Eight

 

The bundle tucked under his wool coat, Gillom hopped the fence again and walked west, headed past the growing city’s fringe. He knew of denser thickets, north of the Rio Grande, that were crossing points south for smugglers of guns, ammunition, cattle, and horses, with outlaws and tequila returning north through the same overgrown area. That dark country should be safe enough in the daytime, though, if he stayed on his guard.

Three miles outside El Paso, Gillom turned off the rutted road to hike into a bosque, a thicket of cottonwoods and heavy scrub brush just north of the river. Gillom recalled a big flood four years earlier in 1897 that had caused the Rio Grande to change course, isolating pieces of land between the old and new riverbanks. Gillom walked over the dry watercourse onto one such island, no longer legally in either America or Mexico until diplomats crossed sharp pens over the dispute. Brush-breaking was tiring, so he stopped to belt on his holster to free his hands. Ahead was a small clearing with a well-used firepit in the middle. He was entering bandit country!

Gillom sat down on a rock next to the fire ring to catch his breath and remove his coat. He picked up a small canteen he’d carried along, took water. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and took off his stiff new Stetson to enjoy some afternoon sun. Rising, he adjusted the single loop holster on his hips, making sure the double rig was belted low enough so his arms and big hands rested just below the revolvers’ trigger guards visible in their leather pockets for a fast pull. He loosened the leather tie-downs over the hammers to keep the guns snug in their leather sheaths. Then, first with his strong hand, he drew the pearl-handled .44 Remington smoothly but slowly, extended his right arm, closed his nondominant left eye, thumbed the hammer back, and fired. Gillom Rogers hit the tall tree he was aiming at, but not the target joint of its low-hanging branch.

He took a deep breath. Speed and accuracy need to be better, he realized. Adjusting his gunman’s stance a little wider, he reholstered his right revolver, stuck his empty right hand out for balance. He quick-pulled the gun on his left side with his off hand, extended his forearm, closed his dominant right eye, thumbed the single-action again, and pulled the trigger. This time his aim was wide, clipping a branch. His second shot was muffled by the dense underbrush. Wonder if my gunfire will attract any attention?

Now that the hammers of both pistols rested upon empty chambers, the safe way to practice in case he dropped a gun, he could practice firing without worrying about shooting himself in the foot. So practice Gillom did—fast draws, right hand, left hand, both hands, twirling the nickel-plated revolvers on his index fingers within their steel trigger guards, one revolution, two spins round, backward, forward, to make his reholstering look fancy. Again and again—quick pull, trying to make his hammer cock and the aim off his hips merely a reflex of hand and eye, without squinting, flinching, without even breathing.

Dropped the pistol! Damn! Be careful! Wiping sweaty palms on his Levis, he sucked breath and tried again. Right, left, both, again, until he had his fast draw fairly smooth with either hand.

Gillom stopped for a gulp of water. Since his first shots hadn’t drawn any unwelcome attention, he tried a trick he’d only heard about, never seen attempted. Pulling both revolvers suddenly, he cocked and fired his right Remington, then spun its pearl handle backward and flipped it into the air. While the first revolver somersaulted in the air, he quick transferred the black-handled grip from his weak left hand to his strong right, while attempting to catch the first pistol in his left palm as the gun spun round in the air. And missed!

He brushed dirt off its silver nickel plating, reholstered, and tried once more. This time he flipped the pearl-handled revolver higher, giving himself more time for the catch after the transfer, and achieved it. To celebrate he cocked and fired the black-handled pistol without carefully sighting and was rewarded by splinters flying from the cottonwood’s girth, seventy-five feet away. The border shift was tricky but essential to learn, for it allowed a gunfighter with an empty pistol to exchange it for a loaded weapon rapidly while under fire.

He dropped a pistol again, then made another successful transfer. Gillom began to complicate his draws, rotating each revolver once right out of the holster pocket as he spun them on each index finger and extended his right and left forearms, earring hammers back and firing at the end of each reach. Another drop. A blister formed on his right finger.

“Damn this is hard!” Gillom said aloud. Over and over, Gillom’s quick reflexes and sharp vision helped him whang chunks out of the distant tree almost every time. Maybe I’ve got the goddamned gift of gunfighting, he thought. What did that journalist call it—a bullet’s blessing?

He was reloading from a box of cartridges in his coat pocket when a bush snapped. While jamming cartridges in the revolver’s chambers, Gillom saw the crown of a wide hat above the breaking brush, a man on horseback. Now brush was crackling behind him, too! Spinning, he kept his left hand on his gun butt, his right revolver cocked and pointed at a black sombrero moving toward him.

Damn! That looks like one of those … Mexicans … been followin’ me! How in the bejesus did they find me out here?

The vaqueros had him sandwiched as they halted their scrawny horses in the brush either side of the clearing’s edge. Each wore a pistol on his hip, but both young men kept their hands on their reins as they sat cheap-looking saddles.

“You boys been followin’ me!”

The Mexicans held their tongues. His next question was a little more plaintive.

“Whatdya want?”

“Señor Gillom?”

“Yeah?”

The taller guy, who looked tougher, more aggressive than his younger partner, smiled. Maybe it was his black sombrero that intimidated.

“Ahhh, Señor Gillom. Did you invite Señor Serrano to his shooting?”

Gillom Rogers hesitated. “I guess.”

“An’ Señor Books kill him?”

Gillom slowly nodded.

Black sombrero waggled a finger. “Sí. It was you. Senor Serrano is his tio.” He pointed at the younger Mexican across the clearing. A flash of a gold tooth in a mouthful of pearlies. “Married to his sees-ter.”

“His uncle?”

“Sí. Tio. Un-cle. Now he must kill you. Caballerismo. Hon-or his familia.”

“What?”

The older young man nodded. “Sí. You help thees assassin, Señor Books.”

Gillom was astounded by this primitive logic. “No! I was just Mister Books’s messenger.”

“But you invite his un-cle to his murder. Mess-age of muerte, death. An’ then you shoot Señor Books, no? Journalista say. So Cesar must kill you. Justica. Por his familia.”

Their logic might have been crazy, but they didn’t appear to be fooling. Gillom pulled his second pistol and cocked it, training his left hand on the younger hombre to the south. The older vaquero grinned. “You prac-tice, pendejo. But no more bul-lets!”

They’re testing me, Gillom figured. Gotta show ’em.

Crouching to provide a smaller target even though he was standing all by his lonesome in the middle of a bare clearing, Gillom extended his right arm and squeezed the trigger of Books’s big revolver. The .44-.40 slug clipped a branch of brush next to the mean Mexican, causing his horse to snort and shy sideways.

“Hokay, pendejo! Mi mis-take!” The twenty or so year old got his frightened horse under control, while his cousin across the clearing ducked, put his hands on his pistol’s butt, readying to draw. “No shoot you today, gavacho, but watch out! Serranos owe you!”

Touching a finger to his forehead goodbye, the black-hatted tracker began backing his skittish animal out of the thicket. His younger relative on the other side of the clearing began retreating, too. Gillom noted how underfed and unkempt their horses appeared.

My God! I can’t have these backshooters following me around El Paso, trying to kill me any goddamned time they please! That dark thought propelled him into an equally scary plan.

“You boys want a fair fight, meet me tonight!”

The older vaquero turned in his saddle. “Where?”

Gillom had to think a moment. “The bandstand in San Jacinto Plaza. Midnight!”

The Mexican pondered. “Hokay!” His gold front tooth flashed like a character flaw. “Mucha suerte, gringo!” He clucked to his horse and after fearsome moments of brush cracking, the vengeful young men were gone.

Gillom Rogers uncocked his Remingtons and reholstered. Bending, he put both hands on his knees, took another long, deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Godalmighty. What have I done now?