Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  I didn’t. What I saw instead chilled me. Nearly three hundred yards away, just visible above the bushy tops of a grove of scrub trees, I spied a series of low mounds cloaked in a silver mist. Wispy tendrils of vapor coiled upwards, swirling and swaying like dead spirits dancing.

  The Native American burial grounds. Right where Wyatt Earp said they would be. And someone—no, something—is waving to me. Cowboy comic? Dead farmer? Billy the Kid?

  The train whistle blew. The conductor ordered us back to our seats.

  “Come on, Nick!” Mom yelled out the window to me.

  The train started to move. Jogging toward the caboose, I swung myself up and stood watching as the wispy figures melted away.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket, felt something, and pulled out … a lead slug.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A KILLER IDEA

  I sat on my seat examining the slug. Who dropped this in my pocket? Guffaw when he bumped me from behind exiting the train? Annie snuggling up to me? A ghost? I shoved the slug back into my pocket, deciding to keep it a secret for now.

  As soon as the Big Sky reached the station, I bounded down the steps and went in search of James. If what the old security guard said was true, James might have a motive for killing the young actor, Bill Bell.

  I found James sitting on a fence rail chewing on a strand of straw. Red and white checkerboard shirt, brown leather cowboy chaps over blue dungarees. Cowboy hat tipped forward, shielding dark eyes from the high-noon glare. In the circular corral behind James, a rodeo clown bobbed and weaved away from a very large Brahma bull. I approached James, but before I could say a word, he hopped down, gave me a firm handshake, and whacked me on the back like we were best buds.

  “Heard you might want to talk to me. Caden, was it? The boy-wonder detective?”

  Up close his sun-browned face showed his youth. Black hair lay matted against his forehead. Late teens, early twenties.

  He released my hand but maintained his smile. “Marshal said you might have some questions for me. So how can I help you, Deputy?”

  I said, “You can start by dropping the act.”

  “Act?”

  “I could ask you where you were last night around midnight, but let’s save that for later. First, I want to know if you hit Annie.”

  “I’m not following you, partner.”

  I explained how I’d found the marshal’s niece visibly shaken earlier that morning and how, when pressed about the incident, she refused to elaborate.

  “I don’t rightly know how to respond to that,” James said. “I’ve been here all morning breaking these mustangs. Or I should say, they’ve been breaking me. Haven’t seen Annie since last night in the saloon and only then for a moment. Is this about Bill?”

  Trying to appear taller, I squared my shoulders and stopped slouching. “I understand you two weren’t on the best of terms.”

  “I didn’t hear a question in that.”

  “Did you and Billy get along?”

  “Do get along. Yeah, sure. We get along. At least I think so. Why, you hear differently?”

  “But weren’t you both auditioning for the same movie?”

  “You’re making that sound a lot more interesting than it was. I was disappointed I didn’t get the part, sure. Bill’s a good actor. We both took a shot, and he won. Happy for him. ‘Sides, he knows all the right people out there. Me? I’m just a struggling actor working on his craft and hoping to catch a break. Getting that part would have been huge but there’ll be other roles.”

  “But with him out of the way, they might take a second look at you, right?”

  “Out of the way? You lost me.”

  “I mean dead.”

  “Oh, right. ‘Cause as far as you’re concerned that’s what he is. Fact is, Bill’s in L.A. ‘Least that’s what I hear.”

  “So you deny killing him?”

  “You know, for a boy trying to get answers from people you sure have a way of getting on their bad side. Anyway, to answer your question, no, I didn’t kill anybody.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Least, not yet.”

  “So, there was nothing to this movie competition with Bill Bell then?”

  “Look, I never had a real shot at that part in Rio Bravo, okay? It was Bill’s all the way. He goes to all the right parties and knows the producers by first name. Me? I’d rather let my acting get me the work. And for the most part it does. But if you’re asking if I’d do anything to hurt Bill’s chances of getting that part, the answer is no. We’re friends and competitors, that’s it.”

  “What about the assault charge?”

  “See? There you go shooting off the hip and missing everything. That charge you’re referring to got tossed. Knew it would be. Nothing but a disagreement with a hothead at a bar who was so drunk he could hardly stand up. He took a swing at me, missed, and hit his head while falling. The proceedings lasted all of twenty minutes. Got any more questions, Deputy Caden?”

  The way he said my name made it sound like he was spitting a gulp of sour milk from his mouth.

  With less conviction I replied, “Besides you, who else would benefit from Billy’s death?”

  “See? Now that’s a question. Can’t think of a soul except the marshal. Bill loaned him fifty grand to keep this tourist trap alive. As I understand it, Bill got in a bind and demanded the marshal start paying him back, but Buckleberry doesn’t have it. Probably never will. Shouldn’t be telling you this, but the honest truth is this could be our last season at Deadwood. That’s why Bill was so anxious to land that movie role. Gets him out of this dead-end town and into the bright lights of Hollywood.”

  “And you?”

  James shrugged. “I’m a survivor. If this place folds, I’ll find work.”

  He adjusted his hat and thumped me on the arm the way a high school quarterback might when he’s trying to be friendly with a lower classman.

  “Look, Caden. I know this little investigation of yours is a big deal. And I feel bad that your family hauled you all the way out to this place. If I was your age I’d be bored out of my gourd, too. But the fact is, no one was murdered. You were there last night in the saloon. You saw how we do things. Nobody really gets shot. It’s all one big put-on. As for Annie, I’m not sure what to tell ya. She’s a good girl. A little too talkative for my taste, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. Certainly wouldn’t be me. Not with her being the marshal’s niece. I think what you have here is a lot of loose pieces that you’re trying to shoehorn into place.”

  “If I locate the murder weapon, any chance I’ll find your prints on it? Any chance at all?” I watched to see his reaction. But instead of flashing a hint of anger like I’d expected, he laughed—which only made me mad.

  “Tell ya what, Caden. Snoop around all you want, but odds are you’re going to come up dry. Just like the marshal and his big plans for this place. Hang around Deadwood long enough and you’ll discover there’s nothing here but a whole lot of disappointment.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Call Bill. Ask him how it is with us. He’ll tell you the two of us get along just fine. Or ask anyone else in this town. They’ll all tell you the same thing. We ‘bout done here? I need to get back to them mustangs.”

  “Almost.” I wanted to ask if he was in the graveyard the night before, but I knew he’d deny it even if he was. He certainly seemed friendly. But then, so far almost everyone I’d met had been cooperative in their own guarded way.

  “Anybody else with you this morning while you were breaking those mustangs?”

  He shook his head. “Got here early, just a little before dawn. I’d probably been working a good half hour before the first hands showed up to get things ready for the guests.” “What type of car do you drive?”

  “Wow. That came out of nowhere. Dodge Charger. Why?”

  “Where were you yesterday evening between five and six?”

  “Well, let’s see. Yesterday afternoon I was o
n my way back from Denver. Left the courthouse a little before noon, grabbed a bite to eat, and drove back. Got here sometime after five. I remember because I had to hurry to get ready for the shootout scene in Sally’s.”

  “And you parked where?”

  “In the employee parking lot like always.”

  “Not in the barn?”

  For a moment I saw a fracture in that buddy-buddy facade, but he recovered quickly. “Hey, you know what? You’re right. I stopped off at the barn to get something. Just left my car there because it’s closer than the lot.”

  “Wyatt Earp said you called and asked to borrow his gun.”

  “Oh, I think I see where you’re going with this. Sure, I asked to borrow his Schofield, but he must’ve forgotten. Does that a lot. The old man can barely remember to put in his teeth.”

  “But you were at Lazy Jack’s? For a short while at least?”

  “Only long enough to check for Earp’s revolver. When I saw it wasn’t there, I left. Then a few minutes later, when I dropped off my laundry, I found my piece in a gym bag of dirty socks. How much longer is this going to take? Those mustangs aren’t going to break themselves.”

  “I guess that’s it for now. Okay if I stop by later if I have other questions?”

  “Sure, Caden. Happy to help.”

  He gave me a quick smile—just like he’d probably done hundreds of times before when posing for a photo shoot, holding it just long enough for those dark eyes to harden into an icy stare. “Good luck with your investigation, Deputy. Wish I could’ve been more help.”

  But he had been. In more ways than he could imagine.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BANCO DE LOS BANDIDOS

  I found James’s car parked behind the laundry building in a gravel lot marked IMPLOYEASE ONLY—just like Wyatt Earp said I would. Second row. Two doors over from a mud-splattered pickup tagged with a sheriff’s sticker in the back windshield. Given Earp’s suggestion that James often let others park his car for him, it made sense I’d find the Charger in the lot. Question was, what happened to Earp’s Schofield?

  Popping the lock took all of thirty seconds. I’d picked up a rubber wedge, the type used for propping open a door, from the general store and a flat, two-foot long piece of metal from the blacksmith shop. Shoving the wedge between the driver’s doorjamb and door, I’d opened a quarter-inch gap just wide enough for the rod. I’d seen this done once when Mom had locked her keys in the car. We’d tried everything to get her car unlocked. Coat hanger slipped through the window, paper clip in the lock. All we ended up doing was scratching the paint.

  Thirty minutes after the call, a tow truck driver arrived. He examined the make of the car and returned from his truck with a rubber wedge and long, straight rod. Took him thirty seconds to pop the lock.

  The shaft slipped easily through the gap. I tapped the unlock button and heard the lock disengage.

  I opened the door, climbed in, and sat in the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut. The interior of the bright yellow Charger smelled of leather and sour clothes. I kept looking out the windshield to make sure no one was watching. The last thing I needed was someone accusing me of trying to boost a late-model muscle car.

  Fast-food bags, stray fries, and a crumpled parking receipt from a Denver parking garage lay on the passenger’s floor mat. I thumbed open the glove box and found a registration card for Dallas Joshua James of Golden, Colorado. Beneath the owner’s manual I found a summons for James to appear in court. The date and time matched his account of the previous day. One charge of assault.

  I remembered Earp telling me James was a brawler. Is he the type to hit a young woman? Or gun down a coworker? I tucked the court summons back in the glove box and felt under the passenger seat.

  Sweat erupted on my forehead and I started thinking: This is no place for a fourteen-year-old to be. No place at all. But I can’t go to the marshal with just some crazy story about Billy the Kid being buried on Boot Hill. I need the murder weapon.

  The pounding on the driver’s window nearly sent me into orbit. My sister pressed her face against the glass and peered in.

  “Whose car is this?” she blurted out.

  “None of your business. Now go away.”

  “Does the marshal know you broke into someone’s car? Does Mom know?”

  “Wendy, please! I’m working on the case.”

  “Come on Nick, tell me what you’re looking for. I want to help. Is it that dead cowboy’s body?”

  “No. I found that already.”

  “You did? Where? Can I see it? Is it gross?”

  “I can’t tell you where it is but it’s not here, okay? Now please go.”

  “Mom wants you in the saloon right now. We’re dressing up like those people on Little House on the Prairie and going to have our picture taken for our Christmas card.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “She said to come now.”

  I shut the door and bent over to look under the passenger seat. No gun. I sat up and swept sweat from my face. Wendy marched toward the buildings facing Main Street. I knew she’d tell Mom. She always did when I shut her out like that. But I couldn’t risk her blabbing to my parents that I was hunting for a gun. Mom would freak if she knew.

  I twisted and felt under the driver’s seat. Nothing. I wanted to look in the trunk but didn’t dare risk it. Not with employees milling around the rear of the laundry building, smoking. I waited until the lot was empty, then cracked open the door and hit the door lock. Crouching by the side of the car, I snuck to the rear and peeked over the roof. When the last of the workers snuffed out her cigarette and went inside, I walked quickly away from the laundry building toward Sassy Sally’s Saloon, wondering where Billy’s killer had ditched the murder weapon.

  The photographer handed me a sack of clothes and pointed me in the direction of the men’s restroom. I peeled off my shirt, shoes, and pants and slipped on the hokey Little House on the Prairie outfit, complete with high-waist pants and suspenders.

  “Let’s do this,” I said, joining my family by the piano.

  “Boy, you’re bossy,” Wendy replied, twirling her parasol over her shoulder. “Especially for someone who kept the rest of us waiting. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  I shot her a quick glance and said to the photographer, “Where do you want me to stand?”

  The photographer positioned Mom and Dad on either end of the piano. Wendy and I sat on the short bench with our backs to the keys. How quaint. I hoped Mom was kidding about the Christmas card idea. I could just imagine what my friends would say if they saw me dressed up like Albert (Albert!—of all names) Ingalls.

  Flash. The photographer snapped a series of photos, moved us into different positions, and reeled off a few more shots. He put the camera away and told us the pictures would be up on a flat-panel monitor in just a sec. I told Mom she had my vote. In the bathroom I changed back into my real clothes and hurried to the marshal’s office. Even without a murder weapon, I needed to tell him what I’d seen in the graveyard. Maybe Bill Bell’s body would prove to him that I wasn’t lying about the murder in the hayloft.

  I’d just stepped from the saloon onto Main Street when a bank customer bolted from the bank yelling, “Quick! Get the marshal! The bank’s being robbed!” The old woman shuffled away to join the other shopkeepers and townspeople who’d taken cover on the boardwalk and inside stores. A burly man in overalls pulled me behind a porch post and told me to get down. My family cowered inside Sassy Sally’s.

  “Banco de los Bandidos,” Overalls said, lowering his voice. “Muy malo.”

  Very bad, indeed, I thought, practicing my Spanish.

  Seconds later the bandits bolted from the bank. The two men sported drooping mustaches, sombreros, and ponchos. Each carried a bulging gunnysack, which I assumed was full of fake money. From the other end of the street came gunfire. I whirled and saw Marshal Buckleberry coming on at a dead run, firing with both barrel
s. The taller of the two bandits slung his bag over the horn of the saddle, mounted his horse, and galloped away, yelling, “Yo soy el pan de vida; el que a mí viene, nunca tendrá hambre.”

  The shorter, rounder bandit struggled to mount his horse. Each time he placed his foot in the stirrup the horse crabbed away, causing the man to hop along in a circle.

  The marshal paused and leveled his revolver, ordering the man to drop the money and raise his arms. The bank robber, finally swinging his leg over the saddle, spurred his horse and attempted to gallop away.

  Marshal Buckleberry fired two shots, and the rider suddenly plunged backwards, flipped off and over his horse, and landed on his back in a watering trough. The timing and technique were perfect and would have easily won a medal in the Olympics.

  A single boot remained visible, its heel hooked on the lip of the watering trough. The crowd cautiously approached, forming a loose horseshoe around the trough. The outlaw remained submerged, eyes wide and round and peering up through clear water. Casually, the marshal bumped the boot off the rim and it sank. Then, just like in the saloon and train, the phantom figure became less defined, as though melting into the water. The transformation couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds. One moment the bandit was there; the next, poof!

  The crowd gasped, then applauded. Mom, Dad, and Wendy clapping the hardest.

  I congratulated the marshal on another fine performance and told him I had something to show him. He jerked his head back toward his office at the end of Main Street and told me to wait for him.

  The marshal’s office shared a feature common to western jails—at least of those jails shown in movies. Two cells stood opposite from each other, separated by a short hallway leading to the rear of the building. The view from just inside the doorway was of a sparse, compact office. Wooden desk, wooden swivel chair. Ring of keys hanging from a peg fastened to a vertical support beam next to one corner of the desk. Above the keys hung an unlit kerosene lantern. On the other side of the support hung a wide leather belt and holster. No gun.