Wild Wild Death Page 2

  He’d been around the world twice, eating at the grandest restaurants, staying in the nicest hotels, being appreciated—a smile touched Goodshot’s lips—by some mighty fine women, too. He loved the exhilaration of a show, racing Tandy, his mustang, around the ring to the sound of the crowd’s applause. It was satisfying, sure enough, almost as agreeable as the fact that big-boned, booming Colonel Brady paid him a whole two dollars a week more than the Anglos who performed alongside him. Then again, as the longest-performing ridin’, ropin’, shootin’ Indian in the show, Goodshot was its main attraction and he loved the attention.

  Oh, how Goodshot loved the attention!

  Automatically, he fingered the heavy buckle on his snakeskin belt. It wasn’t every day a scrappy kid from the pueblo ended up on the other side of an ocean he couldn’t have imagined as a boy, having tea with the queen of England, and not every man did she present with such a token of her admiration.

  Sure enough, his life was falling into place, just the way he always dreamed it would.

  Still…

  With a shake of his shoulders, Goodshot twitched away his misgivings. He could not so easily be distracted from his errand.

  “Hold on there, boys.” He locked his legs and refused to budge another inch. “We come out to the post office, remember. I promised Brady we’d mail these for him.” He took a fat pile of letters from his pocket. “I don’t want you two gettin’ me blind drunk so I’m forgettin’ what I was supposed to do.”

  Like he knew they would, Thad and Rawley laughed and Goodshot pulled away and marched past the man with the flyers.

  “Don’t ride the streetcar today,” the man said, stepping into Goodshot’s path. “Sir, show your solidarity with the workers of this town. Please, don’t ride the streetcar today.”

  Goodshot paid him no mind, heading instead into the imposing building with the U.S. flag studded with its forty-five stars hanging outside.

  When he came out again, he had a letter in his hand, and a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that reminded him of the time he rode his first bull.

  Thad had just tipped his hat to a woman in a yellow gown, and he settled it back on his head and narrowed his eyes, studying Goodshot. “You look like you swallowed a rattler back end first. What’s that you got?” He leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the letter, but since Thad could barely sign his own name, much less read other people’s writing, Goodshot didn’t pay him any mind.

  Rawley was another matter. He could not only write his name, but he had actually been known to read whole, entire books. He cocked his head, curious. “Who’d be writin’ to an old In’jun like you anyway? Unless it’s some pretty señorita, eh? Maybe remindin’ you that you was supposed to be comin’ back to her?”

  “Or tellin’ him he’s got a passel of kids he should be supportin’.” It wasn’t Thad’s laugh that snapped Goodshot out of his thoughts, but the way Thad poked him in the ribs with one elbow.

  “This here letter, it came from the Taopi pueblo.” Goodshot held up the envelope and explained for Thad’s benefit. “It’s been followin’ us from town to town. See here, next to my name, it says ‘Saint Louis,’ then ‘Chicago,’ then ‘Cincinnati.’ All the places we done shows. It’s been tryin’ to catch up with me. I wonder who even remembers me back in New Mexico.”

  “Then you’d better go on and open it and find out,” Rawley suggested.

  Goodshot knew he was right. Just like he knew it was foolish to suddenly feel so jittery about something as fiddling as a letter.

  Except he’d never gotten a letter from home before.

  Not in the twenty years he’d been away.

  His fingers trembling, he tore at the envelope, unfolded the single sheet of paper inside, and scanned it. With each word he read, his heartbeat raced as fast as Tandy around the ring.

  He finished, and somehow found his voice. “I need to get home,” Goodshot told his friends. “Now.”

  “Hold on there, amigo.” When Goodshot made a move to cross the street, Rawley put a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t just up and say you’re leavin’ for New Mexico. What about Colonel Brady?”

  “Yeah.” Thad didn’t look indignant or even confused. Nope. If Goodshot had to put a name to the twist of the kid’s mouth and the look in his eyes, he’d call it disappointment. For that, at least, he owed Thad an explanation. For being the best sort of friend any man ever had, he owed Rawley, too.

  Goodshot had already folded the letter and tucked it in the pocket of his plaid shirt. He touched a hand to his heart. “A long time ago,” he said, “before I left the pueblo…” He chewed his bottom lip. Though he had no qualms about donning feathers and war paint for the part he played in Colonel Brady’s show, he didn’t often discuss his past or the customs of his people. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by his upbringing. Or ashamed. It was just that in the life he’d chosen—in the world he’d escaped the pueblo to be part of—a man’s past didn’t matter so much as his plans for the future. When Goodshot envisioned his future, it included a comfortable house in a place that had running water, a supply of fragrant cigars, and enough female companionship to keep him happy—and not make him feel obligated in any way. His future? It had never included the pueblo.

  At least not until that moment.

  He thought about the best way to tell his friends the story and decided on the quickest and simplest.

  “There is a legend in my tribe,” he said, “about a silver bowl. It’s many hundreds of years old, and when the Spanish conquistadors came, my people knew they would steal it because the bowl is not only beautiful, it is valuable. My people hid it, and it stays hidden to this day. It is only brought out and used for ceremonies.”

  “So you’re goin’ all the way back to New Mexico on account of a bowl?”

  “It is sacred,” Goodshot said, ignoring Thad’s question. “Magical. And only two people in the tribe are allowed to know where it is kept. The shaman, he is one. And in my generation…” He wasn’t sure why the words didn’t want to leave his lips, only that they felt heavy and odd, like he was talking in his native tongue again, and these two Anglos couldn’t possibly understand. “When I was a boy, I was told where the bowl is kept.” Like he had that day he’d taken one last look over his shoulder at the home of his ancestors, he shrugged. “My mother’s brother, he is shaman of the tribe. It was because of that relationship that I was entrusted with the secret. It was a great honor. One I didn’t understand. One I didn’t care about. When I left the pueblo, I took the secret with me, and now, my mother’s brother…” Again, he touched a hand to his shirt and the letter in his pocket. “He was killed in a fall from a cliff. Some months ago. That was when this letter was written and it has been followin’ us from town to town ever since. The new shaman says I must get back to the pueblo, to the New Mexico Territory, and share the secret.”

  “Send him a telegram!” Thad laughed, but Rawley knew better. He and Goodshot had known each other for just about longer than Thad had been alive.

  “Give the man room,” Rawley said, sticking out an arm to hold Thad back when Thad made a move to corral Goodshot. “If he says he needs to get back to New Mexico, then he needs to get back to New Mexico. Only Chester…”

  Rawley never used Goodshot’s given name, and it was that, more than anything, that pulled Goodshot’s attention from the thoughts that raced through his head. He’d need a train ticket, and he’d have to talk to Brady. Yes, of course he had to talk to Brady first thing. He wasn’t worried about Tandy; Rawley would take good care of his horse. But there were other things to consider, and many miles between him and the pueblo.

  Rawley seemed to be reading his mind. He patted Goodshot’s arm. “You be careful, you crazy ol’ In’jun. And you make sure when you’re done talkin’ with that magic man of yours, you meet up with us again. We’re headin’ to Philadelphia, remember. And on to Boston from there.”

  “And the women in Boston…” Thad gave him a wink. �
�I hear there’s nothin’ they like better than Indians.”

  Goodshot would keep that in mind. As soon as his mind had a chance to settle down, that is. For now, he was caught in a swirl of thoughts and unfamiliar emotions. He’d never shared the secret of the ceremonial bowl’s existence with any other man. Why would he? Once he shook the dust of the New Mexico Territory from his boots, he was certain the shaman would reveal the location of the bowl to some other member of the tribe.

  Yet it seemed he had not.

  His mother’s brother had faith in Goodshot—in his memory, in his devotion to his people, in the fact that someday Goodshot would return. It was a faith the old man took to his death.

  A faith Goodshot had never had in himself.

  He twitched off the thought just as a streetcar clattered to the corner, and the man in the cap hurried past. “You don’t want to ride the streetcar,” he said, plucking at Goodshot’s sleeve. “Not today.”

  Goodshot pulled his hand from the man’s grasp. He wasn’t concerned with the streetcar, with the union, or with management or unfair business practices. That’s what he wanted to say.

  He never had the chance.

  No sooner had the streetcar clacked to a stop than a deafening roar split the afternoon and a burst of black smoke, fire, and searing heat exploded from the tracks.

  In that one instant, Goodshot heard the high-pitched screams of the women, and the cries of men. He thought he heard a whirring sound, too, like the air racing past him, as fast as an arrow shot from a bow.

  He didn’t feel himself get lifted off the ground by the force of the explosion, and he never realized he landed a full twenty feet away until his spine accordioned in on itself and cracked, and his breath whooshed out of his lungs along with an animal cry of pain. The world erupted into stars and sunlight that burst behind his eyes one second, and the next, dissolved completely, lost in the utter blackness that enveloped him.

  “Chester? Chester, can you hear me talkin’?”

  Goodshot had no idea how long he’d been unconscious; he only knew that Rawley’s voice finally penetrated the darkness. Though they felt as if they were weighted with lead, he managed to open his eyes. He saw Thad bent over him on one side, Rawley on the other. There were smudges of soot on both their faces.

  “Damn it, Chester, what’d you have to go and get in the way of that explosion fer?” Rawley swigged his nose, but then, there was a lot of smoke in the air.

  “I…” Goodshot tried to swallow the sand in his throat. “I… must get… New Mexico.”

  “Don’t worry about that, pard’ner.” Rawley again. He stroked Goodshot’s shoulder and put something soft under his head. “You got plenty of time to get back to that pueblo of yours.”

  “But the bowl…”

  “We’ll go. We’ll tell the shaman for you.” Thad looked to Rawley for verification, and Rawley nodded. “All you need to do is tell us where it is, Goodshot. Where is the bowl hidden?”

  He tried to shake his head, but it refused to move. “Can’t find…” A wave of pain shuddered through Goodshot like the molten lava he’d heard spewed from volcanoes on South Seas islands. He closed his eyes against it and forced himself to think. To concentrate. This was important.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the dirt on Thad’s face was streaked with tears. He didn’t need a kid like Thad to tell him he was dying.

  “Can’t tell.” His voice scraped out of him and he felt blood at the corner of his mouth. “Must show. But if you take my body…” Another spasm of pain erupted somewhere between his heart and his stomach at a place on his shirt that felt wet and sticky.

  “Sure we will.” Rawley grabbed his hand. “Of course we will.”

  “The shaman…” This time, the blackness that enveloped Goodshot didn’t feel endless and empty. There was warmth beyond its darkness, and familiar faces he knew he’d see if he could just lose himself long enough in the blackness to look for them.

  He would, he promised himself. He would see them all. But not yet. Not until…

  A cough wracked his body and Goodshot’s eyes flew open. “My bones must be taken to the pueblo,” he said. “My bones… my bones will lead the way.”

  “Whatever you say, pard’ner.” The words were right, but Rawley’s expression was all wrong. He didn’t understand, not really.

  “You must!” Goodshot wrapped Rawley’s fingers in a death grip. “If you don’t… if you leave me… if I am not with my people…” His gaze wandered to the sky above them. His voice drifted with it, his words gurgling on the blood that filled his mouth. “If you do not… I will curse the city where you leave my bones.”

  Was there really a curse?

  There were times I sure believed it. Like when I realized there was some sort of critter nest in the far left corner of Goodshot’s mausoleum. Twigs, branches, leaves. No sign of said critter, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I skimmed the light of my Rayovac around the interior of the mausoleum and got a move on, before whatever squeaky thing that shared this space with Goodshot’s remains decided to make an appearance.

  Just like I knew the story of the Wild West star interred here, I knew the lay of the land. Though most mausoleums are essentially big stone boxes that contain niches in the walls where the coffins are kept, this one was a little different. We’re talking fancy and, for its time, expensive, too. There was a narrow winding staircase just to the right of the stained glass window opposite the door. A staircase that led down, underground, to where Goodshot’s coffin was displayed on a sort of platform.

  “Bier.”

  In my head, I heard Quinn’s voice correct me.

  I told it to shut up, and myself to get moving, and in another minute, I was at the bottom of the wobbly stairway, my hands filthy from its rusted rails, my heart pounding like the bass line in a rap song, and the light of my flashlight trained on Goodshot Gomez’s final resting place. Lucky for me, the coffin was old and made of wood, and wood does not last long in a climate like Cleveland’s. It wasn’t hard to get the latches undone. As for lifting the lid…

  I drew in a long breath and held it until my lungs were ready to burst. There couldn’t be all that much left of the old guy, I reminded myself. In fact, I was counting on it. Otherwise, I would have brought a bigger tote bag. Even so…

  I braced myself, wondering what I’d find staring back at me, and threw open the lid of the coffin.

  Maybe I was a little too enthusiastic.

  The old bier creaked and tilted and I watched in horror as the coffin began a slow slide. I darted forward and caught hold of it. A slick and very quick move. Maybe a little too quick and slick.

  I dropped my flashlight, stepped on it, and my ankle buckled. My feet slid out from under me, and before I could say Colonel Brady’s Wild West Stampede of Rough Riders and Ropers, I was falling through the darkness, not sure which direction was up and which was down. I only knew that by the time I landed on my butt—hard—on the dirt floor, the coffin had already tipped and was headed straight for me.

  I think I screamed. I know I threw my arms over my head to protect myself.

  Good thing, because that coffin came down right on top of me. The wood was old and mushy. It splintered into a million pieces.

  Curse? Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that, at that particular moment, the curse was at work. Just like it had been a week earlier when this whole crazy plan to steal Goodshot Gomez began.

  “I swear, this team is cursed!” Quinn Harrison had been up on his feet, cheering along with the rest of the baseball crowd, and now he plunked down in the hard-backed stadium seat, reached for the paper cup he’d left on the cement floor between us, and took a long swallow of beer.

  When whatever had just happened happened, I’d been busy looking over the manicure I’d given myself that afternoon so, honestly, I couldn’t say if the above-mentioned whatever was good or bad. My first clue came when I saw the deep vee creased between Quinn’s eyes. He was pissed.
>
  About something that happened.

  Or didn’t happen.

  “Can you believe it?” The inning was over, and Quinn had time to reflect on the… whatever. He shook his head and his inky hair glinted in the last of the evening sun that streaked over the scoreboard on the other side of the stadium. The sunlight added shadows to a face that was as gorgeous as ever but pinched by the pain he lived with every day, and the strain of a brutal five-times-a-week rehab schedule he insisted on keeping because he was jonesing to get back on the job.

  “That ball had home run written all over it, and their center fielder never should have been able to jump like that and catch it. Damn!” He slapped a hand against the leg of his jeans. “The Cleveland Indians are cursed.”

  “You got that right, brother!” The man sitting behind us leaned forward and put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. Not a good move. Even I knew that. A cop is a cop is a cop. Even a cop who isn’t working at the moment because he got shot a couple months earlier and is still out on disability leave. Always suspicious—even when there was nothing to be suspicious of—Quinn shrugged out from under the man’s hand, spun in his seat, and gave the guy a quick once-over.

  Apparently, the Cleveland Indians ball cap, red sweatshirt with the big blue I on it, and bag of peanuts in his hand indicated the man seated behind us was one of the good guys. Quinn didn’t so much smile at him as he rumbled—in a friendly sort of way that made it clear they were in this together. “It happens every year.” Quinn’s face was somber when he and the man exchanged knowing looks. “Spring training comes and the team looks great. Then the season starts and they play like—”