Dead Man’s Hand (24 page)

Still, his hand stayed near his pocket.

The men ran after Hiram, and Quentin chased after them. Hiram bolted across the street
and around the side of the tailor’s shop, running for the fringe of scrub that rimmed
the town of Stillwell like thinning hair. Quentin winced as a shot rang out. It would
serve the kid right to get a bullet in the ass as a result of his play. And for generally
being a burr in the seat of everyone’s pants.

Quentin pulled out the Five of Spades, held it tightly between his fingers. Ahead,
Hiram dove for a small bush, and Quentin saw a flash between the sparsely-filled branches.

The two pursuers held their guns out, but as they prepared to shoot, the gun barrels
twisted, curving until they were black and silver snakes in the men’s hands. Both
men screamed and dropped the snakes to the ground. Then, with a look at each other,
they bolted.

Quentin waited a moment, then strode to where Hiram was hiding. “I don’t know where
to begin,” he said. “With your damn fool decision to cheat or with your poor job in
doing so.” He pulled the young man up by his collar.

Hiram’s expression turned serious. “I don’t cheat,” he said. “Conjurin’ up more coins
don’t mean I cheat at cards.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t hold the Play.”

Hiram flushed. “Just a moment longer and it would have been fine.” He shrugged off
Quentin’s touch and brushed the bramble from his coat. “Only, well, I used a Four.”

“How many coins did you conjure?”

“Forty-nine. I mean, I know that the numbers should match, but, well, it was still
in the range of four…”

Quentin slapped the back of Hiram’s head. “Idiot,” he said. “I taught you better than
that. Never mind. We need to get off this street in case those men come back.”

Quentin grabbed Hiram’s arm and pulled him down the street. “When are you going to
learn some sense?” Quentin said. “Wasting Cards on a card game?”

“What do you care?” Hiram asked. “They’re my Cards. You can’t use ’em.”

“
You
should care,” Quentin said. “Once they’re gone, there are no more.”

“But I did good with those pistols, right?” Hiram asked.

Quentin spit. He would have liked to say the Play was no good. Instead, he admitted,
“Yeah, kid. That was good.”

Hiram pulled away from Quentin and went back to where the altercation had taken place.
When he returned, he was tucking one of the six-shooters, now reverted to its original
form, into his belt.

“What you going to do with that?” Quentin asked.

Hiram shrugged. “Maybe next time I won’t need to use my Cards.”

Quentin shook his head. “We’re not here to start useless fights. And we’re not here
to win money at cards.”

“I know,” Hiram said. “We’re here for the list, but we need money to keep us going,
right?”

Quentin gritted his teeth. The boy was right. They’d been chasing down a list of names
that the old man had kept inside his battered traveling case. So far, it had yielded
little but had eaten through a lot of their resources—Cards and cash both. The last
name had brought them to Stillwell, but they’d only had enough money to pay for one
night in the hotel.

“You head back to the room,” Quentin said. “I want you lying low in case those card
players are still about.”

“What are you going to do?”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to see if we can’t turn this hand around.”

* * *

The last name on their list was just “Gunsmith.” Quentin asked about, as discreetly
as he could. The boy at the stables turned his luck. “Don’t know no Gunsmith, but
there is a gun shop in town.”

It sounded right to Quentin. If this were a card game, it would be enough for him
to bluff. He returned to the hotel, grabbed Hiram, and dragged him to the gun shop.
They stood outside looking for a moment at the plain, wooden building.

“Guess we should go inside,” Hiram said. Before Quentin could stop him, he bounded
up the steps leading to the shop door and burst inside.

Mumbling curses, Quentin followed.

The store wasn’t very different from other gun stores that Quentin had been to, though
he had only seen a few. Sleek, oiled pistols and rifles lined glass cases, with a
few models mounted on the walls.

Standing behind the counter, wearing a leather apron, was a woman. Her sandy hair
was streaked with gray and pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were a startling
blue, but tired. She raised an eyebrow at Quentin. “You looking for a gun?” she said.

“No,” Quentin said. “I’m actually looking for someone who might go by the name of
Gunsmith. You know anyone like that?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And what might you be wanting with this Gunsmith?”

“Just to talk,” Quentin said. “We think he might have known a friend of ours.”

“My father,” Hiram said. “Though he was never no friend to me.”

One of the woman’s hands came up with a black revolver. “Well, there’s no Gunsmith
here. And unless you’re looking to buy a gun, I think you’d better just leave now.”
She eased the hammer back with her thumb.

Quentin’s hand jumped to his waistcoat pocket. “Now hold on,” he said. “No need to
get jumpy.”

Hiram reached for his Cards, too, in their cigarette case, and the woman swiveled
the pistol toward him.

Quentin pulled the Five of Spades.

The woman’s eyes flashed between the two of them, then she thumbed the hammer back
into place and lowered the revolver. “Wasn’t expecting you to be slinging Cards,”
she said.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “You know about the Cards?”

The woman nodded. “I’m Gunsmith.”

Quentin nodded and slid the Five of Spades back into his pocket. He moved forward,
excited. “I’m Quentin Ketterly. And this is Hiram Tetch.”

“Real names, huh? You must be greenhorns. Most seasoned Cardslingers use nicknames.”

“Oh,” Quentin said.

Hiram elbowed Quentin lightly in the ribs. “I’m going to call myself the King of Aces.”

“No,” Quentin said. “You’re definitely not.” He turned to Gunsmith. “We’ve been looking
for you.”

Her eyes narrowed again. “I get that. Why?”

“To learn more about the Cards,” Quentin said.

“And you expect me to learn you? Why would I do that?”

Quentin paused, taken aback. “I just thought…”

“That we’re all one happy family? You
do
have a lot to learn. There are some that would kill you just for showing your hand.
Hell, I almost killed you myself.”

“Why?” Quentin said.

“I made a lot of enemies in my time with the Cards,” Gunsmith said.

“You’re using a six-shooter, though,” Hiram said. “Reckon that’s so you can save your
Cards?”

“In a way,” Gunsmith said. She held up the pistol and, without it being pointed at
him, Quentin saw that it was one of the finest revolvers he’d ever set eyes on. “This
here’s a Colt Peacemaker,” Gunsmith said. “In the right hands, a Peacemaker’ll kill
a man dead. But this here Colt will kill anyone dead with just one shot. Anywhere.
Graze a man on the ear, and he’ll die. Guaranteed.”

“How?”

Gunsmith smiled. “The Six of Spades. I infused the power into the revolver. Good for
six shots. And, well, you know Spades…”

She held up another six-shooter made from a darker metal. “This one was the Six of
Clubs. Each shot is a small explosion. First pistol won’t hurt anything other than
a person. But this one can blow in doors.”

“You have them for the Six of Diamonds and Six of Hearts, too?” Hiram said.

“I used to,” Gunsmith said.

“So you harness the power of the Card,” Quentin said, “but defer the effect until
later.”

“Exactly,” Gunsmith said.

“Can I do that?” Quentin asked.

“Well, not without practice,” Gunsmith said. “It took me years to master it.”

Quentin shook his head. There was so much he didn’t know about the Cards. So much
he hadn’t even considered. He certainly had never imagined being able to infuse their
power into other objects.

“I don’t usually go heeled,” Quentin said, “but a gun like that…”

Gunsmith raised an eyebrow. “You in need of killing someone?”

Quentin looked at his boots. “Not anymore.”

She let this pass. She looked at Hiram. “So I guess your father was Jeb Tetch?”

Hiram nodded.

“When I met him, he was going by the name ‘Hoyle,’” Quentin said.

“Hoyle?” Gunsmith said. “The nerve of that man. He used to go by Cannonball. As in
‘all the subtlety of.’ The man was a brute, but—” Her eyes squinted in recollection.
“—boy could he dance.”

Quentin looked at Hiram, who shrugged.

“So, I take it you’re now teaching this one.” She indicated Hiram.

“As much as I know,” Quentin said.

“And how is that going?” she asked Hiram.

“Well, ma’am,” Hiram said, “he’s about as fun as a bucket of mud, but I think he’s
learning me just fine.”

Gunsmith eyed them both, shaking her head. “I should send you both packing.”

“But you’re not,” Quentin said, picking up on her reticence.

Gunsmith sighed. “No. Against my better judgment I’m not.” She looked at Hiram. “As
a favor to your father. He wasn’t all bad.”

Hiram shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Besides,” she continued. “You remind me of better times, of my own apprentice.” Her
face darkened for a moment. Then she smiled. “Why don’t you boys come by tomorrow.
We can have lunch. Will that suit?”

“Yes,” Quentin said. “Thank you. We’ll see you then.”

* * *

Quentin couldn’t deny something like a thrill as he dressed the next morning. He couldn’t
wait to meet with Gunsmith, couldn’t wait to hear more about the Cards. He had twenty-six
left, but he hoped to learn a way to use them more wisely. Or even just learn more
about where they came from. How they worked. He had promised the old man that he would
teach Hiram. This would help. And then, when he was done, he could start using the
Cards to help people. To do good instead of violence. Hell, maybe they both could.

He went outside for a quick smoke, then went to fetch Hiram, who was already two drinks
deep at the bar. “Isn’t it a bit early?” Quentin said.

“Just needed a little fortification,” Hiram said. “I’m good now.”

“Good. Because we have an appointment today.”

“I know,” Hiram said. “The old lady.”

“You be respectful,” Quentin said. “We could learn a lot from her. You’d do well to
pay attention.”

“I’d love to get my hands on one of those Colts,” Hiram said. “D’ya think she’d give
us some kind of discount?”

“No. And no asking her neither. Be polite.”

They stopped by the fancy store up the street, the one that carried imported goods,
and walked out with some tea from back east and some biscuits. Then they went over
to Gunsmith’s.

There was no answer when Quentin knocked, so he knocked again. Then again.

“Do you smell smoke?” Hiram said.

Quentin sniffed the air, then kicked in the door.

The interior of Gunsmith’s shop was in disarray, glass cases broken into shards, pistols
and rifles and instruments strewn across the place, curtains torn down, tables overturned.

“What do you think—?” Hiram said.

Quentin shushed him, his Deck already out in his hands. Hiram followed suit. They
crouched down and stalked through the store. The place was silent save for the sound
of their own steps, and whatever had been burning had been doused already, so there
was no immediate danger.

At the back of the shop, they found Gunsmith. She lay on the ground, stiff, her arms
and legs contorted, her face twisted in a permanent expression of complete pain.

“Good god,” Hiram said, and turned away.

Quentin crouched by the body. Touched one claw of a hand. It wouldn’t budge. Then
he searched the woman’s pockets, her apron.

“God, man, be decent,” Hiram said.

“I’m checking for her Cards,” Quentin said.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t imagine she would let this happen. And—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
He needed to be sure.

His search turned up nothing. No Cards. None even littered the ground. As an afterthought,
he checked her boots. Hiram’s father had taught Quentin to keep his Jokers there,
since their uses were unpredictable. Quentin had taught Hiram to do the same.

Gunsmith’s boots were empty.

“Maybe she didn’t carry them with her,” Hiram said.

“You know what the Cards are. How special they are. Would you keep yours anywhere
but on your person?”

“No,” Hiram said. “But… maybe she was empty. Dry. No more.”

The thought chilled Quentin. “She did use the power in her guns. Maybe she
had
run out.”

“Shit,” Hiram said. “What do we do now?”

Quentin clenched his jaw. He knew that they should just move on. Someone good enough
to take out Gunsmith, to make this kind of Play, might be more than they could handle.
But this was the end of their trail. If they walked away now, they might never find
another person who knew the Cards.

“I don’t want to spend too much time here, but I say we do some quick exploring. Might
be something here that could help us out.”

Hiram nodded. Quentin gritted his teeth. He hated going through the woman’s things—it
felt too much like looting—but anything that would help them, any more information
on the cards, would be a boon.

This wasn’t what I bargained for
, he thought.
Skulking around like a criminal. Yet, the Cards are too important.

He closed Gunsmith’s eyelids and rose to search her shop.

* * *

They found the Spades revolver in one corner of the room, and the cylinder had only
two bullets left in it. “She used this,” Quentin said.

“But it didn’t help her,” Hiram said.

“No. And since there’s no other body here, we’ll have to assume she didn’t hit anyone.”

Hiram took the pistol and tucked it into his belt. “No use leaving this behind,” he
said. “Not with the magic in it.”