Read Online Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) by Eddie Jones - Free Book Online Page A

Leaning forward I explained that the city of Joliet was the fourthlargest city in the state of Illinois, located just forty-five miles southwest of Chicago. She brightened once she caught on to the punch line.
    “Meanwhile in the Old West, displaced residents from Manhattan’s Upper West Side sat around campfires singing folk songs and wearing mink stoles and listening to really bad harmonica music.”
    The Big Sky turned away from the river and gorge and chugged toward a series of chimney-shaped outcroppings. Goats stood on rocky slopes eyeing the train as it passed. Just for fun I glanced around to see if Annie had snuck aboard without me noticing, but I didn’t see her.
    “Such was the era of western exploration. A period in American history unlike any before it. And hopefully never to be seen again. This was America’s first ‘lost generation.’ A term normally ascribed to uneducated and unemployable teens, but which fit these hearty folks due to the fact that no one, not even the renowned explorers Huey Lewis and the Dave Clark candy bar, had a clue what they were doing or where they were going since the GPS and highway maps hadn’t been invented yet. What am I saying? HIGHWAYS HADN’T BEEN INVENTED. In fact, the 75-watt GE lightbulb was just a flicker in the eye of the American inventor ‘Tommy Boy’ Edison.”
    I could tell the comic was feeding off the audience’s energy, holding the pause just long enough to draw the listeners forward in their seats. There’s a skill to holding a crowd’s attention. Last semester we studied the technique in drama class. Not that I was any good at acting or wanted to be in a play.But the course was an easy A because it focused primarily on technique and if there was one thing I’m good at, it’s analyzing facts and memorizing technique. That’s one reason all this detective stuff is so much fun for me.
    I nudged Dad. “I need to get up and move around.”
    “But this guy’s a hoot. Don’t tell me you’re bored.”
    “Oh, no. He’s way better than the poetry guy. But I’m tired of sitting.”
    No further explanation needed. Dad understood, even if Mom didn’t.
    The one time I’d mentioned to my father how hard it was for me to sit still, he’d shared how when he was a boy he suffered from what Grandmamma Caden called “fidgety pants.”
    “You probably got it from me, Nick. Not that I’m an expert on ADD or anything. Your mom’s the one who keeps up with all these childhood syndromes. But I almost flunked ninth grade because I couldn’t stay seated. Teacher kept threatening to tie me into my chair. Part of it was because I was bored and spent too much time daydreaming. Now it’s not so bad. Only flares up when I’m sitting in a sales meeting or listening to your sister recite those poems she writes,” he’d said, winking.
    He swung his legs and I slid out, mirroring the comic cowboy’s posture by taking a position at the rear of the car.
    “Bushwhackers, desperados, and hornswagglers roamed, ranged, and terrified the settlers of the Old West, ruling the Bad Lands from the Dakotas to Duluth, adding a mystical aura to U.S. social studies classes. Tracking these lawless men was easy. You only needed to follow the smell. The indigenous people—Indians, so named in honor of a country clear on theother side of the globe—found themselves rounded up and shuttled onto tour buses where they spent days, sometimes months, visiting scenic national monuments like the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone National Park, and Frank Stoeber’s giant ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas. As often happens during such tours, the buses broke down, leaving the group stranded in desolate areas. The marooned passengers called such places Death Valley, Broken Bow, and Cleveland. Miles from civilization and out of cell phone range, these resolute Native Americans began walking along a path known as the Trail of Tears—so called because of the scorching hot desert sand and the fact