Free Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) by Eddie Jones

what you saw?”
    She shook her head. “The only reason I rode out here was to tell you to be careful.” Leaning into me, she murmured, “And to maybe not ask so many questions. This isn’t a game, Nick.”
    “So that means it’s okay if I go to the marshal and tell him what we saw?”
    “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    “But you just said—”
    I hadn’t realized she’d been resting her hand on my hip until she pulled away. “Couldn’t we just keep it our little secret for now?”
    “But Billy the Kid’s body is buried up there.”
    “Please, Nick. If you tell my uncle about what we saw he’ll want to know why I was hanging out with you after midnight. He’s very protective. Still treats me like I’m in grade school. Deal?”
    “For now,” I answered. “But at some point I’ll have to tell him about the body buried on Boot Hill.”
    “Later is fine. Just not now.”

CHAPTER NINE
THE DALTON GANG
    T he train’s shrill whistle blast hustled us back aboard the Big Sky. Annie climbed aboard her horse and galloped away. I returned to my seat in the passenger car. Minutes later we rolled away from the Hole in the Wall Junction, and the comic cowboy returned to his act.
    “After many months of walking on the Trail of Tears, the Native Americans finally reached their destination—Detroit. Having failed again to find a peaceful place void of riots, gangs, and interstates choked with American-made automobiles, the Native Americans moved west and settled in the desert. Overnight, a new industry blossomed in the middle of this barren wasteland—gambling.”
    “Soon casinos competed with sagebrush on the forlorn moonscape, a countryside so void of moisture that the Native Americans aptly named it Loss Vegas. The name stuck and soon the more industrious tribal members subdivided the sandlots into city blocks, choking it with strip malls and cheap hotels that rented rooms by the hour. Unaccustomed to running such sprawling and corrupt institutions, the Native Americans turned the management of these casinos, nightclubs, and brothels over to government officials who, in turn, outsourced the work to another tribe of indigenous people. A tribe hunkered on the shores of New Jersey who had spent years beating plowshares into swords and kneecaps into pulp. This tribe was known simply as “The Mob.” Soon, crowds flocked to the desert oasis to listen to really old and inebriated singers mumble songs no one had ever heard of. The Wild West had been tamed. And so it remains tame to this day. Only … not all the Wild West is tamed, and if you’ll look out the windows to your right, you’ll see what I mean.”
    Pulling alongside the train was a posse of riders kicking up a cloud of dust.
    Bursting into the car, the conductor shrieked: “The Dalton Gang!”
    Aiming pistols into the air and firing at random, the Daltons pressed closer to the train. Out my window I saw the lead rider leap from his horse and grab the railing on the steps, swinging himself aboard.
    The rest of the gang rode alongside, firing randomly at the train. The window next to me shattered and I ducked. Eventhough I knew the robbery was staged and the hole where the bullet supposedly hit was planted with some type of small explosive, the bang still left me jumpy. Besides, I couldn’t be certain they weren’t using real ammo.
Annie did ride all the way out here to warn me to be careful. Was the killer one of the Daltons?
    The train’s engineer threw the brake and we lurched forward. The sound of hissing steam blended with the rumble of a boxcar door being rolled open. More gunfire erupted outside my window. Beside me the rear door flew open and in burst a hook-nosed fellow with whiskered cheeks, thick black eyebrows, and a red bandana synched over his mouth and chin. Holding his gun upwards, he fired two shots and ordered us out. I noticed there were no holes in the wood paneling on the ceiling above his head, suggesting to me that his pistol was