by Eddie Jones
I stood, brushing dirt off the back of my jeans.
“But there was.”
Dad cut in. “I hate to ask the obvious, but is it possible my son is telling the truth?”
The marshal rubbed a knuckle against his chin and smiled at me. “Son, here’s what I think you saw. Tell me when I go off track. The man you say got shot, he was young, not much older than you. Slight build, blue eyes, buck-toothed smile. Wore a big square black hat with a band around the base. Yellow bandana around his neck. How am I doing?”
“That’s him! That’s the victim!”
Buckleberry turned toward my parents. “Name’s Billy the Kid. Nasty one. Hot tempered. Quick on the draw too. At least that’s the role he plays in our little performance. Real name is Billy Bell. An actor out of Los Angeles. Had a bit roll in that teen movie, The Boy Next Door. Now he’s up for a supporting role in the remake of Rio Bravo.”
“Any idea why someone would want him dead?” I asked.
Buckleberry chuckled. “Trying to do my job for me?”
“Maybe the dead guy is a ghost,” my sister said sarcastically. “Ever think of that, Nick?”
“No such thing as ghosts,” I answered.
Balling her fists on her hips, she snapped back. “Oh yes there is.”
My sister is at that age where she’ll believe almost anything except what I tell her. I have friends with younger siblings and they’re always complaining about how their little sisters and brothers follow them around, treating them like they’re some sort of god. Not Wendy. She’s the older sister I’m glad I never had.
“Just because you believe in vampires, werewolves, and witches,” I replied, “doesn’t mean they’re real.” I turned toward the marshal. “I know what I saw. And I’m telling you, there’s a dead man in that barn. Or was.”
The marshal pushed his hat back on his head and said to me, “Look, son. We work hard to make sure our guests have a good time. If we weren’t such good actors no one would bother to drive all the way out here. I’m sure this isn’t the only shootout you’ll witness while in Deadwood. There’s lots of dangerous folks in this territory. Bank bandits and train robbers and hired guns, like Black Bart, just itching for a fight.”
“Guard at the gate mentioned him,” Mom chimed in.
“But to put your mind at ease, I’ll poke around in the barn. Could be my deputy missed something. In the meantime I’d suggest you folks head on to the bunkhouse. It’ll be dark soon. Past few weeks we’ve had brown bears rummaging around in the garbage. Got a call into the Department of Wildlife, but they haven’t done anything about it yet.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Who benefits if Billy the Kid is dead?”
Sighing heavily, Buckleberry stared at the snow-capped peaks glowing orange from the setting sun. “Let’s just say Bill isn’t the most popular employee in Deadwood. Sort of has it in his head he’s better than the other actors. And maybe he is. We’re lucky he’s hung around as long as he has. But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”
Taking the reins of his horse, the marshal stepped one foot into the stirrups and swung himself into the saddle.
“Look, you seem like fine people. My advice is to forget about all this business in the hayloft and get washed up for dinner. Sassy Sally’s Saloon serves a fine meal. I’m partial to the beef barbeque sandwich, but their chili is good too. I think if you’ll check your schedule you’ll see there’s a buffalo hunt scheduled early in the morning. You’re not going to want to miss that. Know what I mean?”
“Don’t worry, Marshal. I’ll make sure my son doesn’t go snooping around that barn in the dark.”
“You do that, Mr. Caden.”
I watched Marshal Buckleberry ride toward the barn, dismount, and enter Lazy Jack’s. I wanted to run over and see for myself if the body was gone but before I could ask Dad if I could, my sister quipped, “Way to go, Nick. We haven’t even had time to unpack and the marshal is already threatening to ride us out of town.”
“For once, why can’t you just do like you’re asked?” Mom added.
“Would the two of you cut him some slack?” said Dad. “I’m sure Nick will be on his best behavior now, won’t you, son?”
“I know what I saw, Dad. And it wasn’t a ghost. Or some video of a fake gunfight.” Grabbing my backpack from the pile of bags tossed onto the roof of the stagecoach, I flung open the door and slid across the seat as far as I could. The setting sun began to turn the mountains pink. Slanting rays crept across the pasture, casting long rooftop shadows. Was it a cheap parlor trick? A clever act? I could see how video of the gunslinger might be part of the ghost town theatrics. But the dead man? He was real; I was sure of it.
Can’t fake the metallic smell of blood.
While Dad chatted with the stagecoach driver and Wendy patted the horses, I unzipped the front compartment of my backpack and grabbed my gaming magazine. Might as well finish reading the review, I thought.
I opened the magazine; a barroom napkin landed in my lap. Stamped across the front was a colorful sketch of Sassy Sally’s Saloon. On the back a personalized message addressed to me.
IF YOU WANT TO CATCH MY KILLER, BE AT BOOT HILL THIS EVENING. MIDNIGHT. It was signed, Billy the Kid.
CHAPTER THREE
DEAD MAN’S HAND
I left my bags on the floor of what passed for the Bat Master-son Suite (one bunk, one sink with cold water, dripping shower faucet) and returned to the front porch of our bunkhouse. The clapboard building was painted a violent shade of yellow, its tin roof fireball red. The sky had turned a brilliant orange and there was a perceptible chill in the air. In the open field that linked the bunkhouses, a heavy-set father tossed logs onto a campfire while his boys played horseshoes.
I dropped into a rocker and propped my sneakers onto the rough-hewn porch railing. It occurred to me that any number of people could have killed the actor Bill Bell. The white-haired security guard, Wyatt Earp, hadn’t been at his post when we’d arrived. Maybe Dad’s horn honking had interrupted him before he could dispose of the body. Marshal Buckleberry. He and his deputy had seemed to arrive out of nowhere. Had I stumbled upon a heated argument gone bad? Wouldn’t be the first time a law enforcement officer was involved in a cover-up.
Then there was the mysterious driver of the sports car, the one dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt who looked eerily like the phantom figure I’d seen in the hayloft. I thought back to our ride up the mountain and how Mom had complained about the speeding Dodge Charger zooming past us in the middle of a blind turn. Same car? And if it was, would the driver have arrived ahead of us in time to kill Billy the Kid before I charged into the barn?
“How’s your room?” Wendy stood behind me holding open the screen door. “I have a fireplace in mine. Bet yours doesn’t have a fireplace. I’m in the Calamity Jane room. Did you know her real name was Martha Jane Cannary Burke? Says so right here on the brochure. I think I heard Mom say they’re in the Annie Oakley suite. Did you know she’s really here, Annie Oakley? Pamphlet calls her a ‘dead-eye marksman.’”
I said nothing. Just kept staring at the campfire and watching the two boys thump the grass with horseshoes.
“Mom says we’re walking up as soon as she gets out of the shower. Dinner in a saloon—is that awesome or what?”
“Oughta be a real hootenanny.”
“Gee, Nick. You could at least pretend like you’re having a good time.”
“Did you see anyone come out of Lazy Jack’s after I went in? Or come around the side of the building?”
“You mean while we were loading our stuff onto the roof of the stagecoach? No, why?”
I pushed myself up from my rocker. “Think I’ll wander into town. See if I can get a cell connection. I think we’re in a dead zone,” I remarked, waving at the cluster of trees flanking the creek. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be in the saloon.”
“You’re not going to try to sneak back into that barn, are you?�
�
“You think I should?” I caught her glaring at me. “Relax, sis. I won’t do anything stupid.” She hates it when I call her sis. And I hate being tattled on by my younger sister. “If I stumble into a brown bear I’ll take a picture with my phone and save it for you.”
The heavy aroma of fried food greeted me as I stepped through the swinging doors of Sassy Sally’s. Men and women leaned against the bar, elbow to elbow, boots hooked on bar-rungs. Cowboy hats and overcoats hung on dowels. Guests sat around square tables and feasted on fried chicken, corn on the cob, and steaming bowls of beans. A piano player banged away at a riveting rendition of “Yellow Rose of Texas.” On the far side of the saloon, card players sat hunched forward and tossed wooden chips onto the green felt.
I slid onto a bar stool. “Is there any place around here I can get a decent cell signal?” The bartender, a whiskered man with hound-dog eyes and oily bangs, dried a shot glass.
I held up my phone. “You know? Talkie, talkie?”
The bartender slapped his towel over his shoulder and waddled off to take another drink order.
“General store has a pay phone,” said Marshal Buckleberry, sidling up next to me. “And if you need to get online, you’re welcome to borrow my computer. I have dial-up.”
Dial-up? You kidding me? Smoke signals would be faster.
“But the best advice I can give you is to just relax and forget texting and talking and checking your email while you’re here. One of the best parts of Deadwood is that we’re a long ways from no place.”
“So no cell coverage,” I answered. “Not even a little?”
“Closest tower is two miles west of Rattlesnake Gulch. If you catch the wind right you might get one bar.”
“Rattlesnake, that’s …?”
“A place you’ll want to avoid, for obvious reasons. By the way, I checked the barn like I promised. Found the Charger, but no body or blood.”
“Marshal, I’m telling you, a man died in that hayloft. As a law enforcement officer, I’d think you’d be concerned.”
He popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chased it with a shot of what I guessed to be tea made to look like whiskey.
Aiming those tired gray eyes in my direction, Marshal Buckleberry said, “What makes you think you’re qualified to judge what I should and shouldn’t be concerned about?”
“Solving murders is sort of a hobby of mine.”
“That so.” He scooped another fist of nuts. “Well? Tell me about this hobby.”
“Actually, it’s more than a hobby. A bunch of us formed this association called Cybersleuths. We use online investigative tools to examine real murders and solve cases.”
Marshal Buckleberry raised his eyebrows. “Really? What sort of tools?”
Looking away, I studied the poker players across the room. “Television detective shows, mostly.”
“Say again?”
“I watch crime shows and compare those crimes against actual murders.”
Choking on the nuts, the marshal drained his drink. “Well, that’s a new one.”
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds, Marshal. The way it works is, after we’ve gathered all the data from a real crime, I run a versatile statistical analysis algorithm for the detection of aberrations.”
“You do what to who?”
“Check for trends that might hint as to who committed the murder and why. A lot of what you see on television is pure fiction. Just stuff the show’s producer tosses in for dramatic effect. But sometimes you find an episode where they’ve used a real crime scene expert as a consultant. That can be useful. Once I have the final report of all the suspects, their motives, means, and opportunities, I load that into a database. But it’s not just me working on the cases. There’s a whole group of us. Together we check the real crimes against television shows that have similar elements. Each member of our group has a special area of interest. I’m a huge NCIS and Criminal Minds fan.”
“I can’t imagine that anyone could ever solve a murder doing something as silly as that.”
“Actually, it’s a lot easier than you think. Our analysis usually renders a fairly accurate summary of who the likely perpetrator is. The good news is, most murders are committed by really dumb people, so finding the killer isn’t as hard as most people imagine.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out. Don’t hardly see where you even need my help finding Billy the Kid’s killer. But just to be safe, I wouldn’t go around talking too much about what you think you saw. Folks might not take too kindly to you accusing them of murder.”
He cut his eyes across the room toward the poker table. A new player had joined the game and sat with his back to me. He wore a checkered shirt similar to the one worn by the driver of the Dodge Charger. Same color pants, too.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” the marshal said, patting his vest pocket, “I got to get this slug off to ballistics.”
When Mom and Dad arrived, I joined them in the buffet line.
“Nick, make sure you get some vegetables,” Mom said, chiding me on my lousy eating habits. “You know what the doctor said about your cholesterol level.”
I waited until she’d moved down the line before dumping two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes on my plate and snagging a roll.
“That’s not a vegetable,” Wendy quipped.
“And you’re not my mother.”
“Mom! Nick said he’s not—”
I spooned a small helping of green beans onto my plate. “There, happy?”
My sister smirked. I plopped another, larger helping onto her buttered roll and pushed past her.
“I think that’s him,” I said, sliding into the chair next to Dad. “That guy at the poker table is the person I saw getting out of the car.”
“Thought you said you didn’t see his face.”
“I didn’t, but he’s wearing the same outfit.”
Taking a cue from another player, the mysterious card player hooked his arm on his chair and pivoted, staring at me. Same black hat with the low crown, same thick sideburns as the phantom figure in the hayloft. With his gaze still locked on me, the gunslinger aimed his finger at me and pretended to squeeze the trigger.
“That’s him!” I whispered to Dad. “That’s the guy I saw in the hayloft.”
“The dead man?”
“No! The man in the video. And getting out of the Charger.”
“Don’t murderers usually flee the scene of a crime?” my sister said sarcastically. “Or maybe it’s different for ghosts.”
“What about ghosts?” said Mom, walking back from the dessert bar.
“Nick thinks he sees one.”
“Really? Where?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what I heard.”
Mom paused from unloading her tray and scanned the room. “Where is the ghost?”
I pointed toward the poker table.
“Looks like a bunch of men playing poker to me,” Mom said, sounding disappointed.
“Nick thinks that might be the guy he saw in the video,” Dad said to Mom.
“And in the car,” I added.
“Well for gosh sakes, don’t say or do anything to upset him, Nicholas. This isn’t a game like your online detective group. You can’t just walk up to people and question them about a murder.”
“I know that, Mom. But I would like to ask him where he was earlier this evening.”
“And if he was in the barn?” Dad replied.
“I don’t know, Nick. That guy looks like a real outlaw,” Wendy said, mocking me. “What if he draws on you?”
“Maybe I’ll drag you over there and use you for cover.”
“Would you two stop?” said Mom. “People are starting to stare.”
“Son, pass the salt.”
“Frank, you know what the doctor said.”
“And the butter,” Dad added.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, pushing back my chair.
&n
bsp; Mom grabbed my wrist. “Sit!”
“Yeah, Nick.” Wendy waved an ear of corn at me. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?”
The din of chatter stopped abruptly. Everyone turned to watch a gaunt farmer wearing a stained long-john shirt and mud-splattered pants step away from the poker table.
Clearing his throat the farmer said to the mysterious card player, “You haven’t lost a hand since you got the deal. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’s cheatin’.”
The man from the hayloft stopped shuffling. Without looking up he said, “Then I reckon it’s a good thing you know better than to say a thing like that.”
“Maybe I don’t,” the farmer replied. “Maybe you is cheating. Maybe you’s a lyin’ card shark who’s dealing off the bottom.”
“Watch your mouth, hayseed.”
“How ‘bout you watch your’n. And how ‘bout pay me back what you stole?” The farmer’s right hand hovered over his gun, fingers trembling.
The other players pushed away from the table, scattering for cover. The room fell deathly silent.
With his head still bowed, the accused man snarled, “I don’t cheat.”
“I says different.”
“I don’t cheat!”
“Then how is it you been dealing yourself doubles and straights since you sat down?”
“Lucky streak, I guess.”
“And I says that streak just ended. Ain’t that right, fellows?” The farmer looked around nervously, searching the crowd for support.
The man stood slowly, turning toward the farmer. “Walk away, hayseed. No point getting killed over a few lousy hands of cards.”
The farmer widened his stance, his eyes tracking the gun-fighter’s movements. “Can’t. Not ‘til you give back what you took from me.”
“This is so cool,” Wendy said in a low voice. “Just like in the movies.”
Dad leaned over and asked me, “You sure it’s him?”
“I … think so. But he looks different somehow. Not sure why.”
“Probably because he has skin on,” Wendy snarked.
The gunfighter eased sideways, crabbing away from the table, until the two men faced each other in the middle of the saloon.
