Part 30 (1/2)

”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.”

”Smas.h.i.+ng,” 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 s.h.i.+rt.

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.

”Astonis.h.i.+ng,” 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.