Dead Man's Hand (2 page)

He swallowed. “I must decline to do that, sir. You would not expect a man to disarm himself, would you?”

“I expect you to do what I say if you don't want to wind up in jail! You're halfway there already, buddy!”

“Might you be the sheriff, sir?”

“That's right, I'm the sheriff. See?” The light swung aside and glinted off a metal badge the man held up, then hit James in the eyes again. “Now take off the guns and put ‘em down.”

Swallowing his growing resentment, James did as he was told. He didn't suppose a night in jail would do him any harm. There were worse places, certainly more dangerous places, to be.

“OK, now step over here and put your hands on the car.”

The light swept toward the coach and back, so James gathered the man meant that vehicle when he said “the car.” James placed his palms on the slick surface above the window and frowned. He'd been a sheriff himself, and while he'd certainly had to dispense forcible justice from time to time, he had always been civil to those who were civil to him. Times had changed, it seemed.

Startled by the sheriff's hands touching his hips, he turned. “Now, see here—”

“Hold still! Face the car and don't move, buddy. I'm losing my patience.”

James turned around again, silently tolerating the swift brush of the sheriff's hands over his limbs. Searching for hidden weapons, he supposed. He swallowed his ire. He would have to get used to the way people acted, if he wasn't going to end up dead in a fight. Again.

“Got anything in your pockets?”

Saying he didn't know was probably a bad idea. “See for yourself,” he said instead.

The sheriff stuck his hands into James's coat pockets, then his trouser pockets. Apparently he found nothing.

“Where's your wallet?”

James would like to know that himself. Before he could answer, the sheriff gave a disgusted grunt and stepped back.

“Don't suppose you have a permit for the guns, either. OK, turn around.”

James did so, and stood still for a long moment with the sheriff's hand-held light in his eyes. The man leaned close, and James had to fight the instinct to push him away. Finally the sheriff stepped back and lowered the light.

“You don't look drunk or stoned. I assume this whole act is an attempt to get into the show down at the Number Ten.”

James drew a sharp breath. The No. 10 Saloon was still around? And hosting some kind of show, apparently.

He had only ever been in two shows: Bill Cody's play, and his own disastrous “Buffalo Chase.” He hadn't done so well in either case. He wasn't really cut out for a showman, but it might be a way to make some money, just temporarily. He'd need money to pay his way east, and for necessities. He could use a drink, for example, though he wasn't especially anxious to get it at the No. 10.

“Here's the deal,” said the sheriff. “I'm taking you to the station where you'll take a breathalyzer test. If you're clean, you're free to go. If not, you can sober up in the drunk tank. If I have any more trouble with you it's three days in the slammer for vagrancy. Got it?”

“I—yes.”

He hadn't understood half of what the sheriff said, but he had the strong impression that cooperation was his best bet for staying out of jail. The part about vagrancy he had understood. He'd been locked up on that charge many a time.

“OK, get in the car.”

The sheriff pulled open the second door of the coach and gestured toward the seat. James stepped toward it, wishing his heart would quit thumping so. He was a little wary of riding in this great roaring thing. A strange, green light was glowing inside it. That was nearly enough to change his mind, but he did want to get down to Deadwood and it would be a long, cold walk, and anyway it didn't seem as though he had much choice.

“My guns?” he said.

“I'll get ‘em. Go on, get in.”

James climbed onto a long seat like a couch, as plush as any he'd ever had the pleasure to sit upon. There was a large wheel mounted to the front wall of the car and the green light came from in front of the wheel, where a scatter of lights decorated the wall. A couple of dials looked like clocks but didn't have the right numbers. Some of the other lights looked like words, but they were tiny. James leaned forward and squinted, trying to read them. His eyes hadn't been so good for a while.

The sheriff opened the front door and climbed into the seat in front of James. A metal screen divided them. The sheriff put James's gun belt on the empty shotgun seat, then took hold of the wheel and pushed a lever.

The car growled in response, then leapt forward with a force that pressed James into his seat. “Awp!” he said, then clung for dear life to the metal screen.

Through the wide window at the front of the car he could see the painted stripes on the side of the road, writhing before them like ribbons in the wind, while the dotted line in the middle flashed by like the flicker of a magic lantern. James stared over the sheriff's shoulder at them, breathing hard, stiff with fear.

“You're not from around here, are you?” the sheriff said.

“No.”

Better maybe to say he wasn't from around now, but that would only cause confusion. He wondered, in an idle kind of way, what year it was. Should have checked some of the newer headstones in the graveyard. He had a feeling it had been a lot more than twenty-seven years.

“You sure have the lingo down right. What were you doing up in the cemetery, just communing with old Wild Bill?”

“Ah—you could say that.”

“Well, do it during business hours from now on.”

“Yes, sir.”

He'd have to find out what they were. There was a lot he didn't know about this time.

His reputation had survived him, though, it seemed. That was mighty flattering, but he was beginning to see difficulties ahead. Convincing people of who he was, just for starters.

Maybe he'd better let that lie. It was more important to get east. The buzzing in his brain about that wouldn't quit. In fact, it seemed to just get stronger every minute.

The car took a swerve to the left and he closed his eyes, feeling slightly sick. He'd done some fancy driving in his day, but this sheriff was intent on killing them both, or so it seemed.

“Done many wild west shows?” the sheriff asked.

“One or two,” James answered cautiously.

“You sure got the look right, I'll give you that.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

“Yeah. Give it a rest, OK? I can't get you the job.”

James fell silent. The car was running on the straight again, so he opened his eyes. They were descending pretty fast down a steep hill. Off to the right, unearthly bright lights flickered between the pine trees. He'd never ridden so fast, not even on the railroad.

Finally the vehicle slowed as they reached the bottom of the valley, and rolled to a halt next to a large red sign labeled “STOP” in white letters. Stage stop, James wondered? There didn't seem to be a station or even a shed. The stage hadn't even come to Deadwood in his day, but it looked like the place had grown a considerable lot since then.

A light started blinking on the front wall and the car started moving again, turning right onto a larger road, more of an avenue. There were buildings here, houses and such with big, fine lawns out in front. Deadwood had proved its promise, it seemed. Lot of folks must have made a fortune in gold to afford such nice houses as these. Some of them looked to belong in a big city, like Chicago or New York.

Chicago. That would be a good place to head for, he decided. If he could make enough to buy a horse he could ride there, then sell the horse and get a railroad ticket to Cincinnati, to look for Agnes. He frowned, wondering if maybe the stage would be cheaper, only he didn't know if the stage came to Deadwood. There had been that stop, but it didn't look like it was in use.

The sheriff made a couple more turns, and though James continued to cling to the wire screen, their pace was not so fast any more. They passed more houses—street after street of them. He was amazed, and a little frightened, at what Deadwood had become. It looked to be a city now, a full-blown, fancy city!

There were lights shining everywhere, brightening up the place like daylight, brighter than the gas lamps he'd seen in the cities. Some of them were brilliant colors and others flashed on and off. At a crossroads a bright red light was hung out over the street on a wire. The sheriff stopped the car there, giving James a chance to admire all the lights around and the buildings.

Another “car” came hurtling toward them and James flinched, but the sheriff drove on without even acknowledging the other vehicle or slowing down at all. It passed in a blur of bright lights and a glimpse of red, with a whoosh that reminded James of the sounds he'd heard from up on the hill. He swallowed, trying to get his heart to go back down into his chest where it belonged.

At last the sheriff turned the car into a small field painted with stripes. He rolled the vehicle to a stop between two of the stripes, then pushed his lever forward and did some other things with the controls. The purring of the car stopped, and with it the vibration that James had scarcely noticed but had become accustomed to. It was suddenly dead quiet.

The sheriff got out, bringing James's guns with him, opened the door beside James, and gestured for him to get down. The drive had shaken James up some and he had to steady himself against the car. The sheriff gave him a suspicious frown.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing toward a building nearby. “Gunslingers first.”

Bright lights illuminated the building and shone out through its windows. James would have liked to look it over but the sheriff behind him was impatient, so he went up to the front doors, figured out which part of them were the handles and pulled one open.

Inside, the place was warm and lit up bright as day, with some kind of hanging lamps that put out more light than anything he'd ever seen. He gave up trying to figure them out, or where the heat was coming from since he didn't see a fireplace anywhere. It was magic, pure and simple.

“In there,” the sheriff said, gesturing to a hallway as he shed his featherbed coat. Beneath it he wore a tan shirt and trousers, the shirt decorated with a couple of badges.

Another fellow in a similar tan shirt looked up from a desk as they passed. The sheriff exchanged a couple of words with him, and he shot a grin at James, then went back to writing on some papers on the desk.

The sheriff took James into a room with whitewashed walls bare of any paper or even pictures, and made him blow some air into a piece of arcane apparatus that he couldn't begin to fathom. He consigned that to magic as well. It was a handy way to think of the things he didn't understand.

“You're clean,” the sheriff said, frowning at the contraption. “OK, you can go, but stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” James said, then stepped toward the counter where the man had set down his gun belt.

“Whoa, hold on there, I didn't say you could take that.”

James looked him in the face, biting down on his own impatience. “It is my property, sir, and I need it.”

The sheriff gave him a measuring stare. “Yeah, I suppose you do, for the show.”

The sheriff pulled one of the pistols from its holster and opened the cylinder. He took out a round and looked at it, then whistled through his teeth.

“Man, these are antiques! Where'd you get these?”

“Had ‘em a while.”

The sheriff gave him a skeptical glance, then took the rest of the cartridges out of both guns. James clenched his teeth on his growing anger as the sheriff swept the cartridges into a pile.

“I'll have to keep these. You can take the guns. Don't get into any trouble with them, all right?”

“No, sir,” James said quietly, accepting the gun belt. He buckled it on and felt better with the Colts back on his hips, even unloaded. He'd have to get some more cartridges once he earned some money.

The sheriff opened the door and gestured for him to go out. James walked in silence back through the building to the front doors, with the sheriff following him. He pulled the door open and winced at the sudden cold.

“Stay out of trouble, now,” said the sheriff.

James gave him a measured look, then a single nod. Bracing himself, he stepped out into the chilly night.

He walked over to the field where the sheriff's car sat silent and dark. He hoped to hell he wouldn't ever have to drive one of those things. It might be that he'd have to go east in one, but he'd much prefer traveling by rail.

If they still had railways. He shivered, glanced back at the jailhouse, then stepped out into the street.

He had no idea where he was. This didn't look anything like the Deadwood he remembered. Deciding to head for where the most light and sound was, he walked across the street and headed toward some tall buildings.

The street had boardwalks of a kind on both sides, though they weren't covered. They weren't made of boards, either, but of some hard, gray mortar, all sculpted to a perfectly even surface. James followed one to a crossroads where there was another set of the hanging red and green lights. A fellow in a ten-gallon hat was standing at the corner with a young woman whose short skirt—higher than her knees—proclaimed her to be a soiled dove. Both of them wore puffy featherbed coats, and both grinned at James as he joined them.

“Yee-haw, pardner!” said the man.

James touched the brim of his hat. “Evening,” he said.

“Great getup!” said the soiled dove, and gave him a saucy smile.

James smiled back. For all the differences, it looked like Deadwood was still his kind of town.

“C'mon, change!” said the man, looking at the lights across the way.

There were more of these than James had been able to notice from the sheriff's car. Now that he had the time, he saw that all four corners of the crossroads had lampposts with glowing light pictures on them. People here and now sure liked to decorate the right-of-ways.