“I may shoot lousy,” Wilkes said, “but I better not hear anybody laugh.”
“Nobody’s going to laugh, Wilkes,” Clint said. “Come on, let’s not keep Ned waiting. He’s dying to show us his range.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Dillon’s range was one hundred feet long. Clay targets were set up against a wooden back wall. Clint introduced Dillon to the men he didn’t know. The Prescotts knew him from around town, but he was meeting Commons, Wilkes, and Minnesota for the first time.
“This what we’re shootin’ at?” Minnesota asked.
“I also have what I call silhouettes,” Dillon said.
“Silly-what?” Wilkes asked.
“Watch.”
He picked up the end of a rope that was lying nearby and pulled. Immediately, half a dozen wooden cutouts of men’s torsos sprang up against the back wall. They weren’t really silhouettes because they weren’t black, and there was a bull’s-eye on each chest.
“Those are good,” Clint said. “Leave them up.”
“I have replacements when these get all shot up,” Dillon said. “They’re made of very thin wood.”
“Wilkes, you’re up first,” Clint said.
“I keep tellin’ you I’m a lousy shot,” the big man said.
“I know,” Clint said. “Now show me. Pick up a rifle.”
Clint had brought along the rifles and shotgun from the office gun rack.
Wilkes picked up the rifle and toed the line that was drawn on the floor. He levered a round, aimed, and fired, struck the back wall, but didn’t hit a target at all. He did the same again, with the same results, then turned toward Clint.
“See?”
“We’ll work on it,” Clint said. “Who’s next?”
“Me,” Harley Prescott said. “Okay if I use my own gun?”
“I’d prefer it.”
Harley toed the line, drew, and fired off six shots. Dillon walked down to eye the target.
“Four hits, two misses, no bull’s-eyes, one killing shot.”
“You ever fire your gun at a man before?” Clint asked Harley.
“No.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “reload and put it away. James? You’re up.”
James Prescott stepped up to the line, drew his gun, and fired off six shots. Once again Dillon walked down.
“Three hits, three misses, no bull’s-eyes, no killing shots.”
“Jesus,” Commons said, “we’re dead.”
James gave him a hard look.
“Reload and put it away, James,” Clint said. “Commons, why don’t you show us how it’s done?”
“Gladly.”
Commons stepped to the line, drew, and fired.
“Five hits, one miss, no bull’s-eyes, three killing shots.”
“You’ve got to do better,” Clint said.
“I did better than they did,” Commons said.
“They have to do even better,” Clint said. “You just have to improve.”
“Like this,” Minnesota said. He stepped up, drew, and fired six quick shots.
“Six hits,” Dillon called out, “five killing shots, two bull’seyes.”
Minnesota stared down at his gun as if it had betrayed him, then holstered it.
“Never holster your gun until you’ve reloaded,” Clint said. “If somebody stormed in here with guns blazing, you’d be dead.”
Minnesota didn’t like being called out in front of the others, but he drew the gun again, ejected the spent shells, reloaded, and holstered the weapon.
“Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Commons suggested.
“Yeah,” Minnesota said, “let’s see the Gunsmith shoot.”
“I quit shooting at targets years ago,” Clint said, “but all right.”
He stepped up to the line.
“You’re all aiming,” he said. “You don’t have to aim, just point.”
He drew his gun, not going for speed, fired six measured shots, then ejected and reloaded even before Dillon could get down to the target.
“Six hits,” Dillon said, “all killing shots . . . all bull’seyes.” He turned and looked at Clint. “Perfect shooting.”
“Wasn’t so fast,” Commons muttered.
“It isn’t who’s the fastest,” Clint said. “It’s who’s the most accurate.”
Dillon returned to the line.
“Let’s see the gunsmith shoot,” Wilkes suggested. “I mean, the real gunsmith.”
Dillon looked at Clint, who nodded. He walked over to the side, where a gun belt was lying, picked it up, and put it on. Then he stepped up to the line, drew, and fired six incredibly quick shots by fanning the gun.
Everyone was quiet.
Clint walked down to the target.
“Six hits,” he said, “no bull’s-eyes, but all killing shots.”
He walked back and looked at Dillon, who was reloading. Clint noticed the gun had no trigger in the trigger guard. Dillon had removed it.
“That was incredible,” he said.
“No bull’s-eyes,” Commons said. “What’s incredible about that?”
Clint looked at Commons, then the rest.
“He just fanned his gun six times and all six hit the target,” Clint said. “It’s incredibly hard to hit a target while fanning a gun. It takes skill with both hands, the one doing the fanning, and the one holding the gun.”
“How hard could it be just to hit the target?” Commons asked.
“You try it,” Clint said.
Commons toed the line, drew, and hired six awkward shots while fanning his gun.
“I can see the results from here,” Clint said. “Six misses, all high. When you fan a gun, you jerk the barrel up unless you know how to hold it with your other hand. Like I told you, it takes practice.”
“That why you built this range?” James Prescott asked Dillon. “So you could practice?”
“I built it so my customers could try out their guns after I repair them. Or so I can fire a customer’s gun and see what’s wrong. But since I have it, I come back here and practice quite a bit.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Buck, step up to the line.”
“I can’t match that,” Buck said. “Not you or Dillon, or even Commons.”
“Just hit what you’re shooting at,” Clint said.
Buck stepped to the line, drew, and fired six measured shots. Dillon walked to the targets.
“Four hits, two killing shots.”
“Reload,” Clint said to the deputy. “You’ll have to do better.”
“What about you, Adams?” Commons asked. “Can you fan a gun and hit what you’re aiming at?”
“That’s not important,” Clint said as Dillon returned.
“Humor us,” Commons said. “Let’s see how hard it is.”
“Okay,” Clint said.
“You want my gun?” Dillon asked.
“I’ll use my own,” Clint said.
Clint stepped up to the line, drew his gun, and fanned six shots at least as quickly as Dillon had. The gunsmith walked to the target.
“Six hits,” he said, “All killing.”
“Any bull’s-eyes?” Commons asked.
“Bull’s-eyes aren’t important,” Clint said, reloading. “Just hit a man where you can put him down.”
“Any bull’s-eyes?” Commons asked.
Dillon turned to face all the shooters, a look of awe on his face.
“Six.”
THIRTY-SIX
The target shattered.
Wilkes smiled.
“I’m gonna have to make more targets,” Dillon said.
Clint had made them all shoot for most of the afternoon, in shifts. He’d wanted them to continue to shoot until they were all hitting at least four killing shots out of six.
Now the rest of them were gone, but Wilkes had stayed to continue to shoot with the shotgun. He was enjoying himself.
“Come on,” Wilkes said, “set up some more.”
“You’re shatterin’ them every time, Wilkes,” Dillon said. “I think you’ve got it down. Like I said, I have to make more targets.”
“Yeah, okay,” Wilkes said. “Thanks.”
“You better make sure you always have a pocket full of shells. In fact, come with me.”
The two men left the range and went back into Dillon’s shop. Dillon went behind his counter, rooted around, and came out with a bandolier.
“Wear this across your chest,” Dillon said.
He handed the belt to Wilkes, who put it on.
“No shells,” the big man said.
“We’ll take care of that, too.”
He took a box out from behind the counter and began filling the loops in the bandolier.
“There,” he said. “How’s that feel?”
“Feels real fine,” Wilkes said. “Thanks. How much for it?”
“Nothin’,” Dillon said.
“Why?” Wilkes asked. “Nothin’s for free.”
“This is,” Dillon said. “After all, we’ll probably be shootin’ side by side. I don’t want you comin’ up empty.”
“Sure.”
“And I also figure right next to you is the safest place for me to be when you start blastin’ away.”
“Okay,” Wilkes said. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow to shoot some more.”
“Sure,” Dillon said. “Why not? Practice makes perfect, right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Wilkes said, still not sure what to make of Dillon. “Thanks a lot.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Wilkes walked into the sheriff’s office with his new rig on.
“Well,” Commons said, “look at you.”
Clint looked up from his desk.
“Very good, Wilkes,” he said. “Looks good on you.”
“I’ve got to go and relieve Buck,” Commons said. “I’ll see you both later.”
Clint nodded. Wilkes walked to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I got a question for you,” Wilkes said to Clint after Commons was gone.
“Go ahead.”
“Dillon gave this to me.”
“So?”
“The belt, and the shells,” Wilkes said. “Gave them to me for free.”
“And?”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Maybe he thought you needed them.”
“Nobody gives away nothin’ for free,” Wilkes said. “He’s up to somethin’.”
“He’s not up to anything, Wilkes,” Clint said.
“But . . . he just gave it to me.”
“Sometimes people do that.”
“Not anybody I ever knew,” Wilkes said.
“Well, don’t get used to it,” Clint said. “It does happen, but not very often.”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Don’t try,” Clint said. “How are you doing with the shotgun?”
“Dillon says I’m doin’ pretty good.”
“As long as you hit something every time you pull the trigger,” Clint said, “we’ll be fine. Don’t you have to relieve Minnesota?”
“Yeah,” Wilkes said. He finished the coffee and put the mug down. “Yeah, I do.”
“Keep the shotgun with you at all times, Wilkes,” Clint said as the big man walked to the door. “Don’t ever put it down. I want it to become part of you.”
“Fine,” Wilkes said, adjusting the bandolier. “I’ll even sleep with this thing on.”
“That’s a good idea,” Clint said.
Wilkes shook his, turned, and left.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Frank Graves looked over his gang—his brothers, his cousins, extra members. They were all in the saloon, having been called there by him. There were no other customers in the place.
“Where’s Del?” he asked Dudley.
“He’s comin’.”
Frank looked at the rest. Five brothers, eight cousins, and five other men, including Sammy Holt. Nineteen men altogether. Twenty when Del arrived.
“We’re gonna ride tomorrow,” he said. “I want everybody well rested, fully outfitted.”
“Where are we goin’?” Cousin Arlo asked.
“Guardian.”
“Weren’t you there already?” Cousin Hasty asked.
“That’s where you were shot,” one of the other men said.
“We’re goin’ back,” Frank said. “The bank owes us money, and the town owes us even more. We’re gonna rob it, and burn it down.”
“What about the law?” his brother Clell asked.
“Dudley and me killed him,” Frank said.
“They’ll have another one by now,” his brother Hap said.
“It don’t matter,” Frank said. “We’ll kill him, too. Now get out. Stay sober tonight, and get some rest.”
The brothers, cousins, and men began to disperse.
“And stay out of the whorehouse!” he shouted. “I’m talkin’ to you, Sammy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sammy said.
When all the men had left, Dudley came over to Frank’s table with two beers, and sat down.
“How’s the leg?” Dudley asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Hurts?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “But it’s fine. What about our horses?”
“I saw to them,” Dudley said. “They’re ready to go.”
“Del’s, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Frank said, “I want you, Clell, and Hap to find Del and bring him here.”
“Frank,” Dudley said, “Del will be ready. He’ll be fine.”
“I want to make sure,” Frank said. “If we’re gonna do this, we need Del.”
“If we’d had Del with us the first time, we wouldn’t be doin’ this now,” Dudley said.
“I know,” Frank said. “I know.”
Minnesota drew and fired at the target, Dillon watching from the side.
“How’d I do?” he asked.
“I can see from here,” Dillon said. “Five killing shots.”
“And the sixth?”
“Still a hit,” Dillon said. “You’re where Clint wants you to be.”
“I’m not where I wanna be, though,” Minnesota said, reloading.
He holstered the gun and turned to face Dillon.
“I need to fire faster.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Can you teach me to fan a gun?”
“Sure,” Ned Dillon said, “if we had months, maybe years.”
“Years?”
“It takes a long time.”
Minnesota turned to face the targets again.
“What’s the problem?” Dillon asked.
“I gotta get better.”
“You’re good, kid,” Dillon said. “I can tell you that.”
“But I need to be better!”
“Do what Clint says,” Dillon suggested. “Slow down, be more accurate.”
“He just doesn’t want anybody to be as good as him,” Minnesota grumbled.