in the cities. Some of them were brilliant colors and others flashed on and off. At a crossroads a bright red light was hung out over the street on a wire. The sheriff stopped the car there, giving James a chance to admire all the lights around and the buildings.

  Another “car” came hurtling toward them and James flinched, but the sheriff drove on without even acknowledging the other vehicle or slowing down at all. It passed in a blur of bright lights and a glimpse of red, with a whoosh that reminded James of the sounds he’d heard from up on the hill. He swallowed, trying to get his heart to go back down into his chest where it belonged.

  At last the sheriff turned the car into a small field painted with stripes. He rolled the vehicle to a stop between two of the stripes, then pushed his lever forward and did some other things with the controls. The purring of the car stopped, and with it the vibration that James had scarcely noticed but had become accustomed to. It was suddenly dead quiet.

  The sheriff got out, bringing James’s guns with him, opened the door beside James, and gestured for him to get down. The drive had shaken James up some and he had to steady himself against the car. The sheriff gave him a suspicious frown.

  “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward a building nearby. “Gunslingers first.”

  Bright lights illuminated the building and shone out through its windows. James would have liked to look it over but the sheriff behind him was impatient, so he went up to the front doors, figured out which part of them were the handles and pulled one open.

  Inside, the place was warm and lit up bright as day, with some kind of hanging lamps that put out more light than anything he’d ever seen. He gave up trying to figure them out, or where the heat was coming from since he didn’t see a fireplace anywhere. It was magic, pure and simple.

  “In there,” the sheriff said, gesturing to a hallway as he shed his featherbed coat. Beneath it he wore a tan shirt and trousers, the shirt decorated with a couple of badges.

  Another fellow in a similar tan shirt looked up from a desk as they passed. The sheriff exchanged a couple of words with him, and he shot a grin at James, then went back to writing on some papers on the desk.

  The sheriff took James into a room with whitewashed walls bare of any paper or even pictures, and made him blow some air into a piece of arcane apparatus that he couldn’t begin to fathom. He consigned that to magic as well. It was a handy way to think of the things he didn’t understand.

  “You’re clean,” the sheriff said, frowning at the contraption. “OK, you can go, but stay out of trouble.”

  “Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” James said, then stepped toward the counter where the man had set down his gun belt.

  “Whoa, hold on there, I didn’t say you could take that.”

  James looked him in the face, biting down on his own impatience. “It is my property, sir, and I need it.”

  The sheriff gave him a measuring stare. “Yeah, I suppose you do, for the show.”

  The sheriff pulled one of the pistols from its holster and opened the cylinder. He took out a round and looked at it, then whistled through his teeth.

  “Man, these are antiques! Where’d you get these?”

  “Had ‘em a while.”

  The sheriff gave him a skeptical glance, then took the rest of the cartridges out of both guns. James clenched his teeth on his growing anger as the sheriff swept the cartridges into a pile.

  “I’ll have to keep these. You can take the guns. Don’t get into any trouble with them, all right?”

  “No, sir,” James said quietly, accepting the gun belt. He buckled it on and felt better with the Colts back on his hips, even unloaded. He’d have to get some more cartridges once he earned some money.

  The sheriff opened the door and gestured for him to go out. James walked in silence back through the building to the front doors, with the sheriff following him. He pulled the door open and winced at the sudden cold.

  “Stay out of trouble, now,” said the sheriff.

  James gave him a measured look, then a single nod. Bracing himself, he stepped out into the chilly night.

  He walked over to the field where the sheriff’s car sat silent and dark. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t ever have to drive one of those things. It might be that he’d have to go east in one, but he’d much prefer traveling by rail.

  If they still had railways. He shivered, glanced back at the jailhouse, then stepped out into the street.

  He had no idea where he was. This didn’t look anything like the Deadwood he remembered. Deciding to head for where the most light and sound was, he walked across the street and headed toward some tall buildings.

  The street had boardwalks of a kind on both sides, though they weren’t covered. They weren’t made of boards, either, but of some hard, gray mortar, all sculpted to a perfectly even surface. James followed one to a crossroads where there was another set of the hanging red and green lights. A fellow in a ten-gallon hat was standing at the corner with a young woman whose short skirt—higher than her knees—proclaimed her to be a soiled dove. Both of them wore puffy featherbed coats, and both grinned at James as he joined them.

  “Yee-haw, pardner!” said the man.

  James touched the brim of his hat. “Evening,” he said.

  “Great getup!” said the soiled dove, and gave him a saucy smile.

  James smiled back. For all the differences, it looked like Deadwood was still his kind of town.

  “C’mon, change!” said the man, looking at the lights across the way.

  There were more of these than James had been able to notice from the sheriff’s car. Now that he had the time, he saw that all four corners of the crossroads had lampposts with glowing light pictures on them. People here and now sure liked to decorate the right-of-ways.

  As he was admiring an orange picture of a hand—fortune teller’s shop sign, perhaps?—it went out and a different picture came on, a stick-figure of a man leaning forward in glowing blue-white light. The fellow and the soiled dove started across the street. James followed them.

  The man turned his head to address James. “Going to Saloon Number Ten?”

  James tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Might look in there.”

  “You in the show?”

  “Not tonight.”

  The fellow looked disappointed. The soiled dove whispered something in his ear, then giggled and shot James a coy look.

  James thought about whether he might try to take her away from the other fellow, but he had the severe dis
advantage of empty pockets. She looked like a choice piece, so she wouldn’t be cheap. Maybe at the saloon he’d find a woman who was a little older, a little more inclined to be sympathetic with a fellow who was down on his luck.

  Maybe he could get into a game and make some money that way. He’d have to find someone who’d give him a stake.

  The thought of a card game sent a queer sort of shiver down his spine. He loved to play, loved nothing more in this world than a good game of bluff poker, but the last time he’d sat down at a card table in the No. 10 Saloon he hadn’t been so lucky.

  He’d just keep his back to the wall, that’s all. He’d never make that mistake again. To hell with courtesy, and to hell with the game if the other players wouldn’t give him the seat he wanted.

  A car whooshed by in the street beside them, startling James so fierce he jumped. He stared after it, fascinated by the long, low shape of it and the red lights hanging on the back, like the lanterns on a caboose. The fellow with his gal kept on walking, and they went around a corner just as James glanced up at them. He hurried after them, noting a street sign that announced he had arrived at Main Street.

  Turning the corner, he was astonished. There was light and color everywhere, even more than on the other streets. Music blared out of doorways that stood open despite the cold—strange, loud music with a fast, thumping beat. There were cars, big and small and painted every color of the rainbow, lining the sides of the street. More cars were driving back and forth, and crowds of people walked along the boardwalks.

  The women amazed him more than anything. Not a one of them was properly dressed. Those in skirts wore them indecently short, and the rest wore trousers, like crazy old Calamity Jane. Most had painted their faces with licentious abandon. He saw several women wearing black leather jackets decorated with strange silver studs, usually over denim trousers. Quite a few of the men wore these as well.

  The fellow and his soiled dove had vanished into the crowd. James stood on the corner staring down Main Street, trying to fit what he was looking at into his memory of Deadwood. The way the street lay looked about right, but everything else was changed. All the buildings were taller, all lit up so bright. Some ghost of the rowdy mining town he’d known might still be here, but it was only a ghost.

  He looked up toward the hillside, but the bright lights in town kept him from seeing the shape of it. If he guessed right he was facing northeast, which meant the No. 10 Saloon would be on the right up ahead. He started walking, looking all around in the hope of seeing something familiar.

  There were gaming establishments and restaurants, hotels, shops, and signs advertising tours. He reached another street and started across it when a blaring airhorn and a familiar screeching sound made him jump back onto the boardwalk.

  A large red car had stopped in front of him. The driver yelled obscenities out of his open window, then drove on. James started after the car, his heart pounding.

  “Better wait for the light to cross, dude,” said someone near him in a laconic voice. “Traffic is crazy in this town.”

  James turned and saw a sleepy-eyed young man in a black duster and denim trousers that were much too large for him. The fellow was regarding him with a lazy stare that brought his instincts alert.

  James kept a wary eye on him, his hands twitching near his guns despite their useless condition. He wished the sheriff had left him even one round.

  He watched the people around him, and when a group of them started across the street together he followed. Cars had stopped to let them cross. He didn’t bother puzzling why. He just wanted to get to the saloon.

  On the corner was a tall building with a lighted green sign. He walked past it and stopped in front of the next building.

  The sign called it Saloon No. 10, and it was in about the right situation, but it didn’t look at all as he remembered. The No. 10 had been a ramshackle wooden shack. This place was brick, with a lot of signs loudly proclaiming it to be the place where he’d been killed, which he thought a might tactless.

  WILD BILL HICKOK MURDERED BY JACK MCCALL - 1, 3, 5, 7, 9

  It was pleasing to be remembered, but a little disconcerting to find that one’s most memorable act had been dying. He frowned as he gazed at the sign. Those numbers made a pretty useless poker hand, if that was what they were supposed to be. No pair, only an ace. He’d won on less, but not often.

  He went in, glad to get out of the cold. Like the jailhouse, the saloon was lit up brighter than day. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and lights with glass chimneys on the walls all burned with a steady, unnatural whiteness.

  The saloon was crowded, rowdy with laughter and the music of a piano hidden somewhere he couldn’t see, sounded like it was right overhead. James made his way deeper in and paused beside a glass case holding an old chair. A neatly lettered sign identified it as the chair he had been sitting in when he’d died. He stared at it, trying to remember. Hadn’t really noticed the chair, except that it was in the wrong place.

  Another case on the wall displayed the nine of diamonds, with a sign labeled “Dead Man’s Hand” in large letters, claiming the nine was the kicker card in the hand he’d been holding when he was shot. That he did remember—he’d had aces and eights, and the kicker was the queen of hearts. He chuckled, pleased to find that showmen were still the same blustering liars they had ever been.

  He really ought to find out what year it was. He looked at the walls, where there were a lot of other things on display including every photograph ever taken of him, or so it seemed. There were no calendars, however.

  He turned his attention to the bar instead, wondering if the barkeep, a weasely looking fellow in a vest and string tie, would be sympathetic. The bar was new and different, a long, massive thing of highly polished wood, and there was a poker game going on at a table nearby.

  A chill went through James as he looked at the table. The men sitting there were dressed more normally, in buckskins or frock coats. And wearing guns, he noticed. In noticing that, he realized that none of the other patrons wore guns. The sheriff had worn one, a strange little black snub-nosed item, but no one else in the town seemed to carry a weapon.

  One of the players glanced up at him and got a queer look on his face, then went back to the game. A few other people were standing about dressed in familiar styles, including a couple of soiled doves who by comparison with the rest of the women looked positively prim. These all seemed to be watching the game.

  In fact, pretty much everyone in the place was watching the game. There must be some high stakes on the table.

  James drew a little closer to get a better look. Across the table from him another fellow drew closer, too. Maybe it was that the other fellow happened to be coming from the direction of the door, or maybe it was the look in his eye, but James suddenly felt a dread warning in his bones. He opened his mouth to call out even as the man was reaching for his gun, then the pistol fired and all hell broke loose.

  James’s gun was in his hand. People had screamed at the shot, and now, strangely, some were laughing.

  A man at the table collapsed forward. The fellow who’d fired ran out of the saloon, and the other players got up and chased him. No one bothered with the man who’d been shot. James holstered his gun and hurried to his side.

  The man was wearing buckskins, a big hat, and a string tie to his starched white shirt. James knelt by him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Where’re you hit?”

  The man opened his eyes and gave him a startled glance, then moaned loudly and collapsed again. Someone grabbed at James, shoving him aside.

  It was the barkeep, who shot James a dirty glance, then turned to the man sprawled on the floor. After a cursory examination, he stood up and pronounced, “He’s dead! Wild Bill is dead!”

  The soiled doves let out a chorus of “Oh, no!” and commenced to making weepy noises. James stepped back, cold realization pouring through his limbs.

  The “dead” man had spill
ed his cards artfully across the floor. Aces and eights, nine of diamonds.

  Everyone else in the place started applauding. James felt queasy. He swept the room with his gaze, saw smiling faces, nodding at him. They thought he was part of this macabre farce.

  He needed a drink. Shoved his way to the bar, then remembered he didn’t have any money.

  Behind the bar a young woman stood grinning at him. She was dressed like the soiled doves. Her face was painted like a harlot’s, but she didn’t inspire any lust in him, not at the moment.

  “That was an interesting little ad-lib,” she said. “You had Marty scared for a minute.”

  She nodded toward the card table. James glanced that way and saw the barkeep and the two soiled doves carrying the “dead” man away. The crowd had gone to chattering and laughing, and a lot of them were leaving the saloon. The show was over.

  “Like your outfit,” the gal added. “What can I get you?”

  “I don’t have any money, ma’am, but I sure could use a glass of whiskey.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “All right.”

  James watched her reach behind her to a row of bottles and pour a small glass of golden liquor. She put a little square of tissue paper in front of him and set the glass on it.

  “On me. You deserve something for spicing up the show.”

  “I thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  James lifted the glass and admired the whiskey’s clear golden color. None of the rot-gut that Nutter and Hall had poured in shameless libel of the name of whiskey. This looked to be first-rate stuff. He smelled it, took a sip, and then drained the glass, setting it down on the bar with a sigh as it burned down his throat and lit a fire in his belly.

  “Ambrosia,” he said, nodding to the gal pouring drinks. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Just don’t expect a free drink every night.”

  “Every night?”

  James glanced at the card table, which another gal was clearing, taking away the cards, empty glasses, even the coins the players had been betting. He looked at the woman behind the bar again. She was filling glasses of beer from a tap mounted right there on the bar.