Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) Read Free Page A

before I could ask Dad if I could, my sister quipped, “Way to go, Nick. We haven’t even had time to unpack and the marshal is already threatening to ride us out of town.”
    “For once, why can’t you just do like you’re asked?” Mom added.
    “Would the two of you cut him some slack?” said Dad. “I’m sure Nick will be on his best behavior now, won’t you, son?”
    “I know what I saw, Dad. And it wasn’t a ghost. Or some video of a fake gunfight.” Grabbing my backpack from the pile of bags tossed onto the roof of the stagecoach, I flung open the door and slid across the seat as far as I could. The setting sun began to turn the mountains pink. Slanting rays crept acrossthe pasture, casting long rooftop shadows.
Was it a cheap parlor trick? A clever act?
I could see how video of the gunslinger might be part of the ghost town theatrics. But the dead man? He was real; I was sure of it.

    Can’t fake the metallic smell of blood
.
    While Dad chatted with the stagecoach driver and Wendy patted the horses, I unzipped the front compartment of my backpack and grabbed my gaming magazine.
Might as well finish reading the review
, I thought.
    I opened the magazine; a barroom napkin landed in my lap. Stamped across the front was a colorful sketch of Sassy Sally’s Saloon. On the back a personalized message addressed to me.
    IF YOU WANT TO CATCH MY KILLER, BE AT BOOT HILL THIS EVENING. MIDNIGHT. It was signed, Billy the Kid.

CHAPTER THREE
DEAD MAN’S HAND
    I left my bags on the floor of what passed for the Bat Master-son Suite (one bunk, one sink with cold water, dripping shower faucet) and returned to the front porch of our bunkhouse. The clapboard building was painted a violent shade of yellow, its tin roof fireball red. The sky had turned a brilliant orange and there was a perceptible chill in the air. In the open field that linked the bunkhouses, a heavy-set father tossed logs onto a campfire while his boys played horseshoes.
    I dropped into a rocker and propped my sneakers onto the rough-hewn porch railing. It occurred to me that any number of people could have killed the actor Bill Bell. The white-haired security guard, Wyatt Earp, hadn’t been at his post when we’darrived. Maybe Dad’s horn honking had interrupted him before he could dispose of the body. Marshal Buckleberry. He and his deputy had seemed to arrive out of nowhere. Had I stumbled upon a heated argument gone bad? Wouldn’t be the first time a law enforcement officer was involved in a cover-up.
    Then there was the mysterious driver of the sports car, the one dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt who looked eerily like the phantom figure I’d seen in the hayloft. I thought back to our ride up the mountain and how Mom had complained about the speeding Dodge Charger zooming past us in the middle of a blind turn. Same car? And if it was, would the driver have arrived ahead of us in time to kill Billy the Kid before I charged into the barn?
    “How’s your room?” Wendy stood behind me holding open the screen door. “I have a fireplace in mine. Bet yours doesn’t have a fireplace. I’m in the Calamity Jane room. Did you know her real name was Martha Jane Cannary Burke? Says so right here on the brochure. I think I heard Mom say they’re in the Annie Oakley suite. Did you know she’s really here, Annie Oakley? Pamphlet calls her a ‘dead-eye marksman.’”
    I said nothing. Just kept staring at the campfire and watching the two boys thump the grass with horseshoes.
    “Mom says we’re walking up as soon as she gets out of the shower. Dinner in a saloon—is that awesome or what?”
    “Oughta be a real hootenanny.”
    “Gee, Nick. You could at least
pretend
like you’re having a good time.”
    “Did you see anyone come out of Lazy Jack’s after I went in? Or come around the side of the building?”
    “You mean while we were loading our stuff onto the roof of the stagecoach? No, why?”
    I pushed myself up from my rocker. “Think