Dead Man's Hand Read Free

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.
    â€œDone many wild west shows?” the sheriff asked.
    â€œOne or two,” James answered cautiously.
    â€œYou sure got the look right, I’ll give you that.”
    â€œThank you kindly, sir.”
    â€œYeah. 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