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

loaded with blanks. Still, the quick succession of loud bangs produced more shrieks of panic, my sister’s sounding the loudest.
    Thirty or so passengers filed past my seat. I joined the end of the line, jostled by the comic cowboy bumping into me and urging me to hurry. Outside we lined up beside the train. The gunmen leveled their pistols at us, daring us to move. An older fellow with a rubbery belly sagging over his belt ordered two members of the gang inside the boxcar.
    “Big Daddy Dalton,” Wendy said to me in a low voice. “I read about him in my welcome packet.”
    Seconds later there was a small explosion from inside the boxcar. I leaned out and looked down the line far enough to spy a small safe standing near the door of the boxcar.

    A sturdy-looking wooden chest flew out and landed on the ground. Big Daddy quickly drew his revolver and fired, blowing off the lock. The two outlaws jumped down from the boxcar and lifted the lid. Inside were bricks of cash, each brick banded with a cord of string. The pair began tossing packets of cash to the other train robbers.
    I eyed each member of the gang as they caught the packets of money, trying my best to see if any of their eyes matched those of the man who’d come at me with the shovel.
    Daddy Dalton, sitting high in the saddle, slowly walked his horse past us, examining each passenger carefully. We stood with our backs to the railcar, no one speaking. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Wendy was sobbing.
Come on, sis. You can’t really be scared. It’s all an act. Just a Hollywood stunt
.
    Daddy Dalton’s gaze settled on me; the hair on my neck stiffened.
    No, you’re not the one I saw on Boot Hill. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t kill Billy the Kid
.
    Breaking eye contact, Daddy Dalton called in a mocking voice, “Bushwhackers, desperados, and hornswagglers roamed, ranged, and terrified the settlers of the Old West.” Big Daddy aimed his beady eyes at the comic cowboy. “Tracking these lawless men was easy. You only needed to follow the smell.”
    Wheeling his horse around, Daddy Dalton aimed both revolvers at the comic and fired both guns. The cowboy comic twisted, staggered back. Blood (or corn syrup mixed with red food coloring) soaked his white jacket and vest. In typical dramatic fashion, the comic tried to claw his way up the steps—as though climbing to safety with five bullet holes in his chestand belly would save him. In real life you don’t walk, crawl, or stagger away from multiple gunshot wounds. That only works in television.
    In real life the body goes into shock, focusing all resources on the injury. It’s a primal reaction: find the source of the bleeding, evaluate the damage, and repair it. Big Daddy Dalton wasn’t going to give Quick Draw Guffaw that option. Big Daddy emptied his guns into the cowboy, and Guffaw collapsed onto the platform—his top half lying face down on the steps, his legs tangled beneath him, knees resting on the gravel railbed.
    Then, like in the saloon, the dead man vanished.
    Big Daddy ordered the Dalton boys to mount up. Yanking the reins of his horse, he scowled at me and rode off, leading his men back down the tracks in the direction from which they’d come.
    “Come on, Nick,” Dad said, rushing toward the bloody steps. “Let’s go see how he disappeared.”
    But I had another idea. My plan was to confront the comic. I was tired of the smoke and mirrors and theatrical magic that kept the guests entertained and me guessing how Billy the Kid’s body had disappeared from Lazy Jack’s. I wanted to shake the funny actor by the shoulders and force him to explain how both he and the farmer in the saloon vanished. I needed to know if it was possible for someone to pull off a similar stunt in the hayloft. The comic struck me as just enough of an oddball that he might be willing to share a few of Deadwood’s secrets.
    While Dad went in search of the trapdoor he was sure he’d find built into the