Simon reined up his horse at the livery and hollered, “Hey, Buell.”
A moment later, Buell stepped through the door. “Ready to go I see.”
“You said about eight o’clock. Can’t be much before that now,” Simon said.
“I’m saddled. Just gotta get my hat.” Buell disappeared into the livery.
Back outside, he climbed into the saddle and together they rode north out of town, in silence—usual when riding with Buell. The horses seemed to sense the easy mood and walked with a lazy gait, heads down and relaxed. About fifteen minutes later, they arrived on the low banks of the river, and Buell guided his horse in among the trees that stood along the bank, then stopped in an open space. They dismounted, and while Simon tied up the animals, Buell untied his saddlebags and pulled them off his horse.
“Got something to show you,” Buell said and headed toward the river. At the river’s edge, he sat and unbuckled one bag. Simon sat beside him, his curiosity making him crowd Buell.
“Damn, Simon, give a fella some room.” Buell elbowed him in the ribs.
Simon scooted back a little, still staring at the bag.
With a sly smile on his face, Buell stuck his hand in the bag and withdrew a long-barreled pistol.
“Shit,” Simon chirped, “where’d you get that?”
“Adobe, kind of.”
“Who knows you have this?” Simon’s eyes could not leave the gun with its dark-blue steel, bright brass trigger guard, and red-brown wooden grips.
“Pat Lacey, you and me. Here, take a hold of it.” Butt first, he handed the gun to Simon. “It’s loaded.”
“It’s a beauty. Looks a lot like Sweeney’s, but it’s not as heavy.”
“It’s not as big. Thirty-six caliber instead of forty-four. Same gun almost, a Remington.” Buell’s face beamed. “I wanted you to be the first to see it.”
“How’d you know where to find one in Adobe?”
“I didn’t exactly get it in Adobe. Lacey won it in a card game there. He said I could have it for what he had bet on it, six dollars. It’s worth more than that, but he said he wasn’t that fond of a thirty-six.”
“What’s your pa gonna say?”
“He ain’t gonna like it, but I’m nearly fourteen and plenty of guys our age have pistols. Hell, some of them are already out on their own. I don’t care what he says, it’s mine, and I’m gonna keep it.”
As Buell’s voice rose, the color came up in his face.
“Are you going to tell him you have it?”
“Nope.”
The silence that fell between them held for several minutes as both stared at the gun in Simon’s hand, Simon’s mind a blizzard of concerns. Ma and Pa are going to find out. How can I keep it from them? Maybe they won’t ask. Yeah, no reason for them to ask. I’ll just avoid any talk about guns and stuff. Simple. Boy, that’s a beauty. Wonder how it shoots?
Buell looked directly into Simon’s eyes for a moment, and then asked, “Wanna shoot it?”
“Oh, yeah,” Simon replied instantly.
“Didn’t take you long to decide. What if someone asks you about it?”
“Why should they ask? Let me go set something up.” He handed the pistol to Buell and went looking for a couple of targets. It didn’t take him long to find a can and two bottles. Remembering the first time they had shot in the Texans’ camp, he went to the river and filled the targets with water. Lining them up on a downed cottonwood bough, he hustled expectantly back to Buell.
“You first.” Buell offered the pistol to Simon.
“Have you shot it yet?”
“Nope, just got it Wednesday.”
“Wednesday? And you could wait till today to try it out?”
“With you working at the store till six or later, we couldn’t get down here without having to explain what we were going to do. And I wanted you to see it first.”
“Then you shoot first. You ought to.” Simon held his hand up in refusal.
“All right, but you can go first if you want to.”
Simon made no move to accept the pistol and Buell looked at the targets. “Did you load it or was it loaded when you got it?” Simon asked.
“It was loaded.” Buell looked at him and then down at the pistol. “I see what you’re gettin’ at. Mr. Greene said a man loads his own gun or suffers a fool’s consequence.” He frowned. “Shit. Now what do we do?”
“Do the balls all seem to be set in about the same?”
Buell looked at the muzzle end of the cylinder. “Yeah.”
“Run the ram against ’em.”
Buell worked the rod against each ball in turn. “They all feel right. So what could go wrong?”
“Mr. Greene said no powder was the most common mistake, and too much powder would just scare the beans out of you. I think we’ve checked it all.” Simon thought hard about what the Texans had told them. “The damn things can kill from both ends,” he visualized Nathan Greene telling them, gimlet-eyed and intense. “You gotta be careful.” Simon gave Buell a quick half nod and shrugged his shoulders.
“All right, let’s do it.” Buell turned to face the targets, twenty feet away.
Instinctively, Simon’s hands went to his ears, and he stepped behind Buell to watch. Using only one hand, Buell cocked the hammer and sighted only briefly before pulling the trigger. The pistol cracked sharply, belched a cloud of smoke, and the first bottle exploded in a flash of water and shattered glass. Buell took one long step to the right and Simon had barely focused on the targets when the pistol barked once more. The other bottle splattered into bits. Startled, Simon looked directly at his friend’s gun hand as Buell moved again. In one fluid move, he cocked the pistol, aimed, and fired in less than a couple of heartbeats, sending the can spinning off the log.
“Shit . . . I mean, holy shit, Buell, where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Simon’s mouth hung open and he stared at where the targets had been, all three now gone in seconds.
Buell turned around and pointed the pistol at the ground. A wisp of smoke lingered near the muzzle in the dead calm air. “Been practicing . . . with Lacey.”
Buell’s satisfied grin and the slight squint of his eyes seemed to reflect his mood. “I’ve finally found something I can do better’n most, and it feels good.”
Simon’s plan to simply not discuss guns or shooting came apart less than twelve hours later. Ana had asked Paul to invite John Lindstrom to supper, and all now sat around the table to enjoy a dessert of warm apricot cobbler. Simon was savoring his favorite dish when John spoke.
“How’d your target shooting go this morning, Simon?”
Simon spit a mouthful of half-chewed pastry all over Abel.
“Hey!” Abel stared at his food-speckled arm. “You spit on me.”
Simon covered his mouth as his face heated up and he looked from his mother, to his father, to John, and back again, deciding who was safest to address. He chose John, and in the same instant, made another decision. “Wasn’t me.” His eyes held John’s gaze for only a moment, after which he turned his attention to Abel. “Sorry Abe, guess I choked.” He made a perfunctory effort to flick some crumbs off of his brother.
“Humph, Sheriff Staker said he was fishing this morning and heard quite a bit of pistol fire, and then about ten o’clock, saw you and Buell heading back to town. Guess it must have been someone else.” John took another bite of cobbler and chewed slowly, watching Simon.
“We were down at the river and I heard some shooting, but it wasn’t us. We just fooled around for a couple hours, and then rode back to town.” Simon could feel his ears flaming and his father exchanged a confused look with John.
Paul cleared his throat and tugged on his earlobe.
“So, how is the herd coming, Paul?” John asked.
“I was out there on Thursday, and Nathan said he’s never seen cattle gain so much weight in his life. I’m no cattleman, but even to my poor eye they look sleek as any barn-raised cow. They really look that good.” Paul glanced at Simon.
“Are you going to do the same thing next year?” John asked.
“I don’t see why not. The army will need another supply of meat, and I think if we deliver prime stock this year, they’ll consider us favorably for next.”
“Precisely as I see it.” John handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s the name of a broker in Kansas. You two can take care of all the details yourself this time.” He smiled at Ana.
“Well, I appreciate your confidence, but I’d like to count on your help when it comes to dealing prices and such,” Paul said.
“No problem, I’ll be happy to do that, but I’m sure you can do nearly all of it on your own. You don’t realize it, but you and Ana have handled most of the details thus far. All I did was arrange to get the herd here, and Nathan did that.”
Simon listened intently as the adults discussed financing and delivery schedules. He was grateful his deceit had not been discovered, but he felt horrible about what he’d done. Every time one of the adults glanced his way he could feel his guilt glow around him like an aura. He thought the evening would never end.
Monday morning was pure misery for Simon. He hadn’t slept well and felt grateful to get to the store and away from the seemingly furtive looks his mother gave him over breakfast. His father had left early and spared Simon the discomfort of facing him. Even with the ever-critical Mr. Swartz, the store seemed more like a sanctuary.
“So, what seems to bother you this morning, hey?” Mr. Swartz asked and waved the feather duster in Simon’s direction.
“Just didn’t sleep well, sir.”
“Well, you are sure not for sleeping here. You pay attention good to customer or I get half hour or so for your time, I think.” He snorted and returned to busily rearrange some of the dust on a row of cans.
Simon went through the morning in a daze and picked the most physical tasks to keep himself alert. He looked forward to his lunch hour, which he fully intended to spend with a quiet nap in the storeroom. The long awaited hour of noon came, and John Lindstrom walked into the store.
“Good morning, Werner,” he greeted them, “and you too,
Simon.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lindstrom. What you see I get you?”
“Not looking to buy anything today, thank you. I just wanted to see if Simon would join me for a stroll at lunch.” He smiled at Simon.
Simon hoped the disappointment he felt didn’t show on his face.
“Ya, that is good. It is dinner now, and he can go.”
Simon untied the heavy apron he wore, folded it neatly, and laid it on the shelf under the counter. Mr. Swartz nodded his approval.
Simon and John Lindstrom stepped into the warm August air. As they did so, a surge of panic caused Simon to inhale sharply. Had Buell been caught by his pa? What if John asks me again if I was shooting? Why didn’t I tell them last night?
“Are you coming?”
Simon looked up to find he’d fallen a couple of steps behind and he hurried up. “Yeah, I guess I was kinda lost there for a minute. Where we going?” Simon asked as nonchalantly as he could.
“I asked Mrs. Bray to fix us a lunch. She makes the best shredded-chicken sandwich I have ever eaten. She has a recipe for some kind of sauce that would make turkey feathers taste good. I think you’ll like it.”
They soon covered the two blocks to the boardinghouse where Mrs. Bray stood waiting for them. She ushered them into the kitchen. “I’ve got to go see Mrs. Frank at the dress shop, Mr. Lindstrom. You know where everything is, so help yourself. I expect to be gone an hour or so.” She swished her ample body across the kitchen and left.
When the kitchen door shut, Simon thought he knew how one of Sheriff Staker’s prisoners felt.
“Help yourself to one of the sandwiches.” John pointed to a plate that held four.
Dutifully, he put one on his plate, and sat down. He had yet to meet John’s eyes.
“Go ahead, take a bite,” John said as he sat. “You’ll see.”
Simon picked up the sandwich and bit into it. “This is good!”
“See. The sauce is eggs, oil, vinegar and spices of some kind. She whips it until it’s nice and smooth like that. Goes on anything.” John took a huge bite of his own and chewed contentedly.
Simon waited and watched while nibbling at his meal.
Finally, John spoke again. “So, how’s the store job going? I hear from Werner that you’ve saved him considerable money. I knew you’d do a good job.”
Simon’s relief left him slightly faint. “It was nothing, really, just comparing simple lists of numbers and seeing they didn’t add up. I haven’t been paid in full yet. Mr. Swartz says I don’t need the money all at once, and I’ll get it after all the trekkers are done coming through. That shouldn’t be long. If I don’t get it soon though, he’ll find a way to get some of it back. Seems I can’t get through a day without him finding something to take out of my pay. Broke a crock this morning. Just happened to move a sack it was leaning on, and off the shelf it came. Cost me twenty-five cents, and when I said it . . .” Simon’s voice trailed off into silence as tears welled up in his eyes. He bowed his head. His sandwich swam out of focus. The room remained quiet for a while.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” John said.
Another period of silence pressed down on him, then: “How can I ever make it up to them?” Simon finally muttered.
“That’s the sad part, Simon. You can’t completely. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but once a trust is broken, the seed of doubt is planted. It may never flourish, or even sprout for that matter, but is will always be there. You know it, and so do they. I talked to your father this morning, and asked his permission to have this chat with you. I consider it an honor that he allowed it.”
“It was so easy, Mr. Lindstrom. It just came out. I didn’t have time to think about it.”
“That’s probably not true. I think you’d determined ahead of time that you were going to lie if you were ever asked. That’s why it seems you didn’t have to think about it. You’d probably convinced yourself the question wouldn’t come up. But it did, and you didn’t need to think, your predisposition to deceive took over. As is often the case when you lie, the first person you fail is yourself. You created a situation where a lie could seem the easy way out. Do you see what I’m saying? You were ready to lie.”
How could he know that? I knew it was wrong to fool around with a pistol and went ahead and did it. And he’s right, I was ready to lie. How can that be? I’m not a liar. Confusion still reigned. “I think I understand, sir.”
“And your problem is compounded yet. Your father didn’t confront you Sunday because he wasn’t sure. He went to see Mr. Mace this morning, and Buell was asked to account for his actions. Buell admitted he had shot the pistol. Mr. Mace didn’t tell him Sheriff Staker was the source of the information. Buell may assume it was you who told.”
Simon’s heart sank. “But I didn’t,” he stammered. “It just looks that way. Oh, Uncle John, I’ve really made a mess of it haven’t I?”
“I have to agree. And you’re the one who has to make amends as best you can. It will cause you some embarrassment and shame, but the sooner you proceed, the better.”
John had both arms on the table and leaned forward, his face serious, almost stern. Simon saw those emotions, but he also saw the look of concern that John’s eyes couldn’t hide.
“I’m glad we had this talk,” Simon said. “I didn’t know what I was going to say to Pa and Ma. I still don’t, really, but knowing they know everything makes it easier somehow. But Buell. I don’t expect he’ll talk to me at all.” Simon shook his head in dismay. He could picture Buell’s face in his mind, and the image made his stomach tighten.
“Try to understand how your folks feel, son. I won’t presume to speak for them. The same goes for Buell. We’ll leave it at that.” John leaned back in his chair.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said.
“And I accept that, but it’s not I to whom you need to apologize.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Early evening finally arrived, and Simon put his apron away and left the store. Walking slowly along the boardwalk, he came to the corner and looked toward the livery. He felt a surge of relief when the front doors were closed, and with a deep sigh, he continued toward home.
“Hey, Simon!”
He turned to see Buell, waving at him from the now-open door. Simon headed toward the livery.
Inside, Buell leaned his fork against a stall and took off his gloves. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Have you heard we got caught?” A slight smirk formed Buell’s face.
“Uh, yeah. Mr. Lindstrom had a talk with me at noon.”
“Mr. Lindstrom?”
“Yeah, I haven’t figgered that out yet. He was nice about it, but there’s no doubt my folks aren’t very happy.”
“Wonder how they found out.” Buell absently dug a finger in one ear.
“You don’t know?”
“Nope. Someone told yer pa, and he told mine.”
“It was Sheriff Staker. He was fishing and heard us. Saw who it was when we rode back to town.”
“Can’t never put nothin’ over on him. Old fart seems to know everything.”
“I was afraid you might have thought it was me,” Simon said quietly.
“Huh? You? You’re joking?”
Simon, now suddenly ashamed, looked at his friend.
Buell’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not joking.” He snorted. “Damn, Simon, I’d never think that.”
“You can see why I might think it, can’t you?”
“I guess.” Then Buell grinned widely. “But I’m saving my lies for something important. Shit, Simon, don’t look so beat up. Got time to go see Jake?”
“I think so. Yeah, let’s do it.” Simon grinned at Buell and they walked, side by side, up the street to find Jake.