Free Dead Man’s Hand by John Joseph Adams

gingerly touched the spot he had indicated, then stared
     at her fingers. “Whatever it is, it’s dried. There’s nothing on my hand.”
    “Turn your head just a bit more,” suggested Wichita.
    She did so. “Well?” she asked.
    “Looks for all the world like a bullet hole, Miss Abigail.”
    She frowned and blinked her eyes very rapidly. “You know, I vaguely remember telling
     Ezra—he chops wood and does other chores for me—that if I caught him drinking one
     more time I would fire him. He went into a rage… and that’s the very last thing I
     remember.”
    “And you don’t feel nothing, ma’am?” asked Bradshaw. “No pain, I mean?”
    She shook her head. “Not a thing.” She frowned again. “Does that mean I’m dead?”
    “I hate to put it this way, Miss Abigail,” said Wichita. “But I’ve never seen anyone
     survive a wound like that.”
    She frowned. “Who’s going to weed my garden, or get it ready for the next planting
     season?” She looked across at her two fellow passengers. “If I’m dead, what are you
     two doing here?”
    “Beats me,” said Wichita. “Let’s have a look.” He unbuttoned his black coat and opened
     it wide, revealing a small, neat hole.
    “There you go,” said Bradshaw. “One shot, right through the heart.”
    “Damn!” muttered Wichita. “How about you? You’re not wearing a coat, and I don’t see
     any holes in you.”
    “I’d love to think I got on this here coach by mistake, but I don’t suppose it stops
     for the wrong passengers,” said Bradshaw.
    “Turn and face out the window,” suggested Abigail. “No, not just your head. Your whole
     body.”
    “Yep, there it is,” said Wichita. “You’ve been backshot.”
    “Just my luck,” said Bradshaw bitterly. “Now I don’t even know who to come back and
     haunt.”
    Wichita stared at Abigail for a long moment. “I have enormous respect for you, Miss
     Abigail,” he said at last. “Me and Ben here, we’re not surprised to be on this coach,
     or at least we shouldn’t be. We live with death every day, and there’s no such thing
     as an old gunfighter, or even a middle-aged one. But
you
, Miss Abigail—I just admire the way you’re taking this, not turning a hair and just
     worrying about what’ll happen to your garden.”
    “I loved that garden,” she replied. “I never had a husband or children, so everything
     I had went into it.”
    Bradshaw reached over and gently patted her hand. “I wish there was something we could
     do, ma’am.”
    “I appreciate the thought,” she said, “but it’s a little late to worry about it.”
    They rode in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for a few miles. Then Wichita
     spoke up.
    “I always thought one of the advantages of being dead was that I wouldn’t be so all-fired
     hungry all the time—but could I trouble you for another muffin, Miss Abigail?”
    “Try this instead,” she said, handing him a piece of bread.
    “Thank you kindly,” he said, taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, and got a puzzled
     expression on his face. “It tastes like there was something sweet mixed into the batter.
     It’s sort of half bread and half cake.”
    “I’m very proud of it,” she replied.
    “What’s it made of?”
    She smiled. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be my own any more, would it?”
    “No,” he agreed, returning her smile, “I guess it wouldn’t.”
    It seemed to them that the horses had picked up speed, and had been galloping for
     miles. Then, finally, they started slowing down.
    “I was wondering if those horses
ever
got tired,” remarked Bradshaw.
    “Ain’t tired,” announced the driver. “Got one last passenger to pick up.”
    “
Him?
” said Wichita, looking out the window as the figure came into view. “Never expected
     to see him here this soon.”
    “Who is it?” asked Abigail.
    “Apache Jack Keller,” answered Wichita.
    “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him,” she said.
    “He’s