Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) Read Online Free Page A

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    “I’ll be right back,” I said, pushing back my chair.
    Mom grabbed my wrist. “Sit!”
    “Yeah, Nick.” Wendy waved an ear of corn at me. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?”
    The din of chatter stopped abruptly. Everyone turned to watch a gaunt farmer wearing a stained long-john shirt and mud-splattered pants step away from the poker table.
    Clearing his throat the farmer said to the mysterious card player, “You haven’t lost a hand since you got the deal. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’s cheatin’.”
    The man from the hayloft stopped shuffling. Withoutlooking up he said, “Then I reckon it’s a good thing you know better than to say a thing like that.”
    “Maybe I don’t,” the farmer replied. “Maybe you is cheating. Maybe you’s a lyin’ card shark who’s dealing off the bottom.”
    “Watch your mouth, hayseed.”
    “How ‘bout you watch your’n. And how ‘bout pay me back what you stole?” The farmer’s right hand hovered over his gun, fingers trembling.
    The other players pushed away from the table, scattering for cover. The room fell deathly silent.
    With his head still bowed, the accused man snarled, “I don’t cheat.”
    “I says different.”
    “I don’t cheat!”
    “Then how is it you been dealing yourself doubles and straights since you sat down?”
    “Lucky streak, I guess.”
    “And I says that streak just ended. Ain’t that right, fellows?” The farmer looked around nervously, searching the crowd for support.
    The man stood slowly, turning toward the farmer. “Walk away, hayseed. No point getting killed over a few lousy hands of cards.”
    The farmer widened his stance, his eyes tracking the gun-fighter’s movements. “Can’t. Not ‘til you give back what you took from me.”
    “This is so cool,” Wendy said in a low voice. “Just like in the movies.”
    Dad leaned over and asked me, “You sure it’s him?”
    “I … think so. But he looks different somehow. Not sure why.”
    “Probably because he has skin on,” Wendy snarked.
    The gunfighter eased sideways, crabbing away from the table, until the two men faced each other in the middle of the saloon.
    “You don’t want to draw on Jesse James,” announced the piano player. “He’ll kill ya.”
    The farmer’s eyebrows arched. “J-J-Jesse James … I … had no idea,” he stammered.
    “Simple mistake. Now walk on.”
    For a moment I thought he might. I would. The guy in the video, this Jesse James, had the look of a deadly gunslinger.
    The farmer shot a glance toward the green felt cloth and the pile of cash and chips on the table, then squared his shoulders. “No sir, I can’t. Way I see it, I just plain don’t have any choice but to get back what’s mine.”
    Jesse James’s brow furrowed. “Man’s always got a choice. You get the first move, hayseed. I owe you that.”
    The farmer’s hand flinched but never reached the holster.
    The revolver’s muzzle blast came so quick it was over before I had a chance to blink. Stumbling backwards, the farmer’s face twisted in pain. He took a half step toward our table and dropped face down, making no attempt to break his fall. For a few seconds he laid there, blood pooling around his body and soaking the sides of his threadbare long-john shirt. Then, his shape changed, becoming less defined and more … translucent. I leaned forward, we all did, and watched as the farmer vanished—body, bloodstain, and all!
    Jesse James holstered his gun and surveyed the crowd, hisdark eyes settling on me. With a derisive sneer he turned and exited the saloon, slipping out a side door.
    “Did you see that?” shrieked Wendy. “That was so awesome.”
    “Trapdoor,” Dad said. “Has to be. No way that farmer was a video image. He was too real. Bet if we look we can find where the hinges are sunk into the wood.”
    “Told you it was all an act,” Wendy said to me. “And you fell for it. Some great detective you are.”
    But I