Dead Man’s Hand (32 page)

I thought she’d look down, but she didn’t. Her eyes—you’d call ’em black, but that
was only if you didn’t look too closely. Like people call coffee black. And her hair
was the same; it wasn’t not-black, if you take my meaning, but the highlights in it
were chestnut-red. I knew I wasn’t supposed to think so, but she was beautiful.

“She got shot coming out from under the pier,” she said. “She told me where to run
to.”

Which was a half-mile off, and uphill the whole way. I poked the coffee at her again,
and this time she let go of Merry Lee’s hand with one of hers and lifted the cup off
the saucer, which seemed like meeting me halfway. I leaned around her to put the saucer
and the biscuits on the bedside stand. I could still hear Crispin moving around behind
me and I was sure he was listening, but that was fine. I’d trust Crispin to birth
my babies.

She swallowed. “I heard Mister Bantle shouting downstairs.”

There was more she meant to say, but it wouldn’t come out. Like it won’t sometimes.
I knew what she wanted to ask anyway, because it was the same I would have wanted
if I was her. “Priya—did I say that right?”

She sipped the coffee and then looked at it funny, like she’d never tasted such a
thing. “Priyadarshini,” she said. “Priya is fine. This is sweet.”

“I put sugar in it,” I said. “You need it. In a minute here I’m going to head down
to the kitchen and see if Miss Bethel can rustle up a plate of supper for you. But
what I’m trying to say is Madam Damnable—this is Madam Damnable’s house Merry Lee
brought you to—she’s not going to give you back to Bantle for him to beat on no more.”

I’m not sure she believed me. But she looked down at her coffee and she nodded. I
patted her shoulder where the shift covered it. “You eat your biscuits. I’ll be back
up with some food.”

“And a bucket,” Crispin said. When I turned, he was waving around at all that blood
on rags and his forceps and on the floor.

“And a bucket,” I agreed. I took one look back at Priya before I went, cup up over
her face hiding her frown, eyes back on Merry.

And then and there I swore an oath that Peter Bantle was
damned
sure going to know what hit him.

On récolte ce que l’on sème.
That’s French. It means, “What goes around comes around.” So Beatrice tells me.

It was late afternoon, but it had rained the night before and the scent of creosote
bushes still hung in the air. Lost Angel Mesa loomed behind the town, its eastern
flank shadowed sage-purple. I stopped first at the graveyard on the edge of town to
pay my respects, then I hoisted my trunk onto my shoulder and walked down Fore Street
toward the Carnation Hotel. I had a feeling that’s where people would be on the day
before Midsummer, and I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to sneak into town.

Of course, Sheriff Hayslip didn’t recognize me at first, but he and the other men
gathered around the hotel bar certainly noticed that a stranger had walked in. As
I lowered the trunk to the dusty floor, they all looked me over.

“What brings you to Medicine Dance, stranger?” the bartender asked. He didn’t sound
like he was asking out of pure neighborly friendliness, but under the circumstances
I didn’t really blame him.

“Just visiting,” I said.

“Don’t get many visitors,” another man said, a brush-bearded fellow who looked like
he’d never got over the disappointment of being a couple of decades late for the Civil
War. “Don’t particularly want any, either.” A few of the others grunted in agreement.

The sheriff was examining me. His paunch and thick mustache made him a bit hard to
recognize, but I finally found the youthful face beneath all that unfamiliar window-dressing.
He seemed to catch on to something too, because when I met his gaze his eyes widened,
then he nodded slowly. “You’ve been here before, ain’t ya?”

“A while back.”

“Long while.” Hayslip nodded his head. “I remember. You’ll be needing a place to stay,
then. Neddie, you finished with your drink?”

A slender young man sitting nearby stopped staring at me to turn to the sheriff. The
irritated crease on his forehead suggested he didn’t like being asked, but it could
be he just didn’t like being called “Neddie.” “Uh, yes, sir, I reckon so.”

“Why don’t you take this gentleman over to the Widow Denslow’s. She’s got plenty of
room.”

The young man looked surprised, maybe even a bit alarmed. “Denslow’s? You sure?”

Hayslip dropped one right into the spittoon from three feet away. “’Course I am. I
know this gentleman—he’s been in town before. He’s all right.” He looked at me. “You
take care, now.”

The young fellow shrugged and got up. He wore a gun on one hip, but his holster looked
brand new. He eyed my trunk. “You want some help with that?” He bent and grabbed one
handle, then lifted. He didn’t lift it far before he whistled in surprise and let
it thump back down. “Heavy!”

“I’ve got it.” I hefted it up onto my shoulder, making a show of effort.

“Where’s your horse?” the young man asked as we walked out of the hotel. “Even better,
you got a wagon, or you gonna carry that box of anvils all the way out to the Denslow
place?”

“Don’t have a wagon. Don’t even have a horse.”

His jaw almost hit his chest. “How’d you get here?”

“Walked.”

He shook his head. “Lost it in the desert, huh? Lucky to be here at all. I’m surprised
you stopped with just one drink—I’d be powerful thirsty if I’d just got in out of
the sun like that.”

I didn’t bother to tell him I’d never had a horse in the first place. I’ve learned
over my previous visits that if you don’t absolutely, positively have to explain something,
it’s easier just to keep your mouth shut.

My silence made him restless. “Sheriff says you’ve been here before.”

“Yes, but it’s been years. Before you were born.”

He stared at me, surprised. “You don’t look that old.”

“Yes, I’ve been told that.”

The main street of Medicine Dance, Arizona was pretty much what you’d expect: a row
of commercial buildings with tall, painted fronts masking the much less impressive
structures behind them—the hotel, the feed store, the post office, the bank. A couple
of horses were tied to the rail in front of the bank, but other than that the town
might have been deserted, about to smother in the growing shadow of the mesa. Day
before Midsummer was usually like that in Medicine Dance: even the people who didn’t
know anything about it could sense something and tended to stay close to home.

Just past the post office, we left the main drag, heading southeast across town. The
houses were simple structures for the most part, though a few were a bit more substantial.
We were headed toward one of the biggest of them. When the Denslow house was first
built, it had stood by itself, but now the town had grown out to surround it. It was
more impressive than most of the others—two stories, gabled roofs, and painted trim.
It even had a bit of a garden, and the window boxes were full of flowers. Somebody
had to have a pretty green thumb to get that much color out of an Arizona June.

“By the way, my name is Edward Billinger,” the slender young man said as we approached
the house. He stuck out his hand. I gave it a brief shake.

“Custos,” I told him.

He frowned and nodded, an odd effect. “Huh. That some kind of Spanish name?”

I shrugged. “It’s Latin.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Didn’t study that the way I should have in school. Might be more
than a railroad clerk if I had.” He was looking around and licking his lips now, as
if there was something in the house that made him nervous. He led me to the porch,
took a deep breath, then knocked on the front door. “Mrs. Denslow?” he called. “Catherine?
Anybody home?”

Something growled underneath the porch.

“Shut it, Gally, it’s me,” Billinger told the unseen dog. “What are you doing under
there, anyway?”

A white-haired woman opened the door. She was at least seventy, but stood ramrod straight,
with fine, high cheekbones that suggested she might have some American Indian in her
ancestry. Her eyes lit on me first, narrowed a little, then shifted to my companion.
“Oh, good day, Neddie. What brings you by?”

I felt Billinger tense beside me: he truly didn’t like being called that. “Sorry to
bother you, Mrs. Denslow, but this is Mr. Custos. The gentleman needs a place to stay
for the night and Sheriff suggested I bring him over here.”

She invited us both in, but Billinger begged off. He lifted his hat to the woman,
asked to be remembered to Catherine, then sauntered away, thin as the gnomon of a
sundial. Mrs. Denslow watched him go. “Always was a bit shy of new things, that one,”
she said. “Should have left, gone off to make a life in Tucson or somewhere.” She
turned to me. “Now, what are we going to do with
you
?” There was more in the question than just the matter of a spare bed.

She offered me some tea, which I took, although I wasn’t thirsty. It gave me a chance
to look around while she went to fix it. She kept the place nicely, all the surfaces
and the glass spotlessly clean, which wasn’t easy to do in the middle of windy, dusty
grassland. Other than the flowers in vases all around the parlor, the house didn’t
look a whole lot different than the last time I’d seen it.

She gave me my tea, then took hers to her rocker; once seated, she looked me up and
down as if I were something she was planning to bid on. “Now it’s your turn,” she
said.

“You want me to make you some tea?” It wasn’t meant to be a joke. Sometimes I’m a
little slow to understand what people mean.

Mrs. Denslow gave me a look I had no trouble interpreting. “No, it’s time for you
to tell me why you’re back after all this time.”

“You know why I’m here, Mrs. Denslow. You know how long it’s been. What tomorrow is.”

“Why is it you can remember what tomorrow is after all these years, but you can’t
remember my name? What’s all this ‘Mrs.’ nonsense?”

“I remember your name, Marie.”

She was silent for a moment. “That’s something, I guess. Land, you make me ashamed
to have got so old. Where have you been all this time, Custos?”

Before I could answer, the front door swung open and a girl—a young woman, really,
but just barely—bounced into the room in a whirl of skirts and smelling of lavender
soap. “Oh, Grammy!” she said, “I was so worried I wouldn’t get back before dark…”
She broke off when she saw me. She was very nice to look at, golden-haired and pretty,
but with a politely determined jaw that reminded me of someone else. “I beg your pardon,”
she said, coloring ever so slightly. “I didn’t know…”

“This is Mr. Custos,” the old lady said. “He’s in need of a bed, so he’s going to
stay the night in the spare room.” There was a distinct suggestion of
so let’s just keep our mouths shut, shall we?
in her tone, and that suggestion was aimed at me. “Mr. Custos, this is my granddaughter,
Catherine Denslow.”

I rose and extended my hand. “Please to meet you, miss.” Her skin was soft—softer
than mine, anyway.

She shook politely, but she was clearly puzzled by me. “Goodness, I’ve got to put
these things away,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Mrs. Pritchard sent some butter
and eggs, Grammy. Little Oscar seems a lot better, though. What a time to have Doc
Babbit out of town…!”

The old lady watched her go, then turned back to me. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“She is indeed,” I replied.

“Listen, Custos, I’m happy to have you stay here, for… for old time’s sake. But I’m
sure you understand me when I say that I’m not going to let anything—
anything
—happen to that sweet child. She’s only seventeen.”

I nodded. “I feel the exact same way about her, believe me. Protective. Like a family
member.”

The look Marie Denslow gave me then was the strangest yet, but her reply was surprisingly
soft. “Her real father’s been dead fifteen years. She scarcely knew him at all.”

“She has my sympathy. It’s tough to be separated from the ones you love.” I finished
my tea, then carefully set the cup back down on the plate. “If you don’t mind, I’ll
go to my room now. I had a long walk to get here and I’m a mite tired.”

* * *

An hour later, we sat down to a very respectable chicken and dumpling supper, good
enough for a Sunday meal, though it was only a Wednesday. I didn’t eat much.

Young Catherine seemed as excited as if there was a weekend dance on down at the local
grange hall (although I doubted Medicine Dance was big enough to have anything like
a grange, even now). The girl could hardly sit still. She was up and down a dozen
times during the meal, and twice that many afterward, clearing up and making coffee.
She even produced a fruitcake that had been hidden away in a cupboard since Christmas.
(“We got it all the way from Abilene!” she said proudly.) It was clear that her grandmother
didn’t particularly approve of the girl’s almost feverish excitement, and she kept
looking at me as if she wanted to make sure I understood that.

After dinner, I went back to my room, lay down, and thought.

Sometime not long before midnight, I heard a noise downstairs. I hadn’t been asleep,
so I went down to investigate.

“Mr. Custos!” said Catherine, surprised. She was standing at the window, looking out
over the moonswept town, such as it was. (Nobody would ever suggest Medicine Dance
was anything more than tiny.)

“Just ‘Custos,’ Miss Catherine,” I told her.

“Well, I don’t think I’m allowed to call
you
by your first name, not on such a short acquaintance. Gram… my grandmother wouldn’t
approve, I’m pretty sure.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re right.” I smiled. I didn’t remember how to do it very well.
“But you’ll have to trust me when I tell you it’s just Custos.”