Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) (6 page)

“Boy, my uncle is right. You
are
paranoid.”

“Here’s what I know. Someone took a swing at me with a shovel.”

“We were trespassing. You read the sign.”

It was obvious she was covering for somebody. Who, I couldn’t tell. But pushing her for answers wasn’t going to get me the name of the killer.
Better to play along and let the truth find me
.

“So no one threatened you?” I said. “No one told you to keep quiet about what you saw?”

She shook her head. “The only reason I rode out here was to tell you to be careful.” Leaning into me, she murmured, “And to maybe not ask so many questions. This isn’t a game, Nick.”

“So that means it’s okay if I go to the marshal and tell him what we saw?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But you just said—”

I hadn’t realized she’d been resting her hand on my hip until she pulled away. “Couldn’t we just keep it our little secret for now?”

“But Billy the Kid’s body is buried up there.”

“Please, Nick. If you tell my uncle about what we saw he’ll want to know why I was hanging out with you after midnight. He’s very protective. Still treats me like I’m in grade school. Deal?”

“For now,” I answered. “But at some point I’ll have to tell him about the body buried on Boot Hill.”

“Later is fine. Just not now.”

T
he train’s shrill whistle blast hustled us back aboard the Big Sky. Annie climbed aboard her horse and galloped away. I returned to my seat in the passenger car. Minutes later we rolled away from the Hole in the Wall Junction, and the comic cowboy returned to his act.

“After many months of walking on the Trail of Tears, the Native Americans finally reached their destination—Detroit. Having failed again to find a peaceful place void of riots, gangs, and interstates choked with American-made automobiles, the Native Americans moved west and settled in the desert. Overnight, a new industry blossomed in the middle of this barren wasteland—gambling.”

“Soon casinos competed with sagebrush on the forlorn moonscape, a countryside so void of moisture that the Native Americans aptly named it Loss Vegas. The name stuck and soon the more industrious tribal members subdivided the sandlots into city blocks, choking it with strip malls and cheap hotels that rented rooms by the hour. Unaccustomed to running such sprawling and corrupt institutions, the Native Americans turned the management of these casinos, nightclubs, and brothels over to government officials who, in turn, outsourced the work to another tribe of indigenous people. A tribe hunkered on the shores of New Jersey who had spent years beating plowshares into swords and kneecaps into pulp. This tribe was known simply as “The Mob.” Soon, crowds flocked to the desert oasis to listen to really old and inebriated singers mumble songs no one had ever heard of. The Wild West had been tamed. And so it remains tame to this day. Only … not all the Wild West is tamed, and if you’ll look out the windows to your right, you’ll see what I mean.”

Pulling alongside the train was a posse of riders kicking up a cloud of dust.

Bursting into the car, the conductor shrieked: “The Dalton Gang!”

Aiming pistols into the air and firing at random, the Daltons pressed closer to the train. Out my window I saw the lead rider leap from his horse and grab the railing on the steps, swinging himself aboard.

The rest of the gang rode alongside, firing randomly at the train. The window next to me shattered and I ducked. Even
though I knew the robbery was staged and the hole where the bullet supposedly hit was planted with some type of small explosive, the bang still left me jumpy. Besides, I couldn’t be certain they weren’t using real ammo.
Annie did ride all the way out here to warn me to be careful. Was the killer one of the Daltons?

The train’s engineer threw the brake and we lurched forward. The sound of hissing steam blended with the rumble of a boxcar door being rolled open. More gunfire erupted outside my window. Beside me the rear door flew open and in burst a hook-nosed fellow with whiskered cheeks, thick black eyebrows, and a red bandana synched over his mouth and chin. Holding his gun upwards, he fired two shots and ordered us out. I noticed there were no holes in the wood paneling on the ceiling above his head, suggesting to me that his pistol was loaded with blanks. Still, the quick succession of loud bangs produced more shrieks of panic, my sister’s sounding the loudest.

Thirty or so passengers filed past my seat. I joined the end of the line, jostled by the comic cowboy bumping into me and urging me to hurry. Outside we lined up beside the train. The gunmen leveled their pistols at us, daring us to move. An older fellow with a rubbery belly sagging over his belt ordered two members of the gang inside the boxcar.

“Big Daddy Dalton,” Wendy said to me in a low voice. “I read about him in my welcome packet.”

Seconds later there was a small explosion from inside the boxcar. I leaned out and looked down the line far enough to spy a small safe standing near the door of the boxcar.

A sturdy-looking wooden chest flew out and landed on the ground. Big Daddy quickly drew his revolver and fired, blowing off the lock. The two outlaws jumped down from the boxcar and lifted the lid. Inside were bricks of cash, each brick banded with a cord of string. The pair began tossing packets of cash to the other train robbers.

I eyed each member of the gang as they caught the packets of money, trying my best to see if any of their eyes matched those of the man who’d come at me with the shovel.

Daddy Dalton, sitting high in the saddle, slowly walked his horse past us, examining each passenger carefully. We stood with our backs to the railcar, no one speaking. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Wendy was sobbing.
Come on, sis. You can’t really be scared. It’s all an act. Just a Hollywood stunt
.

Daddy Dalton’s gaze settled on me; the hair on my neck stiffened.

No, you’re not the one I saw on Boot Hill. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t kill Billy the Kid
.

Breaking eye contact, Daddy Dalton called in a mocking voice, “Bushwhackers, desperados, and hornswagglers roamed, ranged, and terrified the settlers of the Old West.” Big Daddy aimed his beady eyes at the comic cowboy. “Tracking these lawless men was easy. You only needed to follow the smell.”

Wheeling his horse around, Daddy Dalton aimed both revolvers at the comic and fired both guns. The cowboy comic twisted, staggered back. Blood (or corn syrup mixed with red food coloring) soaked his white jacket and vest. In typical dramatic fashion, the comic tried to claw his way up the steps—as though climbing to safety with five bullet holes in his chest
and belly would save him. In real life you don’t walk, crawl, or stagger away from multiple gunshot wounds. That only works in television.

In real life the body goes into shock, focusing all resources on the injury. It’s a primal reaction: find the source of the bleeding, evaluate the damage, and repair it. Big Daddy Dalton wasn’t going to give Quick Draw Guffaw that option. Big Daddy emptied his guns into the cowboy, and Guffaw collapsed onto the platform—his top half lying face down on the steps, his legs tangled beneath him, knees resting on the gravel railbed.

Then, like in the saloon, the dead man vanished.

Big Daddy ordered the Dalton boys to mount up. Yanking the reins of his horse, he scowled at me and rode off, leading his men back down the tracks in the direction from which they’d come.

“Come on, Nick,” Dad said, rushing toward the bloody steps. “Let’s go see how he disappeared.”

But I had another idea. My plan was to confront the comic. I was tired of the smoke and mirrors and theatrical magic that kept the guests entertained and me guessing how Billy the Kid’s body had disappeared from Lazy Jack’s. I wanted to shake the funny actor by the shoulders and force him to explain how both he and the farmer in the saloon vanished. I needed to know if it was possible for someone to pull off a similar stunt in the hayloft. The comic struck me as just enough of an oddball that he might be willing to share a few of Deadwood’s secrets.

While Dad went in search of the trapdoor he was sure he’d find built into the steps, I circled around to the other side of the train, confident I’d find the comic resting from and reflecting upon his performance.

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.

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 on 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.