Dead Man’s Hand (18 page)

At midday, Ray stopped. He traveled light—a little food, two canteens, his knife and
guns. As he drained the first canteen, he paused to consider that he might not be
up for such an expedition. He let himself collapse along the path he’d discovered—nothing
bigger than the barely-there trail of a deer or a goat. His feet dangled over air,
and a rock jutted into his back, but it was the best rest he’d had all day.

A spider dropped onto his shoulder. Ray could just barely hear the whirring of the
gears inside it. He held out the flat of his hand, and the spider scuttled into his
palm.

Ray held the creature up to his face. A part of him wanted nothing more than to crack
it open and look at the gears that made the thing work. Ray liked knowing how things
worked. That’s why he was so good at cards, at shooting. He watched, he learned, he
figured out the way people worked, the number of cards that had been played, the calculated
chances he took. Inside a man was a beating heart and pumping lungs and stomach and
guts, but those things were just squishier versions of gears and clockwork, far as
he could see.

Ray let the spider down on the ground beside him. It paused, raising two legs at him,
then turned and scurried down the path. Heaving a sigh, Ray pushed up from his seat
and followed.

It didn’t take long for him to notice something sticking to the bottom of his boot.
At first he tried to scrape it off in the dirt, but whatever it was stuck. With one
hand against the canyon wall, Ray looked at the sole of his right boot.

Something… shiny. Like string. But sticky. Ray picked the filaments from his boot,
and the thread stuck to his fingers… and kept going. Now that he was looking for it,
Ray saw an almost invisible line of thread stretching down the path, farther than
he could see.

Spider web.

The mechanical spider had left a web. And not just a normal spider web, one that could
break with a single tug. This slender thread of web was unbreakable, cool to the touch
like metal, as flexible as a blade of grass but stronger than an oak. Ray wrapped
the string around his fingers and tried to pull it apart, but the strong web tore
his skin before he could break it.

Ray tugged. The web was more than just an unbreakable string… it was also a path.
One that led directly to the spiders.

To answers.

* * *

Following the web proved a good idea. It took him down paths he didn’t think were
possible, and twice he had to hold on to the unbreakable string for balance as he
scrambled over perilous gaps in the path. But finally, finally he reached the end
of the string.

There was no spider in sight. The thread stopped at the mouth of a cave. Ray carefully
wound the last bit of string around his hand and slipped the bundle into his pocket.
Such string could be useful in future.

As Ray debated whether he should go into the cave or wait till morning, he heard rustling
movement from just beyond his sight. Something big—much bigger than a spider.

“Cheveyo,” Ray said as the Indian emerged from the cave.

“You are not supposed to be here,” Cheveyo said. “I told you, this place is sacred.”

Ray noticed that Cheveyo’s hand was on the .44-40 at his hip, his fingers wrapped
around the grip, ready to draw. Ray took a breath. He couldn’t pull his gun out before
Cheveyo could shoot. But that was fine. Ray never shot first anyway.

“How did you find this place?” Cheveyo shouted. His voice was no longer peaceful,
contemplative. He was starting to sound mad.

“It should have been impossible for one such as you to come here,” Cheveyo continued.
“I cannot let you into the heart of the
sipapu
.”

Behind the Indian, in the darkness of the cave, Ray could hear a loud
clack, click, clack
sound. Cheveyo’s grip on his gun tightened.

“How did you reach this cave? And in one day? Are you part god? Are you from one of
the other worlds?” Cheveyo’s voice was hysterical now, panicked. “Are you even a man?”

Ray looked down his front languidly. “I got man parts, don’t I?”

A crooked, evil grin spread across Cheveyo’s face. “If you are man, then you can die
like one.”

He shot. Ray only had the sense of gunpowder and smoke wafting in the breeze before
he felt the slug hit his chest. The force was so powerful it knocked Ray off his feet.
He lay in the dusty ground, the stars twinkling above him, and he knew the hit had
been direct. Cheveyo’s aim had been true. The bullet had hit his heart.

Or… it would have hit his heart, if Ray had had a heart. He sat up, still struggling
to catch his breath, and reached into the bloody, gaping hole in his chest. Without
his flesh covering it, Ray could hear the
whrr-chrr
, the mechanical sound that he had instead of a heartbeat.

“What are you?” Cheveyo whispered.

“I got man parts,” Ray said, “but that’s not all I got.”

He stood, and Cheveyo could finally see what had once been covered by flesh: a metal
pump, embedded with glowing wires.

Ray reached his finger into the hole in his chest and felt the dent where the bullet
landed. He tried to pick the lead out, but couldn’t.

Ray dropped his bloody hand to his side and drew his gun. “You shot me,” he told Cheveyo.
“Seems only fair that I return the favor.”

Enough
. The word was not spoken aloud, but seemed to reverberate through Ray’s skull. He
dropped his gun, clutching the sides of his head.

Cheveyo’s eyes widened. “You hear the voice of Grandmother, too?”

This man is Pahana
, the voice inside Ray’s head said.
Let him pass.

“Pahana?” Ray asked, still clutching his head.

“You are the lost white brother,” Cheveyo said. He reached a hand out to Ray. “And
Grandmother wants to see you.”

* * *

Ray had expected “Grandmother” to be an old Indian woman, shriveled like a fig.

He had not expected a giant spider, easily eight feet tall, with long legs tapping
along the back and sides of the stone cave so big that it disappeared into the darkness,
only the sound echoing from the black.

You are not of this world
, Grandmother said inside their minds.
I sent out my children to bring you back.

Ray glanced at the cave walls. Hundreds of mechanical spiders clung to the walls,
clacking their tiny, geared legs.

“He is a man that is not a man,” Cheveyo told the giant spider.

That was a bit harsh, Ray thought. But also true. He had known for some time that
he was different. The way he could calculate cards, read people. The way he always
knew exactly when to pull the trigger.

And there was the matter of his heart. Not just his heart—when he had been shot in
the leg, he’d discovered metal instead of bones. He had gears inside him, just like
the spiders.

He didn’t know where he came from, or why. He’d been wandering the West for years
now, trying to figure out why he didn’t age when his friends did. Why he was never
sick. Why he couldn’t be hurt.

But he’d never thought he’d find the answers in a giant spider in a cave at the bottom
of a canyon.

There are four worlds
, Grandmother spoke in their minds.
And you are from the second, Pahana. You slipped through. And you left a hole that
could not be closed.

“Is that where the spiders have come from, Grandmother?” Cheveyo asked. He held out
his hand, and one of the small clockwork spiders crawled onto his palm.

The giant spider inclined her body toward Cheveyo.
It is. They are from the second world, too. They have sought you, Pahana. They wish
to bring you back.

“Back?” Ray asked.

To the second world. Your home.

“My brother and I have been trying to discover why the
sipapu
was open,” Cheveyo said, turning to Ray. “More and more spiders have emerged. And
other things. Some dark. Some good. But none of them belong in this world.”

“And neither do I, is that what you’re saying?” Ray’s voice rose, anger weaving in
and out of it. He had known from the moment he saw the spider that he wanted to learn
more. It was like him, part real, part mechanical. But he hadn’t known that discovering
the truth would mean leaving this world. Panic rose in his throat. This world was
his home, the only home he knew.

The second world is your real home. You will find others like you.

Cheveyo stepped forward. “I and my brother were the gatekeepers. My brother is no
more, Grandmother.”

The giant spider lowered her body in a way Ray knew meant sorrow.

“If this man is Pahana,” Cheveyo continued, “then he is a brother, too. He has crossed
the plains of the worlds.”

“But I don’t remember it…” Ray said, his voice weak. “I don’t remember any of it.
My earliest memory is far from here—not in another world, I mean, but in the East.
How could I have come from this place, from another world?”

The paths across the worlds are complicated and long.

“Perhaps his path was meant to end here, rather than begin,” Cheveyo said. “Perhaps
Pahana is meant to be a gatekeeper with me. With my brother dead, we need another.
One who can cross into the other worlds.”

This is true
, the great spider said.
Is that what you would like, Pahana? Rather than go through the door to the second
world, you would be able to open and close the doors to all four worlds. You would
protect them, with your brother Cheveyo.

“First time I had a brother who shot me in the chest,” Ray said.

Cheveyo grinned. “The second world is mechanical, and its people have discovered ways
to longevity. Each world has its advantages. Would you like to discover the rest of
them?”

Ray thought about what this would mean. He had once believed the West was the great
unknown, the hidden heart of America that might show him the answers to who and what
he was. Now he realized that the unknown lay just beyond this giant spider, through
the gates to whole other worlds.

He could think of nothing he would rather do than explore them all.

We caught him wrecking the horseless carriage on Main Street a little after two in
the morning. It was a hard rain that night, the kind that keeps most folk indoors.
Hardly ever rains in Arizona, but when it does it comes down like something Biblical.
Our wrecker must have thought he had the town to himself. But Doctor Hudson was abroad,
returning late from attending a birth at the ranch in Bitter Springs. He had already
attempted to remonstrate with the wrecker. This earned him a powerful swing from an
iron bar, the kind gangers use to lever up railroad tracks. The Doctor dodged the
bar, and after scrambling up out of the mud he came to my office, where Tommy Benedict
and I were sipping lukewarm coffee and wondering if the roof would hold against the
rain.

I buckled on my holster and revolver, leaving Benedict in charge of the office.

“You recognize this man, Doctor Hudson?”

“Haven’t seen him before, Bill. Looks like a wild man, come down from the hills. Smells
like he’s got half a gin house inside of him, too. He’s riled up about something.”

It didn’t take us long to find the wrecker still at work in front of Quail’s saloon.
The horseless carriage was already in a sorry state. Under the violence of the bar,
the machine clanged like a cracked bell. Pieces of it were already in the mud. One
of its lamps had buckled, turning it squinty-eyed. I couldn’t help but think of a
dog being beaten, cowering against the next blow. It was stupid because the horseless
carriage was just a thing, made by men from metal and rubber and leather. It didn’t
have a soul or a mind. But it looked pathetic and whimpering all the same.

“Be careful,” Hudson warned as I neared the scene.

Mindful of what had nearly befallen the Doctor, I drew my revolver and held it up
to the sky, the barrel catching the rain like a chimney spout. “This is the Town Marshal!”
I shouted. “Stop what you’re doing!”

But he didn’t stop, not even when I’d fired a warning shot. The man just kept swinging
away at the machine, seemingly more enraged with each strike. One of the mudguards
had come off now.

I told Hudson to go back to the office and summon Tommy Benedict. I circled around
the wrecker, peering through the rain as it curtained off the brim of my hat like
Niagara Falls itself. Not that it excused the wrecker’s actions, but it was a fool
thing of Parker Quail to leave his horseless carriage out there like that, in the
mud and rain, letting everyone know he was rich enough to own that fancy German toy.

I kept a wary eye on both the wrecker and the saloon. I didn’t want Parker Quail or
his men getting mixed up in this. Chances were good they were all sound asleep after
a heavy evening of drinking and carding. But I watched the windows all the same.

If I could just time things, get that bar off of him. But I wasn’t quick on my feet
these days. Even less so on a cold wet night, when the bullet in me started wriggling
around.

I took a lurch for the bar and missed. My leg buckled under me, and I went down in
the mud. Lightning flashed, lighting everything up in black and white. The wrecker
really did look like a wild man, all rags and beard and crazy long hair. Enraged by
my attempt to spoil his fun, he lunged at me with the rod. Thinking fast, Doctor Hudson
grabbed my shoulder and tugged me sharply out of harm’s way, my posterior skidding
on the mud.

“That wound playing up again, Bill?”

I pushed myself to my feet, now just as muddy as the Doctor. “You did the best you
could for me. Dig any deeper, you’d have come out the other side of my leg.”

Hudson nodded—we both knew I was lucky to have kept that leg at all, after that Union
bullet went into me in ’62. Better men than me were walking around on pegs. But on
a damp night that Yankee shot sure did like to remind me it was there.