Simon and Buell, along with Nathan, Sweeny and Lacey assembled by the river. Since Simon’s trial with Nathan’s big pistol, Buell had wanted to shoot it, and Nathan finally relented. Buell’s experience turned out more or less the same as Simon’s, only dirt instead of water had shot into the air, the empty peach can undisturbed. Nathan stuffed the pistol back into its holster and put it down.
After some discussion, the older men agreed the boys would have a better time if they shot pistols that weren’t loaded with so much powder. Randall filled three more fruit cans and three root beer bottles with water, and stood them on the laid-down sycamore trunk. Buell and Simon stood side by side fifteen feet away, Simon with Sweeney’s Remington, and Buell with Pat Lacey’s Colt. The cowboys referred to both as the army model and both shot a forty-four-caliber bullet.
Everyone stepped back as the boys raised their pistols and took aim. The cowboy’s guns weighed a lot less than did the Walker, and Simon had no trouble holding his up and fairly steady.
“Far when yer ready,” Nathan said.
Both pistols went off together. A cloud of white smoke obscured the targets for a moment, and then whisked away on the breeze. All six targets stood, dumbly waiting. Buell looked past Simon, at Lacey, both eyebrows raised in question.
“Went over quite a bit, Buell,” Lacey said. “Aim a little lower, say the bottom of the can. Same for you, Simon.”
Simon went first this time. He raised his pistol, steadied a moment, and fired. A tiny rainbow formed and disappeared in the mist created by the spray of the exploding can of water.
“Ya-hoo!” hollered Nathan. “Good shot.”
Simon pointed his pistol at the ground and moved back a step. Buell cocked the Colt, peered along the barrel for what seemed a long time, and pulled the trigger. The pistol bucked when he fired, but the five targets still stood.
Lacey smiled encouragement. “Little too tight. Ya hit about four inches low. Windage is perfect, just gotta git ’er up a twitch.”
Buell gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Your turn, Simon.”
“No, go get it, I’ll wait.”
“I said it’s your shot, Simon. I don’t need anybody waiting for me to get it right.”
Simon stepped up, cocked the pistol, and using both hands, aimed. After a short pause, he fired and a second can exploded in a mist of river water, the can blown flat from the shock of the bullet.
Buell took a deep breath, and stepped up. He stared intently at the targets, and then let his breath out slowly.
“Slow and steady, Buell,” Lacey said quietly. “Don’t yank on the trigger.”
The other onlookers stood silent, not moving at all. Buell raised his pistol and aimed. He, too, used both hands and for what seemed like forever, he waited. Then he fired. Five targets stood. “Damn it!”
“Use Sweeney’s pistol,” Nathan said.
Simon turned the butt to Buell and they traded guns.
“Now, same thing. The Remington has better sights, or some say. Git the front blade and rear sight notch lined up. Then, look fer your target. Don’t be a’tryin’ to see all three things at the same time. Eyes cain’t do it.”
Buell looked at Simon. Simon shrugged. Nathan’s tone didn’t leave much open for discussion. Buell raised the Remington, aimed and fired. Water sprayed everywhere.
“Good shot,” shouted Simon as he thumped him on the back. “It was the smallest can and ya hit it dead center. Ain’t nothing left.”
“Reckon ya found another Remington man, Sweeney,” Nathan said. He looked at Buell. “Some fellers jist cain’t line up with a Colt. Plain don’t fit. Simon, try that Colt of Lacey’s.”
Simon cocked back the hammer and sighted down the barrel. Nathan was right; he had to concentrate on the tiny notch in the top of the hammer that made up the rear sight and adjust quite a bit to get everything lined up. He swung over to the last can, centered on the middle, and squeezed the trigger. The fourth can took off skyward like a flushed partridge, trailing a spray of water. His shot had hit just below the base of the can. He stepped back and Buell moved forward again.
Buell raised the cocked pistol, steadied for a moment and fired. A brown bottle splattered in a flash. He looked at Lacey. Lacey winked.
“You boys kin shoot till you cain’t pay fer it,” Nathan said. “Tomorrow you learn to make them slugs yer sendin’ into the dirt. We bought ours, you git ta buy yers.” He patted both boys on the shoulder. “Gits in yer blood, don’ it. Jist remember, them’s cans. They won’t shoot back.”
The boys took turns and shot for over two hours.
Paul rode into camp and tied his mare to the rope corral that held the Texans’ horses. The shade of several spreading trees sheltered about a dozen of them. They stood hip-shot, side by side, nose to rump, their constantly moving tails swishing flies off of each other. Two lay on their sides, sound asleep. Paul smiled to himself. He walked over to the prairie camper and found Nathan alone, braiding horsehair around the handle of a short whip. “Looks peaceful enough,” he said as he squatted down.
“The night boys took their bedrolls down’t the river. Cooler. Left me with my thoughts and the damned deerflies. Nice and quiet. Days like this here makes life worth living.” Nathan gave the strands of hair he was working on several twists then wrapped the excess around the handle and secured it with a strip of soft buckskin. He stuffed the work into the saddlebag that lay beside him. “Let me git you a cuppa coffee?” He grunted as he rolled one leg across the other and stood. “Ground gits harder ever time I sit on it.” He ambled over to the fire ring and picked up the pot. Shaking it, he nodded questionably. “Maybe.” After knocking two cups clean on his pants leg, he poured the black liquid into them.
Paul didn’t see any steam when Nathan handed him a cup and the Texan eyed him over the rim before taking a sip. Paul slurped his mouth full of the tepid brew and swallowed. He couldn’t keep a straight face. “No offense, Nathan, but do you guys go out of your way to make it taste this bad?”
“Ah, hell, that’s purdy good brew, you ask me.” Nathan’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and then he took another small sip and sloshed the rest on the ground. “Gone cold though. Cain’t abide cold coffee.”
Paul set his cup on the rim of the wagon wheel. “So, how are Simon and Buell working out?”
“Couple of fine boys. Me and the fellers has took a real shine to ’em. Ain’t nothing they ain’t willin’ to try, especially yours. Raised up right, he is.” Nathan reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his cigarette papers. He flipped open the flat packet and blew gently on the edge of the stack. The papers ruffled, and he caught the corner of a single sheet with his fingertips and freed it. He offered the papers to Paul.
“No, thanks, never took it up. Thanks for the good words about Simon. I’ll tell his mother. She’s the one’s got ’im this far. She’ll be pleased to know it shows.”
Nathan stuffed the papers into his shirt pocket. “Much as I hate to admit, I think my original guess were a good’n. The spot you picked here keeps ’em cows nice and bunched up. Two men workin’ easy kin keep track of ’em. So, if’n ya need them boys som’ers else, you kin have ’em. Quite frankly, I’d hate to see Simon turn out to be jist a cowhand anyhow. And Buell? That boy’s got a restless streak in ’im that ain’t gonna be satisfied sitting on no horse all day.” He creased the paper down the middle, laid it between his first and second fingers and held one corner with the tip of the thumb. Pulling a small cloth pouch of tobacco out of his pocket, he used his free hand and his teeth to open the top.
“It wasn’t the only reason I came out, but it was one of the things I wanted to ask you. Fact is, Mace could use some help, and Simon has a chance to put some of his schooling to work, so I appreciate you being straight out with it. I think it’s best they both come back to town. So, how are the cows looking? Gettin’ fat?”
“Oh, yeah, this here grass, shade and water is a longhorn’s heaven. I expect you kin see some twelve-hundred-pound critters come September.”
“That good? Our Captain Atkins will be happy. And a happy customer comes back again.”
Nathan shook some tobacco onto the creased paper, and then closed the bag using his teeth. He put the pouch back into his pocket. With his thumb, he closed the sides of the paper over the tobacco not quite evenly, and licked the overlapping edge. His thumb rolled the paper and tobacco into a rough cylinder and he then twisted one end and stuck the other in his mouth. The whole process took less than a minute. “Reckon this might be one of them rare deals were ever body gets done good,” Nathan said as he reached for a match. He scratched it on the wheel rim, and lit his smoke in the flare. One deep drag consumed almost a fourth of the smoke. “Sure purdy cow country here.”
Both men stood silent for a few moments, gazing out over the river bottoms and the low rolling hills to the north. “The boys’ll be back about noon for a spell if yer wantin’ to see ’em.” Nathan broke the silence. “Otherwise, I can tell ’em.”
“I’d better be getting back. They can stay the night and come back tomorrow. I know from talking to Simon they’ve learned a lot in the five weeks they’ve been out here. It’s been real good of you guys to take ’em in. They’ll not forget it.” Paul stuck out his hand.
“Ain’t been no bother ’tall. Like I said, them’s both of ’em fine young fellers and we wuz pleased to have ’em. I’ll send ’em home in the mornin’.” Nathan shook Paul’s hand, and they walked to the horses.
“See you in a couple of weeks, Nathan,” Paul said as he swung into the saddle. He reined his horse around and headed back toward town.