Seventeen

 

After a big meal and a long nap, the three made the hike up to the clearing on the mountainside again. Gillom had more energy this breezy spring day since he hadn’t done any horse breaking that morning. As he placed playing cards in their shooting tree, he noticed Sam rubbing his aching ass.

“Look a little butt-sprung, Mister Graham.”

“That horse broke me.”

“Aw, Sam. Horses are noble steeds. The cowboy’s best friend,” replied Gene Rhodes.

“Not mine. Horses are strictly transportation. Can’t see making pets out of ’em.”

Gene took a tender seat on his stump to watch the fireworks.

“Why, Mister Graham. You’ll neve’ make a good cattleman with that attitude.”

“Exactly,” agreed Sam as he checked his Colt Bisley.

Gillom started practicing his gun juggling, tossing one revolver by the handle to catch again after a full rotation in the air. With his right hand he essayed a tougher toss, catching his other Remington by the barrel after one full flip. Then he was pulling both pistols at once, tossing them across his body in the air, catching them in opposite hands and reverse-twirling the guns back into his dual holsters at the same time.

“You oughta join Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, Gillom,” applauded their ranch host.

“You pull that fancy stuff in a gunfight, they’ll be nailing your coffin shut before you can take a bow,” warned Graham.

“Just tryin’ to warm up my hands.”

“Just remembe’,” offered Gene, “you’ playin’ with three pounds of steel a foot in front of you’ face. Dangerous doesn’t begin to describe those tricks.”

“Gettin’ shot hurts like a sumbitch, too. Like someone stuck you with a hot poker,” added Sam. Reloaded, their bank robber friend got to his feet. He laid his big Colt flat in the palm of his hand, barrel forward. “Ever see the border roll?”

Sam suddenly dropped the pistol down, caught his forefinger in the trigger guard, and flipped the weapon into normal position in his hand, cocking with his thumb and thrusting the gun forward to fire. All in the blink of an eye.

“Or, you can hand it over butt first.” He offered Gillom the gun butt first, who reached to take it, but Sam instantly rolled and reversed the revolver in his hand.

“Wes Hardin pulled that trick on Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene back in the 1870s. Move’s become all the rage in Texas.”

Gillom tried the road agent’s spin both ways and after several awkward fumbles, once even dropping his revolver to the grass, seemed to get the hang of the quick maneuver.

“Road agent’s spin is mostly useful when you’re getting arrested, ’cept most Laws now know that trick.”

Tired of gun tossing, Gillom took his stance, drew, and cocked and fired at the playing card in the tree maybe twenty feet away, then pinwheeled the revolver in his right hand, thumb-cocked and fired again, then pinwheeled a second time to fire. He hit a black king with his second shot.

“Damn! Gotta work on my aim.”

Gene nodded. “All those tricks are sure flashy, but if you can’t hit much, what’s the point of going around heeled?”

Sam answered, “This is a Colt Bisley Flattop Model built for target shooting. Perfect balance. Bigger grip for a better feel in my hand and improved accuracy with these special sights. Best revolving pistol ever made. And my 4¾" barrel is shorter than your 5½", easier to draw. Know the first shootist to use these shorter barrels?”

Gillom shook his head.

“Bat Masterson. Marshal of Dodge City. Ordered ’em special from the Colt factory. Many imitators followed.”

“Books’s sweetened Remingtons have only a two-pound pull, J. B. said. Hair trigger.”

Sam Graham nodded, impressed. He crouched, drew cross-handed, cocked, fired, fanned his second shot, did a Texas rollover of one spin forward and cocked and fired a third round. He hit the jack of diamonds twice, all in a few seconds.

“Beats me.” Gillom shook his head as he strode off to change targets. They were using smokeless cartridges, so no powder lingered in the air to obscure their vision.

“Nice shootin’, Sam.” Mr. Rhodes nodded.

Gillom plodded back but Graham stopped him as he started to reload. Reaching, he turned the youth’s pistol around butt forward in his right-hand holster.

“You show up to a gunfight with your gun butts forward, you’ll intimidate ’em before they even start shootin’.”

Gillom tried the different draw several times, starting his wrist backward, then snapping it outward, while they watched.

“It’s just a flashier draw, not faster?” he questioned.

“Exactly. Just somethin’ different to practice, that they may not have seen before. You distract ’em with a flashy trick, then kill ’em with your sharp aim.”

Gillom suddenly drew both guns, cocked, and blasted away at the card targets, hitting them both.

“Shoot to kill with both hands!” he exulted.

“Head shot’s the deadly one,” offered Graham. “But tougher to make. Wes Hardin was a head-shooter. But you hit a man in his bigger target, his stomach, that lead bullet’s such a shock to his body, he’s paralyzed and will have a more difficult time returning fire. That’s where the Apaches always tried to shoot their poisoned arrows, right in a man’s wide gut.”

At all this talk of killing, the horse wrangler roused himself.

“You boys blast away all you want. Scare off the game for miles around while I start supper.”

“One more thing,” said Sam to his protégé. “If you have only one shot, take it between your two heartbeats as you surprise the trigger.” The master gunman raised his target pistol at arm’s length, squinted, listened to his own blood pulsing and then triggered his short-barreled Bisley. A smokeless slug ripped into the queen of hearts twenty-five feet distant.

Young Gillom was open-mouthed again at his instructor’s accuracy. The fast gunmen smiled at each other as Gene Rhodes lumbered back down the mountainside, holding his sore ass. They didn’t hear him whimpering.

*   *   *

They had a peaceful night’s sleep since Sam had finally run out of liquor. They assembled in front of the stone house after breakfast. Gene had saddled the easiest of the four horses they’d taken turns breaking and was going to drive the other three broncs in the cavvy ahead of them down to the Bar Cross Ranch on their way to Engle. Gillom had saddled the black gelding, with the smaller bay mare he’d taken from the Mexican cousins packing his personals. He left the last of his food supplies at Gene’s since the horse wrangler had refused any payment for Gillom’s stay.

Sam Graham idled near the front door while the other two tightened cinches and pack ties.

“You ever come up against a man who covers his pistol with his hat, watch out. ’Cause he’s probably drawing his gun beneath it or from behind his back while he’s talking to you.” The train robber demonstrated with a sly smile.

Gillom matched his grin and shook the outlaw’s hand after he’d reholstered.

“I’ll watch out for that, Mister Graham. Sorry our trails never crossed, but it’s been my pleasure.”

Sam stretched to his full six feet as his pale blues watched the teenager mount.

“You’re a real whizbang with those pistolas, kid. Your calling cards. Hope they’re not your funeral.”

Gene Rhodes whistled and shook his lasso at the three loose horses.

“Hi-ya! Git along, horses! I’ll be back up from Engle late tomorrow, Sam, with more grub. Can I get you anything else?”

“You know my taste for barbed-wire extract, boss.” The tough outlaw waved. “So long, you saddle-bumpers! You run across any old ladies or dogs need kickin’, send ’em along to me!”