Savage. Part 30

"What'll be done with the other watches?" I asked.

"We'll sell 'em off when we get to Bailey's Corner," Chase explained. "We got a feller there gives us a good price on 'em."

"Bailey's Corner?" I asked.

"That's about a week's ride from here," McSween told me. "We'll head on down there and kick up our heels."

"Whooee!" cried Snooker, who apparently fancied the notion of kicking up his heels.

McSween slapped my shoulder. "We'll fix you up good, w.i.l.l.y. Get you outfitted proper."

"Smashing," I said.

After that, Chase dumped all the watches into a saddle bag. I got back into the tight boots. Then we mounted up and rode across the river. We left it behind us, and pretty soon we left the woods behind us, too. Hour after hour, we rode along over rocks and dusty yellow earth that glared with the sun, hardly a tree anywhere to give us shade. The only things that seemed to grow out here were cactus and scraggly little bushes. They were mostly in blossom, it being May.

May or not, the sun felt almighty warm. Nor was my seat behind McSween's saddle too comfortable, particularly as my b.u.m had gotten itself scuffed up the night before. Aside from that soreness, I ached in my legs and all up my back from riding so long. I was hungry, too. These fellows hadn't eaten since the time I'd joined up with them.

I took to thinking that the life of an outlaw had its drawbacks. Would've been a lot easier on these fellows to take regular jobs as store clerks or such, instead of tackling robberies so they had to spend their time on horseback riding mile after mile.

But they'd sure made themselves a load of money for their troubles. So had I.

My pockets were just stuffed to the brim with greenbacks and jangling coins.

I didn't feel quite right about my new wealth. After all, it had been stolen from folks who'd likely worked hard to earn it. I didn't see a convenient way to return it to them, though. It might as well be in my own pockets, instead of split around among the others in the gang.

Besides, I judged that I deserved some recompense. It might be looked upon as repayment for the favor of saving all those folks from a nasty crash. Not only that, but one of those law-abiding folks-the conductor-had tried to murder me. I hadn't even done a thing wrong. But did that stop him? No, sir. I'd be dead with a bullet in my chest if his gun hadn't misfired. I figured $150.00 was about fair pay for playing target for that rascal.

By the time I had it all pa.r.s.ed out, my regrets about the money seemed foolish. Taken all around, maybe I deserved more than what I got.

I still do feel that way, mostly. I can't bring myself to feel ashamed of taking my split. It was wrong, of course. But my conscience has plenty of awful doings to work on without fretting over what I gained from a robbery that wasn't my fault, anyhow.

Sometime late in the afternoon, a jackrabbit made the mistake of showing itself. It no sooner hopped into view from behind a bush than Snooker leaped from his horse, whipped out his Winchester, and tried to draw a bead on it. The hare was pretty far off by the time Snooker fired his first shot. His bullet whinged whinged off a rock. His next kicked up dirt. Well, that rabbit dodged four shots. But the fifth threw it tumbling. Snooker yelled, "Whooee!" off a rock. His next kicked up dirt. Well, that rabbit dodged four shots. But the fifth threw it tumbling. Snooker yelled, "Whooee!"

"Fine shot!" McSween called to him. "Reckoned you'd get it right if you tried long enough."

The remark didn't seem to bother Snooker. He just grinned, then slid his rifle into its boot, swung himself onto his horse, and galloped out to where the hare lay on its side. His horse hadn't even stopped moving before he hopped off. He hit the ground at a run, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his prize, leaped into his saddle and came racing back toward us, whooping and hollering and swinging the dead critter over his head by its ears. When he got closer, you could see blood spraying out. It sprinkled Snooker considerable, but he didn't pay it any mind.

I figured the hare was meant to be food, and Snooker would want to dismount and clean it. We'd all have a chance to get off the horses. I was mighty eager to stand on my own feet and stretch and take a rest from the misery. But Snooker joined up with us and we kept on riding.

He cleaned his game, sure enough. But he stayed in his saddle to do it, holding the hare off to the side and carving away at it with his knife. Watching the guts drop out and fall to the ground, I was put in mind of Whittle. I turned my head away and studied the back of McSween's shirt.

By and by, Emmet shouted, "Mine! I got it!"

He went racing after another rabbit, reins in his teeth, his hands full of iron. He blazed away just twice. His first slug tore off half the critter's head. His second, fired at near the same instant, took it in his rear and knocked it sideways.

It was the most splendid bit of shooting I'd seen up to that time.

"Astonishing," I muttered.

"Seen worse," McSween said.

"I certainly wish I I could shoot in such a manner." could shoot in such a manner."

"Well, ask him real sweet, and maybe he'll show you a thing or two."

I decided to do precisely that.

Later in the afternoon, we stopped near a creek where a stand of cottonwoods grew and there was some gra.s.s. Chase sent me off to gather firewood while the rest of them saw to their horses. When I returned with an armload, they were arranging their saddles and bedrolls under the trees. McSween said I could borrow his saddle blanket for the night. So I took that and spread it out to air.

I hadn't more than laid it on the ground when McSween called to Emmet. "The lad here purely admires your talent with the Colts. You oughta take him over yonder and learn him a few tricks."

My face heated up. But I said, "I'd be quite grateful."

Emmet, he grinned. "You think I'm good, do you?"

"Quite the best I've ever seen."

"You're a regular John Wesley Hardin," Snooker said.

"I can sure outgun you any day of the week with both eyes shut."

"If you could slap leather as good as you flap your gums, you'd be a wonder to behold."

At that, Emmet took the opportunity to slap leather. Both guns seemed to jump into his hands. They came up c.o.c.ked and ready. But he didn't let the hammers drop. He just grinned at Snooker, who hadn't gone for his at all.

Snooker's hand had darted to his face, not his holster.

Pulling his fingertip out of his nose, he studied what he'd found up there and said, "You beat me fair and square, you little booger."

Emmet laughed, lowered the hammers with his thumbs, and holstered the weapons. Then he squatted down, felt around inside one of his saddle bags, and came up with a box of ammunition. "Come on along, w.i.l.l.y," he said.

The others stayed behind. We walked down along the creek a ways. Then Emmet stopped and nodded toward a dead stump on the other side, about thirty feet off. "Watch here," he said.

After setting the box of cartridges on the ground, he stood loose, arms hanging at his sides, and stared over at the stump. "That's an hombre there that's fixing to poke me full of lead. Now, I just can't count on him missing. From what I've seen, most fellers can't shoot any better than you do, but I can't count count on that, you see? So I wanta plug him before he gets to take a crack. That's what the quickdraw's all about. As a general rule, the man that clears leather and gets off the first shot's gonna be the one that walks away. Here goes." on that, you see? So I wanta plug him before he gets to take a crack. That's what the quickdraw's all about. As a general rule, the man that clears leather and gets off the first shot's gonna be the one that walks away. Here goes."

Emmet s.n.a.t.c.hed out both his Colts. In a flash, they came up c.o.c.ked and level and spat lead. His bullets thunked into the stump, throwing out little clouds of dust and wood.

"Ripping!" I said.

"They don't come much better," Emmet told me.

"Have you been in actual gunfights?"

"Why, I should say so. I've killed four men." He seemed right proud of the accomplishment.

Not wanting to appear the complete novice, I said, "I've killed one man, myself."

He narrowed an eye at me. "You?"

"Oh yes, quite. A bloke had a go at me in London, and I dispatched him with a knife." Actually, I was never certain the man had died, but he'd told me he would. That seemed good enough for the purpose of bragging.

The way Emmet looked at me, he couldn't figure out whether I was lying or not. But he said, "A knife won't do you no good at all out here. Any man that's worth his salt packs iron and ain't afraid to use it. You gotta be quicker than the next guy, or you just won't last. And you gotta hit what you aim at."

He stepped aside, then nodded at the stump.

I let my arms hang, the way I'd seen him do. Then I went for my Colts. The one in the holster came out clean, but I had a spot of trouble with the one in my belt. By and by, I got them both up and c.o.c.ked. I pulled the triggers. The hammers clanked.

Emmet snickered.

"Ain't you you the gunfighter?" the gunfighter?"

My face heated up something awful. "I'm terribly sorry."

"Terribly dead, that's what you'd be if that was more than an old dead tree over there."

"I'm afraid my irons are empty."

"I noticed that." Laughing some, he picked up the box and opened it. "You don't hardly need two Colts just now. You'll be lucky to handle one good enough to count."

"Yes, sir," I said. I jammed the conductor's pistol down my belt, then helped myself to some ammunition.

Then stood there with my six-gun in one hand and cartridges in the other. Stood there and stared at them and sweated.

Emmet grinned at me. "What're you fixing to do with 'em?" he asked.

"Slip them into the gun, is it?"

"That's the idea."

What I did, I took a cartridge between my thumb and finger and tipped the barrel up and puzzled over the matter. I'd handled the General's weapons, but I never had occasion to load them. I simply didn't have a clue as to how I might go about it. Sliding a round down the muzzle didn't seem the proper way. The bullets had to get into the cylinder, somehow. I was still trying to figure it out when Emmet suddenly commenced to split his sides.

He acted like he'd never seen anything funnier. He laughed so hard he couldn't stand up straight and his eyes filled with tears. Every now and then, he'd gasp out a word or so. An "Oh, Lord!" or a "Never in my born days!" or a "Wish the boys was here!"

The boys wasn't wasn't here, and mighty glad I was for that. here, and mighty glad I was for that.

Though I suspected they'd be hearing about me.

Emmet went on busting himself with gaiety and tears while I worked on my problem. He was still at it when I found a little door behind the Colt's cylinder. It opened sideways, and showed me a used sh.e.l.l. I shook that one out and replaced it with a fresh round. Then I turned the cylinder and repeated the trick. I put in six cartridges and shut the door.

Emmet hadn't noticed at all. He'd worn himself out. He was bent over, holding his knees and gasping when I fired into the air.

The noise jerked him up straight. He gazed at me. His red, wet face grinned. Then he applauded.

"I'm not a total dunce, really," I said.

Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes and took some deep breaths. Finally, he said, "Now that you're loaded..." and then wheezed and took on again. Finally, he got control of himself. "Let's see...let's see if you can hit anything. Oh...they do work so much better...with bullets in 'em."

Well, I stuck my arm out straight, pointed my Colt at the stump, and pulled the trigger. The gun blasted and jumped. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard a quiet thud. A puff exploded off the stump.

I'd hit it dead center!

"I say!" I blurted.

Emmet looked at me and wiped one of his eyes. "Only thing is, you took all day to do it."

I holstered the Colt, rubbed the sweat off my hand onto the leg of my trousers, then tried for a quickdraw. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun up quick. It no sooner cleared leather than I thumbed back the hammer. I brought the barrel up fast, pointed it in the general direction of the stump, and let fly.

My bullet sang off a rock just to the right of the stump.

Emmet, he didn't laugh or say a word.

I had another go. This time, I hit the stump.

Twice more, I unlimbered that Colt with all the speed I could muster and got off my shots. Both of them poked holes in the target.

Emmet looked at me, frowning some.

I took a deep breath, feeling pleased with myself and more than a trifle surprised. The air smelled strong with gunsmoke. It seemed a fine aroma.

"I did rather well, wouldn't you say?"

"You ain't hopeless," he told me.

I reloaded, slapped leather, and pounded another hole into the stump. Out of six tries, I only missed twice.

Emmet didn't seem particularly happy about my progress. He watched me, narrow-eyed, while I loaded up again. When I finished and holstered my weapon, he stepped over so we were shoulder to shoulder, both facing the stump across the stream. "On the count of three," he said. "One. Two."

He said, "Three," and I pulled. So did he. His Colts blasted, and the roar of them was still in my ears when my shot followed. His slugs smacked the stump not more than a blink or two before mine did the same.

Then he eyed me again. "I don't much like getting my leg pulled, kid."

"Pardon me?"

"Acting like you ain't got the first notion how to handle a six-gun...like you didn't know how to load load the d.a.m.n thing. Making a fool outa me the way you done." the d.a.m.n thing. Making a fool outa me the way you done."

Seems like I was forever forever getting myself wrongly accused of this or that. getting myself wrongly accused of this or that.

"Why, I've never fired a weapon before today, much less had an occasion to fill one with bullets. Never."

"Bullsquat."

"It's the honest truth."

"You've had your laugh on me." He put away his Colts, then picked up the ammo box and headed back for camp.

I caught up with him. "Actually, I apprenticed in gunmanship under no less than Wild Bill Hickok."

That got him to look at me. "There you go again. He's been sleeping in sod since seventy-six."