Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  Wendy scooted over and, shutting out my mom and dad’s arguing, asked, “Did you really find another body?”

  “Give me your bacon and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Get your own.”

  I eyed the line at the chuck wagon and decided I just wasn’t that hungry.

  “You didn’t answer me when I asked about the snake bite,” said Dad, taking a seat on the other bench.

  I waited until Wendy looked back toward the herd of buffalo before snatching her bacon. “Oh, that,” I said, chewing. “The snake killed him but only in the same way a bullet killed Billy the Kid, I’m sure of it.”

  Mom, I guess sensing that Dad had tuned her out, turned her attention back to me. “You’re in serious trouble.”

  Dad, trying to sound like he was in charge, piped up. “I already told him he was grounded.”

  Wendy swiveled and eyed her plate. “Nick! I told you no! Dad! Did you see what he did?”

  “We all are,” I announced.

  “All are what?” asked Dad.

  “Grounded. Everyone.”

  Mom slumped onto the bench next to Dad. “I don’t understand, Nick.”

  I flipped my bangs back and sighed. “The marshal called the coroner and was told that as of right now, Deadwood is a crime scene. All of it. No one can leave their room.”

  Wendy went ballistic. “But that’s not fair! I didn’t do anything wrong. Nick’s the one who should be punished, not me.”

  “I know,” said Dad. “But if the marshal says for us to stay put, we don’t have any choice.”

  “Can’t he put Nick in jail instead?”

  Dad, looking exasperated, shook his head. I saw the other guests beginning to look in our direction. Apparently word was beginning to leak that a body had been found and I was the one who’d discovered it—and got everyone banished to their rooms.

  “Can I still go to the Prairie Dog Poetry reading?” my sister whined. “It starts at nine.”

  “If Nick says the marshal wants us in the bunkhouse, then that means you too, honey.”

  “This is so unfair!”

  “Maybe later, honey. After all this blows over. But right now,” he paused and surveyed the crowd staring at us, “the less we’re seen the better.”

  I should’ve told them about us getting booted out of town right then but I just couldn’t. Everyone was so bummed, me included.

  “Nick, go to your room and stay there,” said Dad. “I don’t even want to hear that you were on the porch, understood?”

  Wendy, sounding like her usual sarcastic self, added, “Yeah, Nick. Why don’t you play detective in your room?”

  I looked to my mother for moral support, but she only came to my defense long enough to lob her own verbal jab. In a sad and tired-sounding voice she said, “That’s enough, Wendy. I’m sure Nick feels bad about all the trouble he’s caused for us and everyone else, isn’t that right?”

  BUT I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG! I wanted to scream. I didn’t cause the tunnel to collapse. I didn’t put Earp’s gun in the mine. And I certainly didn’t make that snake bite Jesse James, who, by the way, shouldn’t have been in the mine in the first place. Of course I said none of this, just chewed on my bottom lip while staring at my sneakers. I had a pretty good idea who the real killer was. Finding James dead in the mine and the gun in the glory hole confirmed my hunch. All I needed was the chance to prove it—a chance that now looked hopelessly lost since I couldn’t leave my room.

  Wendy tossed the remains of her breakfast into the fire and glowered at me. Mom looked as if she were about to say something, but just then the marshal rode up on an ATV.

  “Nick told us about the curfew, Marshal. We were just about to head back to the bunkhouse. Any idea how long we’ll be confined to our rooms?”

  “He didn’t say anything about the other thing?”

  “There’s more?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. Mr. Caden, remember the other day when you came to me and asked if I’d let your son play detective, and you promised there wouldn’t be any trouble? Remember that?” Dad nodded. “Now I got a dead actor in a mine that’s supposed to be off limits and a whole lot of questions from the county deputy that I can’t answer. I told your son that I was sending you home, but I guess he didn’t relay that part of the message. I think that’s best for everyone involved. I was all set to refund the balance of your money, but I can’t. At least not yet.”

  Dad cut his eyes my direction but didn’t say anything. “So we’re being evicted?”

  “Something like that.” The marshal folded his arms. “I could charge Nick with trespassing. He knew the mine was off-limits, even if the sign wasn’t at the entrance so he could see it.” Shifting his gaze toward me he said, “But I won’t. For now.”

  “Marshal, if you’ll just listen,” I interrupted. “I can tell you who the killer is and we can clear all this up.”

  “First off, I wouldn’t believe anything you tell me right now. You promised you’d obey the rules and you haven’t. Second, I’m not about to arrest someone just because you think he or she killed someone. Watching TV and figuring out who done it … that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Marshal, unless there’s something more, we’ll head on back to our bunkhouse now.”

  “You do that. All except him.” The marshal pointed his finger at me. “You, come with me. The county coroner wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “Oh, great. I have to miss the Prairie Dog Poetry reading but he still gets to play supersleuth?” Wendy said. “This is so not right.”

  “I know, Wendy. But there will be other opportunities.”

  “Not here there won’t, Mom. We’re never coming back to this place. You and Dad know it.”

  “Tell you what,” the marshal volunteered. “Let me make a few phone calls; see what else is going on in the area. I can recommend a couple of nice motels. Maybe you can take in some of the other sights in the area on your way back to the interstate.”

  “Whatever,” Wendy said bitterly and stormed off.

  The marshal jabbed his thumb toward his idling ATV. “Come on. Let’s get this over with so you and your family can hit the road.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HIGH MARKS FOR MURDER

  The marshal led me through the small cluster of photojournalists snapping pictures of the mine. Deputy Garrett stood with his arms crossed guarding the entrance while a crew of county workers carefully removed the rubble and reinforced the opening with temporary pillars.

  “If law enforcement personnel scanned the emergency frequencies like these reporters do, we’d catch a lot more criminals.” Buckleberry lifted the yellow crime scene tape. I ducked under and paused, waiting for him. “I’ll stay out here. Not big on small places. Took every ounce of courage I had to crawl in to find you. Hurry, now. Don’t want this thing to drag out any longer than it has to.”

  I followed the incandescent glow of stick lights, returning to where I’d found the body earlier that morning. A county deputy met me near the place where Annie had killed the snake. Further on, a heavy-set, gray-haired woman knelt over James. She wore a baggy navy blue jumpsuit and teal footies over her shoes. She jabbed a temperature probe into James’s skin and pressed it downward.

  “You the one who found the body?” the deputy asked in a dull voice.

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  I explained that I’d been informed by one of the staff at Deadwood that another employee was thought to be drinking on the job and how, if I could verify the allegation, that individual might have a reason to see Billy the Kid dead.

  The officer looked confused.

  “Long story,” I added. “Billy was one of the characters in town. I believe the actor who played the role of Billy the Kid has been murdered.”

  That drew a surprised reaction from the deputy. He pointed to the body. “That the way you found him?”

&n
bsp; I said it was.

  “Got a time of death, Janice?”

  “Best guess is between eight and twelve hours ago. Won’t be able to say with certainty until we get the body back to the lab.”

  “What time did you say you arrived here?” I heard the deputy ask.

  “Around daybreak. I woke up at five, got my pony, and rode up, rode being a generous term for her speed. If I had to guess, I would say I got here a little before six.”

  “Alone?”

  I told him how Annie surprised me about the time I found the gun. “Right after that the shaft collapsed and we came back this way looking for an air vent.”

  “Janice, you find anything on the body to change your opinion as to the cause of death?”

  The coroner replied, “It would appear this poor man was the victim of a rattlesnake bite. And a nasty one at that. See here?” With the tip of a pencil she touched two puncture wounds. “Straight into his jugular vein. Once the venom entered his bloodstream the toxins would have attacked his nervous system, causing neurotoxicity, making breathing difficult. Most likely he died of respiratory failure within minutes.”

  “But if it was a snakebite, wouldn’t you expect to see fang marks on his calf or ankle?” I pointed out.

  “Might have been on his knees,” the deputy replied irritably. “Looking for something. Who knows what?”

  “Just before we found the body, Annie shot a large rattlesnake. Any way to test the venom to see if it matches what’s in his body?” I asked.

  “Why certainly, if we had the snake,” said the coroner.

  I glanced around. No trace of the snake.

  The coroner shrugged. “Perhaps a rodent carried if off. I find it odd, however, that there would be a rattlesnake this far from the entrance. They feed on bugs and rodents. I would expect to find them nearer to their food source.”

  I told them about finding bats down the other shaft and suggested maybe a bat had carried away the carcass.

  “So, Janice,” the deputy was saying. “Can we rule his death an accident?”

  “I would say yes if not for this.” With her fingers, the coroner parted the hair on the back of James’s head. “Appears to be a contusion just above the base of his skull. What you say is true. The bites are in an unusual location. It’s possible our victim may have been unconscious when he was bitten.”

  “But wouldn’t that suggest he was …”

  “Murdered? Indeed it would.”

  “Then if you don’t mind,” I said, my voice quivering with excitement, “I’d like you to examine another corpse.”

  “Oh? Is it nearby?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In the graveyard on Boot Hill.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BODY OF EVIDENCE

  I sat in the rear of a rickety buckboard, my legs dangling off the back. Behind me Marshal Buckleberry led a convoy of reporters, the county deputy, Deputy Garrett, the coroner, my parents, and Wendy out of town and toward Boot Hill. At first the marshal had bristled at the presence of the media, but he must’ve seen the value of the exposure because he allowed them to tag along. I suppose even a rumor of a murder was better than tumbleweeds blowing down Main Street.

  We reached the trail leading up to the cemetery, and I hopped down and followed the others up the twisting path. The cold front had blown the sky clear of clouds, leaving a brilliant blue tarp overhead, but the wind had a definite bite. I wished I’d worn something more than my lightweight jacket.

  Brushing bangs from my eyes, I peeked back and saw Annie trudging up the path. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but she seemed to be avoiding me. I suspected part of Annie’s odd behavior had something to do with the death of her friend, Jess. But I also wondered if she might be dreading the trip back to Boot Hill. She still had not revealed the identity of the man we’d seen in the graveyard, and it got me wondering: Does she know that I know who the killer is? Is that why she won’t look at me?

  We reached a short plateau offering a good resting place and paused to let the others catch up. When I saw Annie glace over, I gave her a reassuring wink. You know, just to gauge her reaction. Her eyes found mine and became as cold as the snowy crust capping those Rocky Mountain peaks.

  Here’s the thing you need to know about murder: killing is never as sterile and impersonal as the movies and television make it out to be. Only a heartless monster can kill and not be affected by the act of taking a life. And even then, they are changed and driven deeper into the dark world. That’s what guilt does; it buries you. I know this because in addition to watching lots of television crime shows and figuring out “who done it,” I also examine the “why they done it.” The why is way more interesting than the who.

  Given the right circumstances, any of us can be taught to kill. The question is, will we?

  I remember one time finding a mound of ants in our backyard and stomping that conical hill until there was nothing but black specks in the dirt. We swat mosquitoes and think nothing of it. Kill roaches and wasps and set traps for mice. When I was in the fourth grade, Tommy Brewer dared me to shove a lit firecracker into the mouth of a frog. My point is, any of us can change and become a murderer when placed in the right circumstances.

  Sweet Annie, good-natured and wholesome Annie—the girl who’d met me outside the saloon and tried to teach me how to fire a revolver, the dead-eye killer of rattlesnakes, and the haunting shadow that magically appears around every turn—that Annie had changed. And not in a good way.

  We reached the graveyard, and the crowd fanned out.

  The marshal took a position beneath the gnarled tree and scowled at me. “Well? Which grave is it?”

  “In a minute, Marshal. There are a few things I’d like to say first.”

  My sister slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh pleeeeease!”

  “I want to thank my friend Annie for sticking by me. No matter how much trouble I got in this week, she was always there beside me. Sometimes before I even knew she was there.”

  Her cheeks reddened and she tried to shrink back in the crowd, but there was only so much room along the edge of the cemetery.

  “I’m due at a hearing this afternoon,” the county deputy piped up. “Is this going to take much longer?”

  “Before we exhume the body of Billy the Kid, I want to assure you that even though the murderer is among us, we are safe.”

  A murmur rumbled through the crowd. Annie cocked her head like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard me right.

  “Last night when I returned to my room, I got to thinking that this is a murder investigation. And yes, that’s exactly what it is: a homicide. I thought back to several television episodes I’d seen, most dealing with events similar to what happened in Lazy Jack’s stable two days ago.”

  “Hey, Nick, if I’m not the killer, can I go?” Wendy shouted at me.

  “Actually, sis, believe it or not, you helped me. If you hadn’t insisted there were such things as ghosts, I might never have found the killer. Or found those Bible references. Thanks, by the way, to whoever left that Gideon Bible in my room.”

  I saw the county deputy look over at the coroner and tap his watch.

  “So, yes, Wendy. Because of your infatuation with the occult and gothic myths, I was able to solve the case.”

  “Actually, you haven’t,” Marshal Buckleberry said impatiently. “You still haven’t produced one shred of evidence that there has even been a murder.”

  “I have Billy the Kid’s body, that’s a start.”

  “No you don’t,” Annie shot back. “You don’t even know where it is.”

  She was right. I honestly didn’t know. I wished now I’d paid closer attention to where the mysterious stranger dug the grave, but at the time I’d thought it would be easy to find.

  “We’re leaving,” said the county deputy, motioning to the coroner to gather her things.

  “How ‘bout this one?” said Pat Garrett. He’d changed into his lawman outfit. With the toe of his cow
boy boot he poked at a swatch of matted grass.

  “I … don’t know,” I replied. “That could be the right one.”

  He knelt and pointed to the grass. “Right there, see? You can just make out the muddy discoloring like maybe someone’s been digging.”

  “I can’t say for sure. Was pretty dark. I was standing over there, behind those rocks. I didn’t get a great look.”

  Buckleberry motioned to the undertaker, a string bean of a man dressed in black. No doubt the undertaker was there purely for visual effect. I couldn’t wait for the photographers to snap a picture of the undertaker standing over Billy’s corpse. Will probably make the front page of the Denver paper.

  I left the digging to the worker bees and drifted back to join my family.

  “Nick, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with this little stunt, but mark my words, there will be consequences,” Dad said with his usual sternness. “That business in the mine was bad enough, but this? Making everyone stand around while you hunt for a corpse in a graveyard?”

  “Trust me, Dad, I know what I’m doing. I only wish I’d gone to the marshal last night as soon as I figured out who the killer was. If I had, Jesse James might still be alive.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Nick?” my sister said. “The only reason the marshal let you come up here is because he’s hoping you’ll look like an idiot—which the rest of us know you are.”

  “That’s enough, Wendy,” Mom said halfheartedly.

  Wendy kept on. “Those reporters over there? They can’t wait to write about how some teen with a wild imagination led the marshal of Deadwood on a manhunt for a killer who’s been dead for more than a century. I knew you’d mess up our vacation. You always do.”

  I waited for Mom to add her pithy comment about how I’d ruined her vacation too, but this time she kept quiet. I think she genuinely felt sorry for me. But she didn’t need to. I knew what I was doing. At least I thought I did.

  “Hey, I think we found something,” Garrett called out.

  “Now you’ll see I’m right,” I said smugly.