The dead boy stood in the path twenty yards ahead. Jack pulled on the reins of his dun colored mount and brought the animal to a stop. The sun beat down mercilessly, and Jack paused to mop his brow with a threadbare red handkerchief. Jack rolled a quirley and surveyed his surroundings. To his left he saw only an endless expanse of rolling Dakota Territory prairie; to his right was more of the same. His direction took him toward the Black Hills, crouching on distant horizon.

Jack turned his squinting eyes back to the ghost. Andy, eternally youthful, motioned with one transparent arm for the rider to leave the trail. Jack tugged on the reins and urged his horse in the direction his spectral companion pointed. The dun set off at a quick trot through the wild grass. Satisfied, the spirit faded away. When Jack looked back at the spot where Andy had stood, he saw the reason for his brother’s appearance. An aggravated rattlesnake, almost five feet long by Jack’s estimation, slithered along the trail seeking shade. Once they were far enough along that Jack knew his horse wouldn’t spook, he let the dun find its way back to the trail.

Three hours later, as the sun worked its way toward the horizon, Jack came upon the empty shell of an abandoned homestead. He glanced at the structure appraisingly. Both he and the dun felt played out and he’d do well to stop for rest soon. But the winds from a summer storm had torn the roof off the dwelling long ago and it would afford him little shelter. He decided to continue on. Andy peered out from an empty window frame. He gazed at something in the scrub brush. Jack saw that it was a hoe, left behind by the homesteaders when they had moved on.

From the past, the sound of metal striking flesh echoed in Jack’s ears. He grabbed the saddle’s horn for balance and shook his head as if to keep the memory at bay. It was no use.

“I’ll race you Jack!” Andy challenged and took off at a full sprint toward Rock Creek’s main street. Jack let his younger brother get a good head start and then began to chase him. Twin plumes of dust marked the boys’ progress, then dissipated as they stood panting outside the post office. Jack and Andy’s mother, referred to around town as ‘the Widow Woman,’ had sent the boys into Rock Creek from their farm to mail a letter. After their father’s death, Mary had begun to correspond with kin back in Louisville. Unsure of how she would support herself and two boys here in the West, a move back to Kentucky seemed like the most practical option. It was Andy’s job to mail the letter -a duty he attended to proudly. Jack was only along to ’supervise.’ Jack had no way of knowing what he’d see that day.

Hands still gripping the horn of his saddle, Jack leaned away from his mount and succumbed to the dry heaves that wracked his wiry frame. He cursed himself for giving in, knowing he had precious little water in his canteen to replenish his fluids.

Jack looked toward the abandoned shell of a house, but Andy had faded away. Wearily, he picked up the reins. He was eager to leave the homestead – and the hoe – far behind. He wished he’d had to deal with the rattlesnake instead.

Three days passed as Jack slowly worked his way west, until one afternoon the August sun found Jack approaching the foothills of the Black Hills. The imposing shape of Bear Butte loomed north of him; Fort Meade squatted to the south. Jack and his horse continued west and soon began to ascend the worn old mountains. The tall pines and spruce, growing sporadically at first, began to thicken. Soon Jack was surrounded by trees. He felt peaceful, hidden. Only Andy interrupted Jack’s solitude, occasionally appearing to point the way.

As they approached what the locals called Oyster Mountain, Andy appeared again, pointing at a small clear stream that Jack did not know the name of. The dun nickered happily at the prospect of water and rest and Jack contemplated making it their campsite for the night.

He removed the bridle from the horse and led it close to the stream. After he had tethered the horse securely in a location where the animal could drink and crop grass, he returned to the foot of the steep hill and squatted on his haunches. Jack gazed up at the rolling cloud banks and let his mind wander.

After mailing the letter, Andy and Jack descended the post office stairs and paused in the street. This rare trip to town afforded them a measure of freedom and after a brief conference, they decided on a detour to the general store for some hard candy before starting on their way back. As they passed the Overland Stage Coach station, the door flew open abruptly and a tall man dressed in buckskin stepped out, slamming the door behind him. Raucous laughter came from within. The young man scowled and hurried into the street, long hair bouncing on his shoulders with each stride. He moved toward them, clenching his fists in anger. Both boys recognized James, the new stage coach stable hand, as he approached. It was Andy, in the innocence of youth, who greeted him.

“Mornin’ Mr. Duck Bill,” he greeted the approaching figure in the silly voice that never failed to give Jack the fits. Jack began to laugh, but then stopped abruptly when he saw James’ eyes blazing and his face flushing crimson. James uttered a strangled cry of rage and ran up a side street. He jumped a fence and landed in someone’s meager garden. The boys gaped first at him, then at each other.

“You made him go plum crazy!” Jack chided his dumbstruck younger brother. “Why’d you go an’ call him Duck Bill for?”

“That’s what Mr. McCanles and the fellers at the stage coach station call him.” Andy defended himself. “I was just being friendly.”

“I don’t think he likes that nickname,” Jack confided. “On account of his big nose.”

Andy started to reply then looked up with a cry. “Jack, he’s comin’ back! ”

Something moved to Jack’s left. Spooked, he made and awkward grab for his 45 caliber revolver. Andy’s spectral form flickered before him. The spirit pointed toward the peak of the hill. Jack dutifully began to climb.

His boots slipped several times on the carpet of dry pine needles. The ascent was steeper than he had expected. The sun dipped below the horizon of the hills and as Jack climbed, the shadows lengthened and cool night air crept slyly across his face.

Near the top of Oyster Mountain, Jack approached an area where the pine needles and brush had been cleared away, exposing the dark earth. A sweat lodge constructed of thin tree branches and tanned buffalo hides sat in the center. The remains of a fire smoldered nearby and Jack saw one or two stones still heating amidst the embers. A lone Lakota Sioux brave stepped out of the sweat lodge and raised his hand in a somber greeting. “How kola,” he said as Jack approached. “Hello friend.”

Jack responded in kind. “How kola. I am called Jack.”

“Micaje Nape Sica.”

Jack shrugged and shook his head. The other man gave it to him in English. “My name is Bad Hand.”

“Are you alone here, or are there others?”

“I am esnella- a loner. I come to Paha Sapa because my heart cries for a vision.”

Jack grunted noncommittally.

“Wachin ksapa yo,” Bad Hand began. He paused and started again. “Listen to me.” He gazed at the ground for a moment, carefully choosing his words. The he resumed: “Ki wanagi chikala, the little spirit, came to me. My vision quest has already begun. He has asked me to share my canupa, my pipe, with you so that he may speak to you.”

Bad Hand gestured for Jack to enter the sweat lodge. Jack wondered if Andy’s ghost had appeared before the Indian. Andy often appeared to Jack, but his brother’s spirit seemed unable to speak to him directly.

“Iyotaka,” Bad Hand said when they were inside, motioning Jack to sit down. A shallow pit in the center of the enclosure was filled with the hot stones from the fire outside. Jack stripped off his shirt and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. He sat as far from the heated stones as he could and Bad Hand positioned himself opposite him, pouring water onto the stones. Steam billowed and Jack fought the feeling of claustrophobia that welled up within him. After several minutes, Bad Hand repeated the process with the water. Next, he removed a small clay pipe from a leather pouch and filled it with sacred tobacco. Bad Hand chanted a prayer and smoked. Jack waited, sweating and trying to keep his mind clear. Finally Bad Hand passed the pipe across the stones and sat back.

“You are on ki wanagi tacaku, the spirit path,” Bad Hand announced.

Jack held the pipe and raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Already?”

“You follow ki wanagi chikalathe, the little spirit, do you not?”

“What little spirit?”

“The spirit of your brother. He wishes to speak to you. Smoke to cleanse your mind and then be still.”

Jack raised the pipe to his lips with trembling hands. He had grown used to seeing Andy, but now he might again hear his voice? Jack inhaled and his lungs felt scorched. He inhaled again and his lungs cooled. He felt a sense of peace wash over him. Bad Hand closed his eyes and began a chant. He seemed very far away. Jack’s ears hummed.

Jack sat still and tried to relax, but felt as if he were melting in the heat. Even in almost complete darkness, shadows seemed to flit around the sweat lodge. The humming sound increased until it became unbearable. Jack closed his eyes and covered his ears against the growing roar.

“…aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhAAACK!”

Then silence.

“Jack!” The speaker repeated urgently.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at his brother Andy. They were sitting together in a grassy field. The warm sun shone down, all benevolence.

“Hi Jack.”

Tears welled up in Jack’s eyes. “I miss you, Andy,” he croaked.

“I’m tired and I want to go home.”

“Are you leaving me?”

“You have to let me go first. Your sorrow’s keeping me here.”

“But-”

“Cut me loose and put my memory to rest.”

“How am I s’posed to forget you?”

“You don’t have to forget,” Andy rippled like a heat mirage. “There’s poison in your heart that you need to get rid of.”

“I don’t understand,” Jack began, but Andy’s disembodied voice rose over his.

“You will know when the time is right to balance the scales.” The ghost held up his small transparent pink hands in a weighing gesture. “I have learned a lot, stuck between two worlds. I will help you.”

“Andy, wait. I’m sorry-” Jack broke off, not knowing how to apologize. Wanting to say he wished it was him that had died instead. The specter faded away and Jack felt a wave of nausea wash over him like rancid pond scum. Jack closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he found himself back in the sweat lodge. Bad Hand chanted across from him. As Jack looked, the other man’s eyelids fluttered and opened.

Bad Hand crawled from the sweat lodge into the cool night air. Jack followed. The temperature change was so drastic that Jack briefly wondered if he’d been entranced for months and had awoken in the dead of winter. He shivered uncontrollably for several minutes while his companion panted nearby.

“That’s something I never want to do again,” Jack said finally. “That was heap bad medicine.”

Bad Hand jerked his head up, insulted. “Canl Waka!” he spat, “Coward! You must accept the visions the spirit brings you.”

“Well, then I reckon I’m supposed to kill a man,” Jack said drily.

Bad Hand regarded him closely. “That is your sintkala waksu, your spirit path?”

“Yes. My brother Andy told me. He died when we were kids. Said I would know when the time was right for vengeance.”

“My path rapidly approaches the clearing. Soon my spirit will go to Mahpiya, to Paradise. It will be a hot day. White men who are thirsty and tired of riding will run me down out of boredom and anger.”

Jack didn’t know what might be the right words to say, so he kept silent.

“I have done no wrong,” he said. “My heart is good. Let Wakan Tanka come for me.”

“I didn’t have much schooling,” Jack began, “But I know a raw deal when I see one. If what you say about bein’ killed is true, then I’m sorry. I don’t know why you were named Bad Hand, but pardner, it sounds like you been dealt one.”

Jack fell asleep beneath the stars and woke beneath the sun. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. His muscles shrieked in protest and his joints felt stiff from spending the night sprawled on the earth. Bad Hand and the sweat lodge were gone. Jack wondered briefly if the other man had really been there at all.

He descended and drank deeply from the stream. Then he saddled up and rode deeper into the Black Hills. Jack urged his mount to the southwest, through Boulder Canyon. Andy appeared only when Jack began to wander off course. To the south, Granite Peak rose and sank behind them as they progressed. Jack rode to the top of a hill and was surprised by an expanse of meadow. The view, with Whitewood Peak to the north and Pillar Peak to the south, took his breath away. They rested briefly, Jack gnawing on jerked venison from his pack while the dun contentedly cropped the tall grass. He pondered his brother’s words and slipped back again. Back to Kansas. And to Andy sprinting away in terror.

James thundered toward them, bright blue eyes blazing. The fringe of his buckskin bounced in time with his shoulder length hair. He was brandishing a garden hoe, stolen from a nearby garden. Its iron head gleamed in the sun. Andy turned and fled, but in his terror, he mistakenly chose the path that eventually led home, but away from the potential protection among other townsfolk. Jack felt as if he were rooted to the earth. Where was everyone? Didn’t anyone know what was happening? It was only after James had bounded past him that fear for his brother outstripped his fear for himself. Jack spun and sped after them.

In any race between a man in his early twenties and a nine year old boy, the boy always wins. This is simply because the older man allows the boy to win. This day, however, the man doing the running didn’t care to observe that unspoken law.

As Jack watched, helpless to intercede, James swung the hoe in a long arc. It connected with Andy’s head and Jack heard the sound that he could never forget. Andy’s small body sprawled to the ground in a cloud of dust.

It was afternoon again by the time Jack forded the stream in Spruce Gulch. They began the slow ascent of another wooded hill. The wind and trees had conspired to play a trick on Jack and when he crested the next hill, he was met with a startling cacophony of sounds. The dun tossed its head with disapproval as Jack gaped at the scene below. The bustling cavalcade of activity at the bottom of the hill nearly overwhelmed the senses.

Men shouted, laughed and called to one another. Grubby miners, cursing and spitting, led pack mules through the streets. Dusty cowhands tilted their heads to look up at the kept women who flirted from the windows of their rooms. Some of the men turned away while others shuffled toward the brothel doors, looking both excited and foolish. A small but pious group of men and women clotted one street corner as a tall man in black robes stood on a barrel and preached to his flock. Chinese men smiled obsequiously and pulled their carts, disappearing like ants into dark passageways. The tinkle of a piano came from one saloon. The batwing doors of another suddenly burst open and a barkeep and a sunburned cowboy tossed a dapper looking gambler who’d obviously been caught cheating into the dust. One or two respectable women of society ventured along the streets, while legitimate businessmen and bunko artists alike smoked cigars and eyed each other shrewdly. A group of Lakota Sioux Indians, in town for the day to trade, made an eye-catching spectacle of buckskin and feathers. Standing there in the midst of it all, looking up at Jack with supernatural clarity, stood Andy.

Jack sighed and started down the hill, following his spirit path straight into the heart of the mountain mining town.

After securing a stall for his horse in one of the outlying stables, Jack spent most of the hot July afternoon exploring the boom town. Andy had disappeared again as Jack was descending the hill so Jack wandered, doing his best not to idle anywhere too long. He didn’t need anyone pegging him for a deadbeat. He browsed the mercantile, stopped for a questionable-tasting whiskey at one of the many saloons, and waved a good-natured dismissal toward a busty, toothless matron who was attempting to solicit clients from her windowsill.

Jack got a closer look at the tall bearded preacher as he exhorted his makeshift congregation. The preacher caught Jack’s eyes and addressed him directly. “What brings you here, my son?”

“I want to help my brother find peace,” Jack explained.

The preacher stretched out his arms and took in the crowd with a beatific gaze. “This man is here to help his brother,” he cried. “That is what our Savior asks of all of us: to help one another!” Applause and scattered shouts of approval came from the small crowd, and Jack took advantage of the moment to slip away down the street. Behind him Jack heard the preacher continue his sermon. “In Ecclesiastes Chapter four, Solomon writes…”

Jack kept wandering through the crowds searching for Andy, or for some sign of the man he needed to kill. He found neither. It was early in the evening now, with menacing dark thunderclouds rapidly rolling in from the north. A chilly gust of wind spat dust in his eyes. They watered as he hurried up the street. A rumble of thunder goaded several pedestrians into picking up their paces.

The sky overhead soon darkened and the first drops of rain splattered in the dust. The bare ground would soon become a quagmire and wagons jostled hurriedly up and down the streets. The horses pranced and reared nervously as the thunder began to increase in frequency and ferocity. Everywhere people were hurrying indoors. The saloons and stores were suddenly filled beyond capacity. Miners scurried to their tent camps. The wind whipped at Jack as he sought shelter and he grabbed the front brim of his hat to stop it from blowing away.

Jack had a vague idea of heading for the nearest hotel when Andy appeared in the dimness of an adjacent alley. He stood with his hands behind his back and he seemed to gaze expectantly at his brother. Jack turned and sprinted in Andy’s direction.

Just ahead Jack saw wooden steps descending beside the building. Looking down, he saw the ghostly white face of his brother floating in the darkness below. The sky opened and rain began to drench the earth. Jack hurried down the stairs into the darkness below.

Andy was not waiting at the bottom of the steps, so Jack pushed open a red-painted wooden door. He stepped into a dark stone passageway, lit by lanterns hung on nails from the walls every twenty yards or so. Jack moved cautiously along the chilly passage. A rumbling sound came from somewhere in the darkness ahead. Suddenly the silhouette of a man emerged from the darkness. As the figure approached, Jack was able to make him out more clearly. A small Chinese man pulled a wooden cart filled with carefully folded garments. The Chinese man showed no indication of slowing down as he approached and Jack was not sure if it was because the smaller man did not see him or because Jack was not welcome down here. He was about to turn around and hurry back to the door he had entered through when the man pulling the cart executed a hairpin right angle turn and disappeared down a corridor Jack had not noticed. The rumble of the wooden cart faded away and Jack heard only the gentle hiss of the oil lamps and the distant rumble of thunder.

Why had Andy guided him here? Just to get him out of the rain? Jack knew it had to be more than that. As quietly as he could, he stepped toward the tunnel the Chinese launderer had taken. Unconsciously holding his breath, he peered cautiously around the corner.

“Why you make so much noise?” a sharp voice complained from behind him and Jack jolted in surprise. He spun around and saw a wizened old Chinese man standing in the opposite passageway. The elderly man wore a black silk jacket embroidered with white thread. His dark eyes seemed to flicker in the gas light and a long white mustache hung like cobwebs from both sides of his thin mouth.

“I am Shen Liu. You are late,” he continued curtly, like a schoolmarm admonishing a tardy student. “Come.”

The Chinaman turned and moved down a passage so small that Jack had to stoop in order to enter. Jack followed the old man down the pitch black tunnel. His guide told him when to turn left or right or when there was a step up or down. After a period of prolonged silence, Jack began to feel claustrophobic.

“Where are you taking me?” Jack muttered. “I’m a cowpuncher, not a miner searching for the mother lode.”

Suddenly a hand grabbed the back of Jack’s collar and hauled him backwards into a dimly lit den. Jack spun around and reached for his revolver but was shocked to find his holster empty. On the verge of panic, Jack realized it was Shen Liu standing in front of him.

“You very slow,” the Chinese man said. He handed back the gun. Jack took it, stupefied. The old man gestured toward a luxuriant rug. “Sit.”

Jack eased himself to the floor and sat cross-legged before a wooden tray. The tray itself was elaborately decorated with ivory inlays and pearlescent seashells. Atop the tray were a variety of items including two smaller metal trays, a tiny oil lamp, and a pipe with a bamboo stem and a blue and white porcelain bowl. The old man sat down across from Jack.

“Your brother came to me yesterday as I smoked,” Shen Liu said as he trimmed the wick on the little oil lamp. “His round white face and black eyes nearly scared the life from me.”

“At least there’s still some life left in you to scare,” Jack replied drily.

The old man filled a pipe using something that looked to Jack like a skeleton key with a tiny spoon at one end.

“An-dee is his name?” Shen Liu asked.

Jack nodded.

“He speak of the sorrow you and he share,” the man continued. He held the pipe over the flame burning in the lamp. “He ask me to help you.”

Shen Liu raised his pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and his shoulders sank as he relaxed.

“We build tunnels for laundry, but have many secret places as well.” The old man arched an eyebrow slyly. Jack glanced around the dimly lit alcove.

“Debt to be paid,” Shen Liu continued, then added cryptically, “Bill’s come due.”

Jack concentrated, trying to follow the old man’s words. Shen Liu held the pipe out to Jack. He took it and tentatively inhaled. Rather than making him cough, the smoke was thick and sweet. It felt like molasses coating his lungs. Jack felt the tension flow from his body.

Shen Liu held the pipe over the flame, then returned it to Jack who put the small pipe to his lips and inhaled again. The room tilted sharply and Jack toppled onto the rug, his limbs felt simultaneously weightless and unbearably heavy. He thought he heard Andy singing a song they had learned as children. Jack was dimly aware of the old Chinese man retiring to a corner of the room. He wanted to tell Shen Liu that he admired the old man’s long gray braid of hair but was unable to do more than mumble incoherently. The opium was a shock to his system. Jack became aware of someone else in the tiny room. He tried to turn his head but the presence always flitted just out of his field of vision.

“Aces and eights, Jack.” Andy’s voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. “Number Ten.”

Jack scarcely dared to breathe as he concentrated on his dead brother’s words.

“One shot.”

The sound of flies buzzing around his ears woke him and Jack sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes. The bedsprings creaked in protest as he rolled over and swung his legs onto the floor. Jack noticed a water pitcher and a glass on a battered dresser. He walked over, ignored the glass and gratefully gulped the cool liquid straight from the pitcher. Jack shook his head, trying to clear it. Scattered images of the previous night began to parade through his memory: the Chinese laundry tunnels, Shen Liu, the opium pipe and Andy’s cryptic words. Jack remembered the old man guiding him from the den and back out onto the street. Shen Liu’s last words to Jack echoed in his mind.

“You very slow with gun,” the old man had said in the muddy street. “Aim for his back.”

Jack screamed his brother’s name as he ran to where Andy lay. He slid to the ground and gathered his brother in his arms. James dropped the hoe absently, his bright blue eyes showing a mixture of fear and gratification. Jack rocked Andy in his arms. He palmed a trickle of blood from his brother’s cheek and began to sob. He knew he was too old to cry, but this was different. He cried for his brother, lying so still. He cried when he thought about telling their mother. And he cried because he had no father to tell.

Jack gulped the rest of the water. His hand trembled so violently that he dribbled most of what was left down the front of his shirt. Then Jack grabbed his boots from their place beside the bed and pulled them on. He buckled on his holster, grabbed his hat and descended the stairs. Jack stopped at the desk to inquire about payment. The desk clerk, a tall man with spectacles and carefully oiled and combed hair, informed Jack that ‘a Chinaman’ had paid for the room the night before. The clerk volunteered to hold the room if Jack decided to return.

“Much obliged,” Jack told the clerk. He left the lobby and stepped into the bright noonday sun. Jack rambled up and down the streets of the bustling town, casually taking in the sights, but always on the lookout for Andy or the man he needed to find. About mid afternoon, Jack stepped into a restaurant for a bite to eat. He ordered liver and onions and Arbuckle’s coffee. As Jack paid he realized he was dangerously low on funds. He’d have to find work, and soon. Maybe tonight he could win a few hands of poker to get him by for a few more days.

On his way out, Jack asked the man running the place where the best spots for poker were. “Every saloon in town has games running every night,” the ruddy-faced man said, scratching at his scalp. “Seems like lots of high rollers make an appearance over at the No. 10.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Number ten?”

“Sure. Nuttall and Mann’s Saloon No. 10. You’ll find it on the east side of Main Street, about halfway down.”

Jack headed outside thinking that he might try his hand against a few of these so-called ‘high rollers’. As he stepped into the street Jack stopped short.

“Number ten.” Andy had said that to him. Jack’s eyes narrowed with realization and he turned and marched purposefully down Main Street.

Jack almost missed his intended destination. The sign hanging out from the saloon was small and unassuming. As Jack approached, a grubby miner burst through a set of batwing doors and stuck a filthy finger in Jack’s face. He seemed about to speak, but before he could, a brawny barkeep grabbed the miner by the collar and tossed him into the dirt.

“Don’t mind him; he’s full as a tick.” The barkeep said to Jack.

“I see that.”

“Name’s Harry Young,” the barkeep said as he opened one of the doors to go back inside. “I run a tight ship here at the No. 10.”

Stomach tightening in a way Jack did not quite understand, he followed the man inside.

A few hours later Jack found himself gazing at his brother’s killer.

The man, apparently now something of a celebrity, had arrived at the No. 10 amidst the admiring looks of nearly everyone in and around the bar. James was a hard man to miss, standing several inches above most others. His long wavy hair spilled onto a buckskin fringed coat and a scraggly handlebar mustache did little to diminish the appearance of his protruding nose.

Someone bought James a drink. He downed it in a gulp and stationed himself near one of the tables. Sensing that the tall man wanted in, one of the players threw in his hand and vacated his chair. Jack was surprised when Andy appeared in the empty seat. No one else noticed. Andy stared directly at Jack, his eyes dull and hollow. Then the big gambler dropped himself into the chair and obliterated the apparition.

The symbolism was not lost on Jack, who seethed as the cards flew.

Andy’s killer had attained a great deal of notoriety in recent years. Jack heard the stories by catching snatches of conversations of those around him. James had worked as a scout, marksman and professional gambler. Jack even heard someone say the tall man had spent a brief time as a small-town lawman. They all referred to the tall man not as James, but another name; either a nickname or a false one, Jack didn’t know which. He wondered if James had changed his name after fleeing Rock Creek. Jack’s blood ran cold as he watched the tall man handle his cards.

Jack hovered, tossing back occasional whiskey shots and steeling his nerve. When another of the players dropped out, Jack stepped forward and took his place.

“Reckon I know you,” Jack addressed Andy’s killer as the cards were dealt.

“Reckon everybody does,” the tall man shot back drily. The room erupted in laughter. Both men eyed their cards. Jack kept a pair of tens and discarded his three undesirables. His new cards amounted to nothing and he folded. The man to Jack’s left discarded a pair of cards and the dealer, sitting to Jack’s right, tossed him two more.

“Mebbe you remember me from Rock Creek, Kansas,” Jack pressed. James looked up.

Jack expected to see the shock of recognition in the other man’s eyes. Successful gambler that he was, however, his facial features and body language betrayed no reaction.

“Never been there,” he said.

Without breaking eye contact, James tossed one card and received another. He tossed a coin into the pot. The dealer stayed and tossed his coin. The player to Jack’s left folded.

James raised. The dealer raised and called.

“Straight,” James said, fanning his cards.

“Beats my two pair,” the dealer admitted, and James swept up the pot.

So went the evening and much of the night. The tall man continued playing to the gallery, cracking jokes and accepting free drinks. Jack won a few small pots but kept playing and soon found himself dead broke. He pushed back his chair and stood, fuming. Even if only a third of the stories he’d heard were true, Jack knew he could never beat James to the draw. Worse, he was sure other man recognized him, yet gave no indication that he cared one way or another who Jack was. Feeling desperate, but not knowing what to do, he headed for the batwing doors. He had to get outside, gather his wits…

Andy lay in Jack’s arms, lifeless as a log.

Jack shot beseeching looks in every direction. The only living person he saw was James shuffling back towards town. Seized by a sudden fury, Jack screamed.

“I’ll kill you when I grow up! If I ever see you again I will KILL YOU!”

James did not turn around. Instead, he returned to town, mounted the first horse he found and immediately fled Kansas.

“Hey puncher!” Jack stopped short. The voice belonged to James.

“I feel awful about fleecing you,” the gambler said, amid snickers. “Let me pay for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow.” James tossed a couple coins in Jack’s direction.

Jack caught the arcing coins.

“I’ll be right here tomorrow night,” James said, still looking at Jack. Now his eyes burned with secret meaning shared between only the two of them. “If you decide to settle accounts.”

Jeering laughter chased Jack out into the darkness. His blood pounded in his temples and his cheeks burned with embarrassment and confusion as he staggered through the humid night air. He hurried across the still-muddy street and ducked into the shadows between two buildings.

Jack suddenly realized that James, unlike the others, hadn’t been laughing. He stood pondering this. Jack wondered if he wasn’t the only tortured soul haunted by the past. He tried to imagine James tossing and turning through sleepless nights. He wondered if the other man ever saw Andy’s face in nightmares or during waking hours.

Jack found his way back to his hotel and gave the desk clerk the coins.

He clutched at the banister as he ascended the stairs, his brain swimming with unanswered questions. Inside the room, Jack kicked off his boots, took off his gun belt and collapsed onto the mattress. He tossed and turned like a man in the throes of fever until sleep finally took him and escorted him to the land of nightmares.

Bad Hand’s head floated in a large pickling jar on the bar beside Jack. The man was singing a chant-like song but Jack didn’t understand the words. A leering Shen Liu stood behind the bar. Jack tossed back his drink and slammed his glass down on the bar. The entire room shook from the impact.

“Eights, ten and one,” the head in the jar droned. Understanding these words perfectly, Jack turned to look and saw that it was now Andy’s head floating in the yellow-green liquid.

“I don’t know if I can really kill him,” Jack began confiding to his brother, then stopped as an icy shadow fell ominously over them. Andy’s mouth opened in a silent scream and the gleaming blade of a hoe arced out and shattered the jar. Andy’s head exploded and sprayed Jack with gore.

Jack tried to leap from his bar stool to confront the stranger towering over him but was frozen. As the figure turned to leave, Jack glimpsed the cold glittering eyes, shoulder length hair, and an obscene orange duck bill.

A voice echoed in Jack’s brain: “I’ll be right here tomorrow night if you decide to settle accounts. ”

Jack’s mouth was dry as he slipped into the Saloon No. 10 the next night. He moved down the bar, stopping a few steps behind the man who had killed his brother. Several others were gathered around the table, taking a look at the hands that were dealt.

James raised his cards and Jack saw that the top one was a jack. Jack realized the face on the card bore an eerie resemblance to himself. Then he noticed that the other cards in James’ hand were all aces and eights. Aces and eights, number ten, one shot. Andy had told him he would know…

James sat very still, doing nothing with his cards, and Jack realized the big man was waiting for him. Waiting for him to settle accounts.

Andy flickered in and out of view beside the table. His eyes gazed longingly upward at something that Jack could not see.

Knowing the time was right, Jack raised his Colt 45 caliber revolver and aimed the barrel directly at the man now known as Wild Bill Hickok, but who once had been the angry young James Butler.

Jack McCall pulled the trigger and finally set his brother’s spirit free.

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Adrian Ludens resides and works in the historic Black Hills of South Dakota. Whenever he can, Adrian sneaks to the computer to write stories like this one. He particularly wants to thank his wife Crissy for her patience and support.

Some of Adrian’s recent and upcoming work includes appearances in Morpheus Tales, 52 Stitches, Illumen and Trail of Indiscretion. His story “The Travel Agent” is available in Glassfire Anthology from PegLeg Publishing. Adrian is a two time winner of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s “Mysterious Photograph” flash fiction writing contest.

Adrian can be found online at http://www.myspace.com/adrianludens and http://curioditiesadrianludens.blogspot.com/.