Dead Man's Hand Read Free Page A

suspicious frown.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œYou’re clean,” the sheriff said, frowning at the contraption. “OK, you can go, but stay out of trouble.”
    â€œThank you kindly, Sheriff,” James said, then stepped toward the counter where the man had set down his gun belt.
    â€œWhoa, 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.
    â€œMan, these are antiques! Where’d you get these?”
    â€œHad ‘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.
    â€œI’ll have to keep these. You can take the guns. Don’t get into any trouble with them, all right?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œStay 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