by Eddie Jones
“You don’t want to draw on Jesse James,” announced the piano player. “He’ll kill ya.”
The farmer’s eyebrows arched. “J-J-Jesse James … I … had no idea,” he stammered.
“Simple mistake. Now walk on.”
For a moment I thought he might. I would. The guy in the video, this Jesse James, had the look of a deadly gunslinger.
The farmer shot a glance toward the green felt cloth and the pile of cash and chips on the table, then squared his shoulders. “No sir, I can’t. Way I see it, I just plain don’t have any choice but to get back what’s mine.”
Jesse James’s brow furrowed. “Man’s always got a choice. You get the first move, hayseed. I owe you that.”
The farmer’s hand flinched but never reached the holster.
The revolver’s muzzle blast came so quick it was over before I had a chance to blink. Stumbling backwards, the farmer’s face twisted in pain. He took a half step toward our table and dropped face down, making no attempt to break his fall. For a few seconds he laid there, blood pooling around his body and soaking the sides of his threadbare long-john shirt. Then, his shape changed, becoming less defined and more … translucent. I leaned forward, we all did, and watched as the farmer vanished—body, bloodstain, and all!
Jesse James holstered his gun and surveyed the crowd, his dark eyes settling on me. With a derisive sneer he turned and exited the saloon, slipping out a side door.
“Did you see that?” shrieked Wendy. “That was so awesome.”
“Trapdoor,” Dad said. “Has to be. No way that farmer was a video image. He was too real. Bet if we look we can find where the hinges are sunk into the wood.”
“Told you it was all an act,” Wendy said to me. “And you fell for it. Some great detective you are.”
But I hardly heard my sister because I was already halfway across the saloon. I slammed my shoulder into the door and burst into the alley, looking left, then right. No Jesse James. No one at all except the person pressing the barrel of a gun against my temple.
“One wrong move and you die.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DEPUTIZED
“Scared you, didn’t I?” the young woman said.
I felt her remove the gun from my head and turned. In the ambient light of dusk I made a quick assessment. My height, my age. Reddish-blonde bangs and ponytail. Freckled cheeks under the pale sombrero. Not bad looking, even though the revolver in her hand is a huge turn off.
I said, “Would you please put that thing away?”
“Is it making you uncomfortable?”
“Yes, a little.”
“See that sign?” She gestured toward a wooden notice mounted on a post at the entrance to the alley. TRESPASSERS SHOT ON SITE. “Means you can’t be out here.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘sight’?” I asked.
“You know what it means,” she said, tucking the gun into its holster. The blue denim shirt fit the rough and tumbleweed tomboy look but did little to suppress the more pronounced features of her cowgirl frame.
“S-i-t-e means a place, location,” I explained. “S-i-g-h-t has to do with vision.”
“All I know is you’re not supposed to be out here. We have a strict policy. No one allowed on the back lot.”
“You’re here.”
“I work here, Jethro.”
“Name’s Nick.”
“I know what your name is. Uncle Walt’s told me all about you.”
“Uncle Walt?”
“Marshal Buckleberry.”
The niece in charge of maintaining the out-of-date website. Probably in charge of signage too.
I said, “Aren’t you a little young to be a peace officer?”
“Bet I’m older than you.”
“Doubt it. I turn fifteen next month.”
Beaming, she announced, “Me too. What day?”
I pointed to the revolver on her hip. “Is that thing loaded?”
“Need a permit to carry a loaded weapon and I don’t have one. Impressive, isn’t it? Replica of a Colt Six-Shooter. Fires 9 mm blanks as fast as you can cock the hammer. Here, try it out.”
Before I could tell her I wasn’t interested, she moved next to me and took my right wrist, placing the gun in my hand. Together we raised the weapon slowly. “Now, aim at something and—”
The sound of the gun blast startled me. Quickly, she thumbed back the hammer, readying it again. “Block out the distractions,” she said, her cheek nearly touching mine, “and you’ll hit the target every time.”
“But it’s shooting blanks.”
“Still doesn’t hurt to practice.”
She curled her fingers over my hand and I realized how uncomfortable I felt standing so close to her.
Cooing into my ear she said, “Now, try again.”
The saloon door flung open and we untangled ourselves.
Marshal Buckleberry stepped out. “What’s going on out here?”
Taking the weapon from me, the young woman returned the revolver to its holster. “Just showing this clodhopper how we do things in Deadwood.”
“You know better than to let a guest handle your sidearm. Now get back inside and help bus those tables.”
“That’s what the kitchen staff is for.”
“For crying out loud, Annie. For once would you just do what I ask you to do without arguing?”
“Fine,” she said, yanking open the door. “But if Mom was here she wouldn’t make me—”
“Inside!”
“Seventeenth,” she called over her shoulder. “My birthday is the seventeenth.”
“Got you by three days,” I answered.
“You haven’t got me at all, Nick Caden. Not by a long shot.” The door banged shut, leaving me alone in the alley with the marshal.
“If I were you, son, I’d steer clear of my niece. She’s a brush fire in a dry wind.”
“That brush fire got a name?”
“Annie. Annabel Nora Lancaster. Named after my sister, God rest her soul. But now she calls herself Annie Oakley.”
“Like the Old West exhibition shooter?”
“Exactly like that.” The marshal jabbed his thumb back toward the door. “So tell me. What’d you think of our little gunfight in there? Look familiar?”
“The body in the barn didn’t disappear, Marshal, but I can see why you’d think I was mistaken. That’s a good act, making the farmer vanish like that. What I want to know is how you could rig a trapdoor in a hayloft.”
“I checked the barn like I said I would and didn’t find a sign of foul play. Guess that makes me a pretty lousy lawman.”
“Somebody could’ve moved the body before you and your deputy had a chance to look. Like, maybe the driver of the Dodge Charger.”
“You mean Jess? Doubtful. He was already preparing for the saloon scene. Makes more sense that there never was a body.”
“I’m going back inside,” I said. “My parents are probably wondering what happened to me.”
The marshal put his hand on the door, pushing it shut. “Look, son. We work hard to keep our guests entertained. Maybe too hard. But people drive a long way to get here, and they expect to get a real taste of the Old West.”
“You have a killer running loose, Marshal. I doubt that’s the ghost town experience they bargained for.”
“Walk with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
I followed him down the alley and beyond the clatter coming from behind the kitchen’s screen door. A trash receptacle had been painted to look like a wooden water barrel, but the sour odor of spoiled milk and rotten food destroyed the illusion.
“What you have to understand is that tourism is a competitive industry,” the marshal continued. “Hard to compete with those theme parks. Kids these days want fast and scary with lots of things exploding and flying around. But I don’t have to tell you this. Bet you weren’t all that excited when your mom and dad picked Deadwood for their vacation.”
We tur
ned down a side street bracketed by a livery stable, blacksmith shop, and tannery. In the distance I spied a corral and beyond, the rutted path of a wagon trail.
I said, “If it had been up to me, we’d have gone to Vegas. There’s a gaming convention out there. My sister lobbied for Disney World but Dad said he wasn’t going to spend that kind of money to stand in line for hours with a bunch of bawling babies in strollers. Mom said as long as we all agreed on the destination, she didn’t care where we went. I didn’t agree to come here, but obviously no one pays much attention to what I say.”
“Family vacations were different when I was your age. Dad would load up the station wagon and we’d all pile in, stop at the filling station for gas and to check the oil, then we’d head off on Route 66. Back then you could actually stop on the side of the highway, spread a blanket, and have a picnic. We’d eat my mother’s deviled eggs and fried chicken and drink sodas out of a glass bottle. Got a nickel a piece for those bottles when I turned them in. Now it’s kids listening to music through their headphones or watching videos on their smart phones while mom reads and dad navigates interstate traffic. For me to convince a family that it’s worth their time to come all the way out here and spend a few days looking up at the stars and relaxing is a tough sell.”
If the marshal was trying to make me feel sorry for him, it wasn’t working.
We covered the three blocks from the saloon to the corral, walking past the rear of the general store, hotel, and the town’s lone church—a compact white structure with a prominent steeple. We hooked a left at a feed store and approached a modular trailer sitting on sturdy cinder block supports. Buckleberry took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door, motioning me inside.
“My office,” he said, flipping on an overhead fluorescent light.
The trailer had the strong odor of new carpet. Beige walls, beige carpet, brown desk. He pointed toward a straight-back wooden chair. “Sit.” Boxes lined the baseboards. A floor vent exhaled warm air. He pulled open the top drawer of a filing cabinet, removed a folder, and began scribbling something on a sheet of paper.
“I expected the marshal’s office would have jail cells,” I said, tipping the chair onto its rear legs. “And a hat rack covered with ten-gallon hats.”
“That office is on the other end of Main Street.” He pushed the sheet of paper inside a manila envelope and sealed the flap. “This is my real office.” Opening another folder, he scribbled more notes, causing the gold tassel of a green lamp atop the filing cabinet to jiggle. Slamming the file cabinet shut, he dropped into a worn leather chair and spun to face me from across the desk.
“We have a problem, you and me.”
I stared at him, unsure of what he meant.
“See, if someone goes around saying they’ve witnessed a murder, even a kid with an overactive imagination, it could be bad for business. Normally I wouldn’t mind the publicity. Even bad press is better than none. But I don’t want the guests to get so worked up about some make-believe murder they don’t have a good time. Understand what I’m saying?”
“Well … sure. I don’t want to spread rumors that aren’t true, either. But there is a killer. Or was.”
“See? That’s exactly the sort of talk I’m worried about.” Linking his hands behind his head he leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking how we might help each other.”
I studied his face, wondering where he was going with this.
“I got a bumbling deputy who might have botched an investigation. Don’t think he did, ‘cause like I said, I have no reason to think there’s been a crime committed. But from the looks of things, you seem determined to keep meddling.”
He paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“I spoke with your parents back there in the saloon about that television detective thing you told me about. Your dad claims you’re pretty good. I have to tell you, most of what you said back there made no sense to me. Database algorithms and parsing case files. Stuff is way over my head. But your parents made it clear that they want you to have a good time while you’re in Deadwood, so I’ve been thinking how you and me can come to an agreement.”
“What sort of agreement?”
“What if I was to deputize you? In a temporary capacity?”
I searched those pale gray wolf eyes, waiting for the punch line that didn’t come.
“Why would you do that?” I asked. “You don’t even believe me.”
“Like I said, my deputy might have missed something. The truth is, neither of us has much experience with this sort of thing. I spent a few years on the force but never investigated a murder. And the only law enforcement experience Gabrovski ever got involved standing guard while police investigated a home invasion.”
“Gabrovski?”
“Deputy Pat Garrett. That’s his stage name. His real name is Patrick Gabrovski. Ran a small home-security firm before I hired him on. Lucky I did too. Had just about lost all his clients.”
“So you want me to do your detective work for you?”
“Like I said before, I don’t think there’s a crime to investigate. But if someone was killed and you’re as good as your mom and dad think you are, maybe you’ll find something we missed.”
Deputy marshal in an Old West ghost town. Didn’t see that coming. I said, “What’s the catch?”
“You stop telling everyone there’s a killer running loose until you can prove otherwise.”
“I’ll need to get on the Internet. Something faster than that dial-up.”
He held up a blue ethernet cable. “I was just messing with you. Don’t want folks traipsing in here all day asking to check their email. You can use my computer. Of course, I’ll need to be with you when you do. So do we have a deal?”
“Well sure, I guess.” I didn’t know if I should stand and shake his hand, so instead I said, “You had something you wanted to show me?”
“Right. Not so much show as hear.” He punched buttons on the desk phone and hit the speaker button. There was beeping, then a man’s voice.
“Sorry to call so late, Marshal. It’s been a madhouse out here. And every time I thought to ring you, they’d call me back on the set. Crazy fun but I swear by the time I hit the sack it’s time to get up again. Right, I’m rambling like always. Day before yesterday … no, must’ve been the day before that, I got a call from the studio. The producer says he wants to begin filming right away. I told him no way. That I had to clear it with you first and besides, I couldn’t get a flight out in time. He says I’m either on the set the next morning or they’re giving the part to another actor. You and I both know who he meant.”
I started to ask but the marshal held up his hand, silencing me.
“I took a chance you wouldn’t be too sore. How I got to the airport without getting a ticket I’ll never know. Caught a flight to Phoenix and a connecting to LAX. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know I won’t make it to work tonight. Or for a while. Hope that doesn’t jam you up too much.”
The voice mail ended.
Buckleberry smiled.
“Billy the Kid?” I offered.
“Call came in around the time you said you were in the barn looking at him bleeding to death. Now I’m no expert on television detective shows like you, but it seems to me it’d be hard for a victim to be two places at once unless maybe he was a ghost, which we both know he isn’t.”
“I don’t know who that is on the phone, but it’s not the man I saw in the hayloft.”
“Tell you what, son. How ‘bout tomorrow after the buffalo hunt, you and I take a look in that barn to see what we can find. How’s that sound?”
“Fine. I guess.”
He opened the top drawer and tossed a silver star onto the desk.
“Welcome to Deadwood, Deputy Nick Caden.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A GRAVE DISCOVERY ON BOOT HILL
At half past eleven the alarm chirped on my phone, jarring me awake. The corner porch light outside my window
cast yellow highlights across the ribbed slats of the empty bunk above my head. I sat up, cringing at the sound of creaking bedsprings. In the adjoining room, Dad’s snoring momentarily stopped. I sat silently, legs dangling over the side of the bed. A coyote howled in the distant hills. The light on my phone dimmed just as Dad’s locomotive exhalations resumed. I quickly wedged my feet into my sneakers and thumbed the latch on the window.
Clouds moved over a crescent moon, snuffing out stars. In the distance a low ridge at the base of the mountain range jutted skyward, forming a dark backdrop against the silhouette of rooftops and a church steeple. I slipped on my hooded sweatshirt, placed my palms on the windowsill, and swung my legs out, dropping into dense weeds. Unfolding the map from my back pocket, I used my phone’s screen to illuminate the route from our bunkhouse to Boot Hill.
The marshal’s willingness to deputize me had been a favor to my parents. I could imagine Dad saying, “Humor him, Marshal. The boy’s fourteen and bored.” Regardless of what I did, no matter how many cases I solved before the authorities arrested the culprit, my parents still saw my amateur detective work as a hobby and me as their little boy—even if I was almost as tall as Dad.
When I reached town, I circled around the back of the saloon, taking the route Marshal Buckleberry used on his way to the office. Near a rack of trash bins came the sound of rustling and clanging, but when I peered back, the noise stopped. Cat? Coyote? Bear? Moving with more urgency, I followed the back road out of town past adobe huts advertising (in large letters, the misspelling clearly visible in my phone’s lighted screen) AWTHINTIC NATIVE AMERICAN CRAFTS FOR SELL. The road wound around a cluster of large teepees before turning off into a field of scrub brush, cactuses, and small trees. At last I came to a dry riverbed. Large boulders lay scattered about. I aimed the screen of my phone at a sign nailed to a tree. WELCOME TO BOOT HILL: NO FIREARMS A LOUD.
A loud? You kidding me?
My amused reaction at yet another misspelling was interrupted by the sound of heavy breathing coming from the bushes ahead of me. I dropped into a crouch, unsure of what I’d do if the noise proved to be a bear. All I could remember from my quick online research in preparation for the trip was that bears could weigh as much as seventeen hundred pounds, and because they were too heavy to climb trees, they often attacked in defense of their territory.
