by Jerome Bixby
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE DRAW
BY JEROME BIXBY
_Illustrator_: Wm. Ashman
_Stories of the old West were filled with bad men who lived by the speed of their gun hand. Well, meet Buck Tarrant, who could outdraw them all. His secret: he didn't even have to reach for his weapon...._
* * * * *
Joe Doolin's my name. Cowhand--work for old Farrel over at Lazy Fbeyond the Pass. Never had much of anything exciting happen tome--just punched cows and lit up on payday--until the day I happenedto ride through the Pass on my way to town and saw young BuckTarrant's draw.
Now, Buck'd always been a damn good shot. Once he got his gun in hishand he could put a bullet right where he wanted it up to twentypaces, and within an inch of his aim up to a hundred feet. But LordGod, he couldn't draw to save his life--I'd seen him a couple of timesbefore in the Pass, trying to. He'd face a tree and go into a crouch,and I'd know he was pretending the tree was Billy the Kid or somebody,and then he'd slap leather--and his clumsy hand would wallop hisgunbutt, he'd yank like hell, his old Peacemaker would come staggeringout of his holster like a bear in heat, and finally he'd line on histarget and plug it dead center. But the whole business took about asecond and a half, and by the time he'd ever finished his fumbling ina real fight, Billy the Kid or Sheriff Ben Randolph over in town oreven me, Joe Doolin, could have cut him in half.
So this time, when I was riding along through the Pass, I saw Buckupslope from me under the trees, and I just grinned and didn't pay toomuch attention.
He stood facing an old elm tree, and I could see he'd tacked a playingcard about four feet up the trunk, about where a man's heart wouldbe.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him go into his gunman's crouch. Hewas about sixty feet away from me, and, like I said, I wasn't payingmuch mind to him.
I heard the shot, flat down the rocky slope that separated us. Igrinned again, picturing that fumbly draw of his, the wild slap atleather, the gun coming out drunklike, maybe even him dropping it--I'dseen him do that once or twice.
It got me to thinking about him, as I rode closer.
* * * * *
He was a bad one. Nobody said any different than that. Just bad. Hewas a bony runt of about eighteen, with bulging eyes and a wide mouththat was always turned down at the corners. He got his nickname Buckbecause he had buck teeth, not because he was heap man. He was somehandy with his fists, and he liked to pick ruckuses with kids he wassure he could lick. But the tipoff on Buck is that he'd bleat like atwo-day calf to get out of mixing with somebody he was scaredof--which meant somebody his own size or bigger. He'd jaw his way outof it, or just turn and slink away with his tail along his belly. Hisdad had died a couple years before, and he lived with his ma on asmall ranch out near the Pass. The place was falling to pieces,because Buck wouldn't lift a hand to do any work around--his ma justcouldn't handle him at all. Fences were down, and the yard was allweedgrown, and the house needed some repairs--but all Buck ever didwas hang around town, trying to rub up against some of the toughcustomers who drank in the Once Again Saloon, or else he'd ride up andlie around under the trees along the top of the Pass and justthink--or, like he was today, he'd practise drawing and throwing downon trees and rocks.
Guess he always wanted to be tough. Really tough. He tried to walkwith tough men, and, as we found out later, just about all he everthought about while he was lying around was how he could be tougherthan the next two guys. Maybe you've known characters like that--forsome damfool reason they just got to be able to whup anybody who comesalong, and they feel low and mean when they can't, as if the size of aman's fist was the size of the man.
So that's Buck Tarrant--a halfsized, poisonous, no-good kid who wantedto be a hardcase.
But he'd never be, not in a million years. That's what made itfunny--and kind of pitiful too. There wasn't no real strength in him,only a scared hate. It takes guts as well as speed to be tough witha gun, and Buck was just a nasty little rat of a kid who'd probablyalways counterpunch his way through life when he punched at all. He'dkite for cover if you lifted a lip.
I heard another shot, and looked up the slope. I was near enough nowto see that the card he was shooting at was a ten of diamonds--andthat he was plugging the pips one by one. Always could shoot, like Isaid.
* * * * *
Then he heard me coming, and whirled away from the tree, his gunholstered, his hand held out in front of him like he must haveimagined Hickock or somebody held it when he was ready to draw.
I stopped my horse about ten feet away and just stared at him. Helooked real funny in his baggy old levis and dirty checkered shirt andthat big gun low on his hip, and me knowing he couldn't handle itworth a damn.
"Who you trying to scare, Buck?" I said. I looked him up and down andsnickered. "You look about as dangerous as a sheepherder's wife."
"And you're a son of a bitch," he said.
I stiffened and shoved out my jaw. "Watch that, runt, or I'll get offand put my foot in your mouth and pull you on like a boot!"
"Will you now," he said nastily, "you son of a bitch?"
And he drew on me ... and I goddam near fell backwards off my saddle!
I swear, I hadn't even seen his hand move, he'd drawn so fast! Thatgun just practically _appeared_ in his hand!
"Will you now?" he said again, and the bore of his gun looked like agreased gate to hell.
I sat in my saddle scared spitless, wondering if this was when I wasgoing to die. I moved my hands out away from my body, and tried tolook friendlylike--actually, I'd never tangled with Buck, just razzedhim a little now and then like everybody did; and I couldn't see muchreason why he'd want to kill me.
But the expression on his face was full of gloating, full of wildness,full of damn-you recklessness--exactly the expression you'd look tofind on a kid like Buck who suddenly found out he was the deadliestgunman alive.
And that's just what he was, believe me.
Once I saw Bat Masterson draw--and he was right up there with the verybest. Could draw and shoot accurately in maybe half a second orso--you could hardly see his hand move; you just heard the slap ofhand on gunbutt, and a split-second later the shot. It takes a lot ofpractise to be able to get a gun out and on target in that space oftime, and that's what makes gunmen. Practise, and a knack to beginwith. And, I guess, the yen to be a gunman, like Buck Tarrant'd alwayshad.
When I saw Masterson draw against Jeff Steward in Abilene, it was thatway--slap, crash, and Steward was three-eyed. Just a blur of motion.
But when Buck Tarrant drew on me, right now in the Pass, I didn't seeany motion _atall_. He just crouched, and then his gun was on me. Musthave done it in a millionth of a second, if a second has millionths.
It was the fastest draw I'd ever seen. It was, I reckoned, the fastestdraw anybody's ever seen. It was an impossibly fast draw--a man's handjust couldn't move to his holster that fast, and grab and drag a heavyPeacemaker up in a two foot arc that fast.
It was plain damn impossible--but there it was.
And there I was.
* * * * *
I didn't say a word. I just sat and thought about things, and my horsewandered a little farther up the slope and then stopped to chompgrass. All the time, Buck Tarrant was standing there,
poised, thatwild gloating look in his eyes, knowing he could kill me anytime andknowing I knew it.
When he spoke, his voice was shaky--it sounded like he wanted to bustout laughing, and not a nice laugh either.
"Nothing to say, Doolin?" he said. "Pretty fast, huh?"
I said, "Yeah, Buck. Pretty fast." And my voice was shaky too, but notbecause I felt like laughing any.
He spat, eying me arrogantly. The ground rose to where he stood, andour heads were about on a level. But I felt he was looking down.
"Pretty fast!" he sneered. "Faster'n anybody!"
"I reckon it is, at that," I said.
"Know how I do it?"
"No."
"I _think_, Doolin. I _think_ my gun into my hand. How d'you likethat?"
"It's
