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

that the very last pair of moccasins in all of the United States was at that very moment in history on the feet of a guy named James Fenimore Gary Cooper, a famous American author who would later write a poem that would become mandatory reading in all U.S. literature classes, but at the time was struggling to find a publisher due to Cooper’s insistence that the title remain,
The Last of the Moccasins
.”
    The train’s side-to-side rocking lessened, and I noticed we’d begun to slow. Holding onto the back of Dad’s seat, I leaned toward the window and peered out. A hand-lettered sign warned that we’d reached HOLE IN THE WALL JUNCTION: HOME TO BROWN BARES (
Not another misspelling
.) AND BLACK BART. The shudder of steel wheels braking brought the Big Sky to a halt, and steam billowed outside our windows. Quick Draw Guffaw announced that we’d reached the halfway point of our ride and he would be taking a break while the engine took on water. Passengers were free to disembark and have their picture taken with him in front of the locomotive.
    I filed out with the others and found myself standing near the base of an old mining camp. Rusty picks, sifting pans, and wooden flues lay scattered about the ground. A rocky stream sliced through the camp and disappeared into a gully choked with scrub trees and sagebrush. Sheer rock walls towered above the russet peaks. Fractured clouds left wide patches of blue poking through gray. While others lined up to have their pictures taken in front of the cowcatcher, I headed in the opposite direction and caught not a cow, but a break in the case.
    Annie rode toward us on her black mare. Had it not been for her reddish-blonde ponytail bouncing off her shoulders I might have mistaken her for Black Bart, with her black hat sitting snugly on her head, front brim flattened by wind and speed, black pants, shirt, and leather vest.
    I stood in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose, arms folded across my chest, head slightly cocked, giving her my best John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Val Kilmer stance. I hoped to appear indifferent, but honestly I was relieved. I feared something had happened to her.
    Tugging on the reins, she brought her horse to a stop and dismounted.
    “Oversleep?” I said dryly.
    “Needed to take care of some things.”
    “You could’ve left a message with someone at the corral. I waited a long time.”
    “I said I was busy, okay? You’re not my mom, you know.”
    Taking the reins, she walked her horse up the tracks and let it drink from the rocky stream.
    “Just saying, meeting at the corral was your idea, not mine.”
    She pushed the hat back on her head and wiped her brow with the back of her riding glove. When she did, I noticed the saffron bruise just below her hairline.
    I stepped toward her to get a better look. “Did you get walloped?”
    “Did I get what?”
    “Looks like you ran into a tree,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the contusion. “Or a fist.”
    “I … fell off my horse.”
    She pushed my hand away and ruffled her bangs.
    Leaning closer I replied, “Face first and on your head?”
    “Hey, look. It’s not like you’re an expert on horseback riding, okay? The buckle on my saddle broke and I slipped off. End of story.”
    “Sure, whatever. So who was it, really?”
    She stared upwards with a look of surprise. “I told you! Nobody. I fell.”
    “I meant, who did we see last night in the graveyard. You said you’d tell me.”
    “I, ah … was mistaken.”
    “Oh, come on. You know exactly who it was.”
    “Boy, my uncle is right. You
are
paranoid.”
    “Here’s what I know. Someone took a swing at me with a shovel.”
    “We were trespassing. You read the sign.”
    It was obvious she was covering for somebody. Who, I couldn’t tell. But pushing her for answers wasn’t going to get me the name of the killer.
Better to play along and let the truth find me
.
    “So no one threatened you?” I said. “No one told you to keep quiet about