The Dead Man's Hand

by Michael Jefferson

Ryan August waits patiently as the green, blue, and white gases coalesce into the form of a head.
With turquoise skin, arched eyebrows, intense pitch-black eyes, and a pointed black beard, the Great Maker's presence is both wise and fearsome.
"You summoned me, Great Maker?" Ryan asks humbly.
The Great Maker's voice is resonant and determined. "Yes. I have a new task for you. Since you performed so well in saving the Earp Brothers from the cowboys in Tombstone, I am sending you to Deadwood, South Dakota, in 1876. Your assignment is to save the life of William Butler Hickok."
"Wild Bill Hickock?"
"The same."
"Isn't he supposed to die in 1876?"
The Great Maker's eyebrows arch menacingly. "The Historical Reassessment Committee reviewed his life and death. Hickock will father a daughter with Martha Jane Cannary, known as Calamity Jane. Their daughter, Jean Hickok Burkhardt McCormick, will sire a child, Patrick, who will save Franklin Roosevelt from being assassinated."
"And Wild Bill?"
"Governor of California. California will become the first state to legalize casino gambling, thirty years before Nevada."
"Is that a good thing?" Ryan asks.
"The Committee viewed it as two steps forward, one step back... You are to pose as a writer. We will place you on the stage from Custer City to Deadwood in an hour... And Ryan, watch out for the 'Dead Man's Hand'."

***

Exiting the stagecoach, Ryan dusts off his clothes and is nearly hit by his own suitcase as the driver tosses it down.
Her arms outstretched, a bulky, short-haired woman wearing grimy buckskins wobbles toward Ryan.
"Bill! Hey, Bill! How's about some sugar!"
Too shocked to react, Ryan's nostrils burn when he gets a whiff of the approaching drunk.
She stops short, spitting at his shoes.
"You're not my Bill! You're just some shrimpy, wimpy, gussied-up phony! Why I oughtta pull the hair outta your mustache hair by hair!"
The woman charges at Ryan. Surprised by her strength, he quickly finds himself on the ground, being pummeled by the bullish woman.
"Jane!" a man yells. "Jane! You cut it out, now. That man's done nothing to you!"
The man pulls Jane off Ryan.
A short, perfectly groomed man helps Ryan to his feet, dusting him off. Ryan has seen some colorful Western outfits during his short journey, but this man belongs in a Western time capsule. He has flowing black hair and a slicked handlebar mustache, and he obviously cares for his bright smile. Unlike Jane, his hand-tailored fringed buckskins are clean, and his linen shirt is pressed. His smart look is topped off with beaded moccasins, a polished silver belt buckle, and a pair of handled pistols.
"Name's Charlie Utter. I run a freight business with Bill Hickock and, occasionally, her," he says, pointing at Jane.
Jane continues to try and get at Ryan, muttering obscenities at him.
"I see you've already made quite an impression on Miss Cannary."
"Calamity Jane?"
"The same," Charlie replies. "You see, Jane, he can't be all bad. He's heard of you."
The seething hulk of a woman begins to calm down. "I don't care if he's my long-lost brother. He's impersonatin' Bill!"
"You do look an awful lot like him, mister, except Bill's got you by half a foot or more."
"My name's Ryan August," he says, extending his hand to Charlie. "I'm here to write an article about Wild Bill Hickock. I guess I got too caught up in my admiration for him. I grew my hair out and styled my mustache like his."
"I don't know if he'll appreciate that, laugh at it, or drag you to the barber," Charlie replies.
"I say let's take him to the Sioux and let them barber him!" Jane says.
Charlie sniffs the air. "Smells like you could use a little maintaining yourself, Jane."
Charlie reaches into his pocket, handing her two silver dollars. "Why don't you take this money and get yourself a bath, Jane? You know you can't let Bill see you or smell you like this."
Jane eagerly accepts the money.
"And Jane, it's for grooming and a meal. I don't want to see you sopping up booze at eleven in the morning."
Jane drops her head like a child who's misbehaved, stumbling off.
"That was nice of you," Ryan says, picking up his suitcase.
"I've gotten to know Jane pretty well in the last month. She's had it rough. She had to support her five brothers and sister growing up. The best way for a woman to do that is to become a man or at least be their equal. Jane can ride, shoot, drink, and cuss like any man. The only way to tell she's a woman is when she gets in close proximity to Bill."
"Are they an item?" Ryan asks.
Charlie lets out a side-splitting stream of laughter. "Bill can get any painted cat he wants. He has no use for her. She's the one that's smitten with him."
"Speaking of which, where can I find him?"
"At Tom Nuttal's saloon. He practically lives there. I can't get him to do an honest day's work. I tell you what, you check into the hotel. I'll stop in at Nuttal's and let him know Little Bill wants to speak to Big Bill."
"Little Bill?"
"Like how I came up with that lightning quick?" Charlie asks. "You better get used to it."
"Can you do me another favor, Charlie? If he's playing cards with Jack McCall, tell him to quit. I heard McCall is a real sore loser. He might come after Bill if he beats him."
"Crooked Nose Jack? Nobody's afraid of McCall. He's all bluster."
"Just do it. Please, Charlie."
"Okay, but I want you to know this upfront. Bill's got no money. He spends it all gambling and drinking and donates liberally to the fairer sex. If I see you're a bunko artist trying to shake him down, you'll answer to me. Don't let my genteel appearance fool you. I've skinned Buffalo for a living. And if Jane finds out you're a chiseler, you'll get much worse."
"I mean him no harm, Charlie, I swear."
"All right, Little Bill. Have you got a gun?"
"It's in my suitcase."
"Put it on. Crooked Nose Jack isn't the only big talker in town. But the others are more likely to back it up."

***

The two cowboys at the bar turn to look at Ryan as he passes through the door. One passes his beer through his nose, coughing, while the other points at Ryan, laughing wildly.
Tom Nuttal, the owner and bartender for Nuttal & Mann's Saloon No. 10, looks Ryan up and down.
"Criminy! Utter wasn't pullin' my leg. You're a shrunk-up version of Bill."
The barrel-chested barkeep pours Ryan a shot of whiskey. Ryan downs it like a seasoned rummy, hacking uncontrollably.
"Well, he's not exactly like me. He can't handle his spirits," Wild Bill says. "I think he looks more like George Custer, rest his soul."
Rubbing his watery eyes, Ryan gives Wild Bill a faint smile, trying not to stare at the legendary figure like a rube.
Hickock is over six feet tall and sinewy, with yellow hair, blue eyes, fine features, and a mustache.
"He's got long hair like you, but his hair's dark, and yours is fair," Kenton Carew says. The well-dressed owner of the drugstore adds, "I'll take two," discarding his cards.
A jumpy man with a crooked nose and mussed-up dark hair checks his cards. "Sit in, you circus freak, or be quiet. You're killin' my luck."
"What luck, Jack?" Kenton jokes.
Jack McCall stares at Wild Bill, his nostrils flaring as his pulse quickens. "Well, Bill?"
"One card."
McCall deflates as he looks at his hand. He deals himself two cards. "Carew?"
"I'm out," Kenton says, "permanently." Turning over his cards, Kenton retreats to the bar.
"Hickock?"
"I'll raise you a hundred."
McCall looks at his cards again. "You're bluffin'."
"I don't bluff, Jack."
"All right, slick. I'll see your hundred and raise it another hundred. Can you lend me fifty?"
"You should never bet more than you owe, Jack."
"Never mind the lecture. Can ya?"
"I'm kinda betting against myself, but all right."
"Good. I call you."
Hickock throws his money in the pot. "You sure you want to do that, Jack?"
McCall lays down his cards. "Sure, I got three Queens."
He reaches for the pot, freezing when Wild Bill lays down a full house.
"You cheatin' tin horn," McCall snaps.
Hickock slowly pulls out a gun, setting it on the table.
"I'm afraid I'm getting a bit deaf in my old age, Jack. Would you repeat what you said?"
McCall jumps out of his chair. "My dander's up! You and me is destined to fight like Kilkenny cats! I'm gonna best you, Hickock, even if I gotta kill ya!"
"Relax, Jack."
Taking a twenty from the pile, Wild Bill offers it to McCall.
"Get yourself some breakfast. Sober up and go home."
"Charity? You're offerin' me pity, you four-flusher?"
Cursing, he stomps out of the bar.

***

"So, Charlie tells me you want to interview me for an article. What paper is it for?"
"The New York Globe. If it's popular, we might make it into a book."
"Another one?" Wild Bill asks. "Do me a favor, Little Bill, print what I say, not what you think people might want to read. Jerimiah Lonergan and John Kyle from the 7th Calvary, Custer's men, attacked me in a saloon six years ago because one of them thought they'd heard something bad I was supposed to have said about Custer. George was a friend; I'd never insult him. Lonergan wrestled me to the floor, and Kyle put his gun next to my head. Lucky for me, the gun misfired, or I would have been dead. I shot Lonergan in the knee and shot Kyle twice, killing him. I was up for re-election for sheriff and lost because of that fracas."
"I'm not that kind of reporter, Wild Bill. I only report the facts."
Ryan asks Wild Bill a series of questions, and the pair quickly become comfortable with each other.
"So, it's true you've only been here a few weeks?"
"I came here with Charlie and Jane. What a piece of work she is. A real gadabout."
"You're not involved?"
"No, please. She's a sloppy, foul-mouthed drunk who's been telling people we're married. I think the sauce has rotted her mind. I can't wait to put enough distance between her and me."
Two thick-bodied men block the sunlight coming through the doorway.
"Get your gun ready, Little Bill."
"What's going on?"
"You see those two hard cases? They're the Gratton brothers. I beat both of them at poker in Abilene, and they've been on my tail ever since. I shot Clu's ear off. Then Hugh, the younger one, wanted a faceoff to avenge his brother. I put a bullet in his eye. If Hugh didn't have such a thick head, he'd be kissing his gravestone."
"Still hidin' in saloons, Hickock?" Clu bellows.
"Not hiding. Residing. Care for a game?"
Hugh's remaining eye blinks rapidly in disbelief. "Naw. You deal from the bottom of the pack."
"We're gonna settle your hash, Hickock," Clu says. "More sooner than later."
Hugh stares at Ryan with his one good eye. "I'm not sure of what I'm seein', brother..."
"You makin' copies of yourself, Hickock?" Clu questions. "If you is, you need to throw that one back. He's too short and scrawny."
"He's a writer, boys. A guest."
"You wanna write about real men? Put your pen to paper and write about me and Hugh."
"Yeah, the brothers who took the wild out of Wild Bill!"
Wild Bill turns to Ryan. "Have you had lunch yet? We can put the feedbag down at Hendrix's Emporium. The steaks are so tough you have to rope them onto your plate, but they make the best sweet potatoes and pecan pie I've ever had."
"What about them?"
"I don't think they know how to use a knife and fork, so it'll just be you and me."
"You runnin' out on us again, Hickock?" Clu asks.
"I need my strength for the next game," Wild Bill says, standing.
"You're gonna fish or cut bait, Hickock?" Clu grumbles.
"Two against one isn't fair, fellas."
Hugh adjusts the patch over his missing eye. "Neither is pullin' two Kings in a row."
"See, Little Bill, Jack McCall is the least of my worries. These two are so determined to finish me off, they don't care if we have a fair fight."
Tom Nuttal pours the brothers a drink. "First one's on the house, boys, if you promise not to get any blood on the floor. It's hell to clean up."
A tall, well-dressed gambler with blonde hair and keen blue eyes turns to look at the Gratton brothers.
Something about the intensity in the man's eyes attracts Clu's attention.
"You got the look of a Texas man, mister."
"I'm from Texas, all right. Names Wesley Clemmons."
"You see that long-haired pole cat, Bill Hickock? He's a Yankee. Picks on rebels, especially Texans, to kill."
Clemmons cocks his head as if to study Hickock.
"If Bill needs killing, why don't you try to kill him?" Clemmons responds. "But I suggest you pull your horns in, boys. I heard Bill killed a grizzly bear by himself with just a knife, shot two boys who jumped him in Abilene and plucked a man off his horse from a hundred yards. That's a special kind of man, one to be treated with respect. You sure you want to mess with that kind of man? Because if you do, you might be messing with me too."
"I can kill a crow on the wing," Clu says uneasily.
"Really?" Wild Bill replies. "Does the crow have a pistol? Will it be shooting back? I will be."
The man stares at the bewildered brothers. A look of recognition crosses their faces, and they step back.
"Guess we know whose side of the street you're walkin' on, Mister Clemmons," Hugh says.
"Don't waste the opportunity to leave with your skin and a measure of pride, boys," Clemmons replies.
The brothers slowly back out of the saloon.
Clemmons walks over to Wild Bill's table.
"That was impressive, John," Wild Bill says.
"They're bottom feeders. Bullies and back shooters. They give the Lone Star Republic a bad name. I'd like to stick around to see you send them back to Texas in caskets, but I'm catching the next stage out."
Clemmons glances at Ryan. "Hmmm. You remind me of someone, mister. Well, watch your back, Bill."
"You too, John."
"Friendly fellow," Ryan comments upon Clemmons' departure.
"Most of the time, yeah."
"Where do you know him from?"
"Abilene. Back when he was calling himself by his real name, John Wesley Hardin."

***

Ryan nearly jumps when he wakes up and sees Charlie standing over his bed holding a shotgun.
"Get up! This is no time for a nap!"
"But it's past midnight."
"The Gratton brothers are coming for Bill, and they're madder than an old wet hen. You know where he is?"
"He's upstairs at Chisum's brothel with one of the girls," Ryan says.
"Well, the Gratton's think he's either at Swearingen's place or at Nuttal's, playing cards."
Ryan cranes his neck. "I hear shooting."
"Then they're getting closer. Get your clothes on, and c'mon."
Ryan follows Charlie down the stairs, holding the gun in front of him as if it were a live rattlesnake.
"We can't face those two," Ryan says.
"We're just going to delay them until Jane can come back with Marshal Bullock. Seth can lock them two critters up on his own."
The Gratton brothers fearlessly walk down the center of the street, howling like rabid wolves, shooting at streetlamps and signs.
Spotting Charlie, Clu fires a shot that goes wide of him by inches. The near miss causes Charlie to take cover behind a post.
"Tell that spineless jackal we're here for his hide!" Clu slurs drunkenly.
"Well, if it ain't imitation Bill," Hugh says, swaying as he fires his revolver at Ryan.
Unable to take cover, Ryan freezes, hoping Hugh's aim is off.
The bullet strikes the window next to him.
"Run to the barrel!" Charlie shouts.
Seeing the keg of nails outside the General Store, Ryan breaks into a run.
He trips, falling forward.
The shotgun goes off, blasting Hugh in the chest.
"The chucklehead's killed me, Clu!" Hugh howls, falling over backward.
Clu draws a bead on Ryan. "Blazes, Little Bill, doin' Hickock's dirty work! You're gonna pay through the nose for killin' Hugh!"
Clu aims his gun at Ryan.
A shotgun blast lifts Clu off his feet, throwing him backward.
Ryan turns to see a surprised Sheriff Bullock looking down at Clu's dead body. Calamity Jane stands next to him, the barrels of her shotgun still smoking.
"Nobody hurts my friends."

***

"I don't know hows I can thank you for doin' all of this," Calamity Jane says, looking at herself in a full-length mirror.
"You helped save me and Little Bill. It's' the least we can do," Charlie says.
"I've never had a dress this fancy, and I love this big, feathered hat. I look like a real lady!"
"What's more important is how it makes you feel," Charlie replies.
"Like a rooster crowin' on a fence. Bill's gonna notice me now."
The pair walk down the steps into the main room of the Opal Saloon.
The half dozen men drinking at the bar doff their hats at the tall, broad-shouldered woman, then one of them says, "Jehoshaphat! That's Calamity Jane!"
Jane is about to bash the men with her parasol until Charlie steps between them, hushing their impending guffaws.
"We havin' a costume party? What in tarnation are you tryin' to pull, Jane?" one dusty cowboy asks.
"This is for Bill."
"You makin' yourself a present to him?"
"The pleasures gonna be mine, Gibby," Jane replies.
"You might have to wait a spell. Him, Little Bill, Kenton Carew, and Shed Lang got themselves a real barnburner goin'," Gibby says. "They've been at it tooth and nail since last night, nearly twelve hours straight. They're all cross-eyed drunk."
"Then Bill's gonna need some restin' up."
The cowboys whistle, waving their hats like Jane was a blazing bonfire.
"Guess I got some catchin' up to do as far as liquid refreshment is concerned," Jane says, signaling the bartender.
"Take it easy, Jane," Charlie warns. "You don't want to be too drunk to perform."
"Ain't a man I can't handle, even when I'm so drunk you look good, Charlie Utter."
Bill looks up at the bar, squinting at Jane.
"His eyes have gotten worse," Charlie observes. "I don't think he knows who we are."
"Oh, he's gonna remember me," Jane boasts.

***

Wild Bill sits back in his chair, leaning against the wall. "I'm about tuckered out and cashed out. Little Bill's been havin' himself quite a run of luck."
"Yeah, not many men can put a bullet dead center in a desperado's head while they're fallin' on their face," Kenton chortles.
"I told you it was a trick shot," Ryan returns, laughing.
"Personally, I don't care how it was done, as long as it got done," Lang says. "Your bet, Wild Bill."
The men turn to look at Wild Bill, who is face down on the table.
"He wasn't kiddin'. He's through. Let's get him upstairs."
Looming over the table, Jane shouts, "That's my job!"
Lifting Wild Bill up, she throws him over her shoulder.
"I'll see to him," she says, carrying him up the stairs.
"I betcha Bill dreams about gettin' licked by a buffalo," Kenton says.
"If he's lucky, he won't remember," Lang comments.
Kenton chuckles. "I'm gonna make it my mission to see he never forgets."
"Well, fellas, I think it's time for me to call it a night and a day too," Ryan says.
Kenton throws his arms around Ryan. "Hold it, big winner. We were thinkin' of movin' this to Nuttal's. There's usually some fresh meat there by now. Besides, you gotta give me a chance to win my roll back."
Ryan shrugs his shoulders. "What the hell, why not?"
Passing Charlie, Ryan says, "Keep an eye on him and make sure McCall stays away from him. It's August second."
"He's not going anywhere. Jane'll see to that. McCall would need a regiment to get past her."

***

"Mind if I sit there?" Ryan asks a surly-looking gambler with a cigar wearing a stove pipe hat. "I don't like having my back to the door."
The man blows out a noxious cloud of smoke. "I know you're a newly minted hero and all, Little Bill, but this here's my lucky seat. So, no."
"Just figured there was no harm in asking."
Playing five-card stud, the six players trade pots back and forth for several hours before Ryan wins three in a row.
Loosening his tie, Kenton says, "I never seen a man's luck hold for so long. What have you got, Little Bill?"
"Two pairs... Black aces and eights."

Jack McCall enters the bar, eyeing the table. "...Hickock..." he grumbles between grit teeth, causing one old cowboy at the bar to pull away from him.
Pulling his revolver, McCall shouts, "TAKE THAT, HICKCOCK!" firing at the back of Ryan's head.

***

The green, blue, and white gases coalesce into the form of a head. The Great Maker's penetrating stare bores in on Charlie Utter.
"I am sorry for Ryan's loss, Great Maker. He was a good agent."
"His sacrifice was necessary to change history."
"His spirit will live on," Charlie says. "I put up a gravestone in his honor. It reads: 'Little Bill killed by the assassin Jack McCall in Deadwood, Black Hills, August 2nd, 1876. Pard, we will meet again in the happy hunting ground to part no more.'"

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You can't turn your back on fate.

The Dead Man's Hand

by Michael Jefferson

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