Dead Man’s Hand (7 page)

The beer wasn’t sold in glass jugs, but in decorous tankards, inlaid with silver and
precious stones.

The place smelled more of gold than of liquor. Pipe smoke perfumed the air.

But the clockwork gambler was surprisingly easy to spot. In fact, Morgan gasped and
stepped back in surprise when he saw him.

The clockwork was obviously not human. His face had been sculpted from porcelain,
like the head of a doll, and painted in natural colors, but there were brass hinges
on his jaws. When he blinked, copper eyelids flashed over glass eyes.

He wore all black, from his hat to his boots, and sat at a card table with a stack
of poker chips in front of him. He had a little gambling kit off to one side. Morgan
was familiar with such kits. They held decks of cards for various games, dice made
of bone and ivory, and always they held weapons—a pistol and a throwing knife.

The clockwork gambler sat with three wealthy men. By the piles of solid gold coins
in front of him, he was winning.

Morgan steeled his nerves, walked up to the table, and said, “You gentlemen might
want to back away.”

The patrons scattered aside as Morgan pulled back his coat to reveal the star on his
chest.

Some men cried out as they fled, and others ducked as if dodging imaginary bullets.
The clockwork gambler just leaned back casually in his chair, as calm as a summer’s
morning. His mouth seemed to have little porcelain shingles around it that moved to
his will, so that when he smiled, it created a crude approximation of a grin. The
creature’s teeth were as white as shards of ice.

“Here to try your luck?” the clockwork asked.

“Your name Hellfire?” Morgan replied.

The gambler nodded, barely tipping his hat.

Morgan felt his hands shaking, and his mouth suddenly dried. He’d never seen a man
face death with equanimity the way that this clockwork did. It was unnatural. Almost
unholy.

I’m betrayed by my humanity
, Morgan thought.
Flesh and blood, gristle and bone—they undo me.

In that instant, he knew that he was no match for the clockwork gambler.

“Tell you what, stranger,” the clockwork said. “Let’s draw cards for your life. You
get the high card, you get the first shot at me.”

Morgan shook his head.

“Come on,” the gambler said reasonably. “It’s the best chance you’ve got. Your flesh
was created by God, and thus has its all-too human limitations. I was made to draw
faster than you, to shoot straighter.”

“You might be a better killer than me, but that don’t make you a better man.”

“When killing is all that matters, maybe it does,” the clockwork said.

The silence drew out. Morgan wasn’t sure if he should let the clockwork draw first.
He didn’t know where to aim. The creature’s chest provided the biggest target, but
it was the best protected by layers of metal. The joints where its neck met its head
might be better. But what was a head to this machine? Did thoughts originate there,
or elsewhere? The head looked no more serviceable than that of a poppet.

The gambler smiled. “Your human sense of honor bothering you? Is that it?”

“I want justice,” Morgan said. “I demand justice.”

“On the High Frontier?” the gambler mocked. “There is no justice here—just a pretty
tomb, the ruins of a grander civilization. This is Rome! This is Egypt!”

He waved his hands wide, displaying the ornate walls carved with silver, the golden
cages with captive angels. “This is what is left of your dead god. But I am the future.”

Morgan had heard a lot of talk about God being dead over the years, from the beginning
of the Civil War. But the discovery of these ruins proved it to the minds of many.

“Tell you what,” the gambler said. “Your legs are shaking. I won’t shoot you now.
Let’s try the cards. I’ll draw for you.”

The gambler placed a fresh deck on the table, pulled a card off the top, and laid
it upright. It was a Jack of Hearts. He smiled, as if in relief.

“I didn’t come to gamble,” Morgan said. “I came for justice.”

“Seeking justice is always a gamble,” Hellfire answered reasonably. “Justice doesn’t
exist in nature. It’s just the use of force, backed up by self-righteous judgment.”

The gambler cut the deck, pulled off the top card, flipped it: the Ace of Spades.

“You win!” the gambler grinned.

Morgan was all nerves and jitters but pulled his piece anyway, took a full quarter
second to get his bearings, and fired. The bullet ripped into the gambler’s bowtie,
and there was a metallic
zing
as it ricocheted into the crowd.

Someone cried out, “
Mein Gott
!” and a woman yelled, “He’s been shot!”

Morgan’s face fell. He hadn’t meant to wing a bystander. He glanced to his right,
saw a fat bloke clutching his chest, blood blossoming on a white shirt.

Morgan ducked low and tried to aim at the clockwork, but faster than the eye could
move the gambler drew, aimed, and fired. The bullet took Morgan straight in the chest
and threw him backward as if he’d been kicked by a horse.

Morgan fell and wheezed, trying to suck air, but he heard blood gurgling from the
hole in his ribs. His lungs burned as if someone had stuck a hot poker through them.

He looked right and left, hoping someone would help him, but all that he saw were
frightened faces. He had heard that there was no law on the High Frontier, only money.

No one would stop the killing. No one would avenge him.

As he lay on his back and felt blood pooling on the floor, he fought to stay conscious.
The clockwork gambler strode toward him, smiling down, his porcelain face a mockery
of flesh.

Morgan realized that he’d been charging dead, from the moment he’d started this hunt.
When he’d missed the skinwalker, he should have seen it as a sign.

“Your human tinkermen have made me well, have they not?” Hellfire asked. “You humans,
in such a hurry to create. It was inevitable that you would fashion your replacements.”

Over the clockwork’s shoulder, Morgan saw his angels—leering from their cages. One
was grabbing at the lock on its golden door, trying to break free, as if to come for
him.

But Morgan was on his way out, like the buffalo, and the Indians, and thunderbirds,
and all the other great things in the wide world.

The gambler aimed at Morgan’s head. There was no shaking in his hands, no hesitation.
He pulled the trigger.

Thus, a new wonder in the world supplanted an old.

The tall lean man stood alone on the prairie, a thin cigar in his mouth, his Stetson
shielding his eyes from the sun. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been waiting there,
but it couldn’t have been too long. It was a blazing hot day, there was no shade anywhere
near him, and yet he wasn’t sweating.

Finally the stagecoach came into view, drawn by a team of sleek, coal-black horses.
They raced over the ground, raising endless clouds of dust, but when the driver saw
he had a passenger waiting he eased them first to a trot, then a walk, and at last
they came to a stop just as they reached the man.

The man stared at the stagecoach, which was a little fancier than he was used to.

“Climb aboard, climb aboard,” said the driver, a small, gnarly man with piercing dark
eyes. “I got a schedule to keep.”

The man nodded, a door opened, and he climbed into the interior of the coach as the
horses started moving again. The only other passenger was a prim, middle-aged woman,
her hair starting to turn gray, her dress buttoned all the way up to the neck despite
the heat. She held a wicker basket on her lap.

“Good morning, ma’am,” said the man, tipping his hat. “My name’s Ben, Ben Bradshaw.”

“And I am Abigail Fletcher,” she replied.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” said Bradshaw, extending his hand.
She took it in a firm grip and shook it. “Looks like we’re going to be traveling together.”

She nodded her agreement. “Have you eaten, young man?”

“I truly don’t recall, ma’am,” he said. “And please call me Ben.”

She indicated her basket. “Would you like a biscuit?”

“I’d surely appreciate one, ma’am.”

She opened the basket and withdrew a tidily-wrapped biscuit, offering it to him.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said Bradshaw, unwrapping it and taking a bite. “Have you
come a long ways?”

“Sometimes it feels like it,” she responded.

“I meant, on the coach?”

“Not that far.”

“Where are you heading, ma’am?”

“The end of the line,” she replied. “And you, young man?”

“Ben,” he corrected her. “And I’m here for the rest of the trip, too.” He looked out
the window at the dry, barren landscape. “Hope it gets a little cooler soon.”

The driver laughed at that, which surprised Bradshaw, who hadn’t thought anything
they said in the coach would carry outside to where the gnarly man sat, holding the
reins.

“This is a right tasty biscuit, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “I guess I was hungrier than
I thought.”

“What do you do for a living, young… Ben?” asked Abigail.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that, nothing very interesting,” replied Bradshaw.
“I just try to earn a dollar here and there.” He paused and stared at her, “What about
you, ma’am? If I was to guess, I’d say that you’re a schoolmarm.”

He couldn’t tell if the statement pleased her or annoyed her. Her expression gave
nothing away.

“What does a schoolmarm look like?” she asked.

He searched for the right word. “Proper,” he said at last, then considered it, nodded
his head, and repeated it. “Proper. Like nothing much upsets you, and you’ve got a
handle on everything.”

“Well, now,” said Abigail, “that could be flattering or insulting. I think I’ll choose
to be flattered.”

“I certainly didn’t mean it no other way, ma’am,” Bradshaw assured her. He fidgeted
uncomfortably for a moment. “Could I maybe trouble you for another one of them biscuits,
ma’am? They make powerful good eating.”

“I’m very flattered,” she replied, almost but not quite smiling. “And of course you
can have another.” She reached into the basket and handed him one.

“You’re sure it’s not an imposition, ma’am?”

“I packed enough for a long trip,” she said.

“Well, I’ll be proud and pleased to ride all the way to the end with you.” He took
a bite and smiled at her. “You know, usually I’m tongue-tied around women, but you
put me at my ease.”

This time she did smile. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid
to me. I thank you for it.”

He looked out the window while he ate, watching a dust storm off in the distance.
When he finished eating he turned back to her and found that she was reading a book.
He didn’t want to disturb her, so he just leaned back and tried to sleep. Sleep didn’t
come to him, but he relaxed and tried to remember the events of the past few days,
which were fast becoming a blur.
I gotta cut down on my drinking
, he thought,
or one of these days I won’t even remember my own name.

Suddenly the stagecoach began slowing down.

“What’s the problem?” Bradshaw called up to the driver.

“No problem at all,” was the answer. “Got to stop for another passenger.”

“Out here?” said Bradshaw, frowning. “Looks like we’re fifty miles from anywhere.”

“Nevertheless,” said the gnarly driver.

“Wonder what the hell he’s doing out here?” He turned to Abigail. “Pardon my language,
ma’am.”

“I’ve heard worse,” she assured him.

The coach finally came to a halt, Bradshaw opened the door, and the new passenger
entered. He was dressed all in black—hat, coat, tie, pants, holster, gloves, boots;
even his long, drooping mustache was black. He wore a Colt .45 on each hip, and their
ivory handles provided the only relief from the blackness that was everywhere else
on him.

“Good day, all,” he said when he’d taken a seat next to Bradshaw, across from Abigail.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” said Abigail disapprovingly. “I’ve seen your face on enough
posters. You’re the Wichita Kid.”

He smiled. “Do I look like a kid?”

“No,” she said. “But you look like a man who’s much too handy with
those
.” She gestured toward his guns.

“Well, it just so happens that I
am
the Wichita Kid, and I’m more than a little bit proficient with my weapons,” he replied.
“But out here you have to be. Anyway, I’m too old to be a kid, so please just call
me Wichita.”

“I’m sure you’re proficient,” she said. “But if you can get what you want with your
brain…”

“Don’t argue with him, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “You’re not going to change his mind,
and it’s not worth the effort.”

“If you say so, young man,” replied Abigail with a shrug.

“You listen to this young man, do you?” asked Wichita in amused tones.

“He’s a very nice young man who respects his elders,” she said.

“Those who live,” chuckled Wichita.

She frowned. “What are you talking about, sir?”

“Don’t you know you’ve been sharing a coach with Bloody Ben Bradshaw? You’d be hard-pressed
to name a place from the Dakotas to Texas, or from Missouri to Nevada, that hasn’t
offered a reward for him, dead or alive.”

She stared at Bradshaw for a long moment. “Is that true?”

“I can’t deny it, ma’am,” admitted Bradshaw. “But don’t you worry none. You’re perfectly
safe with me.”

She seemed to consider his answer for another moment, then shrugged. “We’re all here
together,” she said. “I suppose we might as well make the best of it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “I certainly don’t mean to distress or upset you.”

“Nor do I,” Wichita chimed in. “I’m just a passenger.” His gaze fell on her basket.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any extra vittles in there, would you, ma’am?” he asked.
“I can hardly remember the last time I ate.”