Kirby looked down. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“It’s good that you hadn’t thought about it. As far as you’re concerned, the other arm isn’t even there.
“Put your pistol back in the holster, then look at your target by turning your head and eyes slightly without moving from the neck down. When you know exactly where the target is, pull the pistol from the holster, but don’t raise the gun to eye level. Shoot it as soon as your arm comes level.”
Anxious, Kirby asked, “Should I try a quick draw?”
“No. That comes later. First learn to shoot, then learn to draw. Now, pull the gun and shoot it.”
Kirby pulled the pistol and fired as soon as it came level. He had no idea where the bullet went.
Fancy Lil was easily the most beautiful dove in the covey of doves Chicago Sue employed at the Palace Princess Emporium. She had managed to avoid the dissipation so prevalent among the others. While most would lay with anywhere from three to five men a night, Fancy Lil rarely shared her bed. The others charged from two dollars to five dollars, depending on the girl and the length of the visit. It cost fifty dollars to visit Fancy Lil for a short while, and one hundred and fifty dollars to spend the night with her.
Her room, in keeping with her station as Chicago Sue’s most expensive girl, was attractively furnished with lace curtains on the window and a floral carpet on the floor. The furniture was made of English oak and the headboard featured elaborate carvings.
Her clientele was of a considerably higher caliber than the average visitor to the place. She entertained wealthy cattlemen, high ranking officers who’d been in the Confederate military, and politicians, including a couple Texas state senators.
Her most frequent visitor, and the one she actually enjoyed being with, was a big man, a Confederate veteran who stood six feet seven inches tall, and weighed 330 pounds. He had given only his first name, Ben.
The well-appointed room was redolent with the scent of sex. She and Ben were lying together, naked skin against naked skin.
Though it had become a little more than routine for Janey—an act without feeling, emotionally or physically—it wasn’t like that with Ben. With him, she had experienced every sensation.
Their times together were passion-filled, but she also felt a relaxed shared possessiveness between them that she had never felt with anyone else, not even Paul Garner.
She put her head on Ben’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, cupping her breast in his hand. It wasn’t sexual. It was comfortable.
“What is your name?” she asked. “I know there has to be more to it than just Ben.”
“Some folks call me Big Ben.”
Janey chuckled. “Big Ben? Yes, I can see that. But am I to believe that’s all there is to it?”
“Am I to believe there is no more to your name than Fancy Lil?”
“I can’t give my real name,” Janey said.
“Why not?”
“Because girls in my . . . profession . . . never give their real names.”
Big Ben smiled. “And men like me, who visit girls like you, never give our real names.”
“You are a wealthy man, aren’t you, Ben?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it costs a lot of money to visit me . . . and lately, you have been visiting me more than all my other gentlemen callers combined.”
“I enjoy visiting you.”
“But you can get the same thing from other girls for a lot less money.”
Big Ben shook his head. “No, I can’t. Lil, I would have thought that, by now, you understood. It isn’t just the time we’re in bed together. It’s more than that. With you . . . with us . . . it’s just . . . more. I thought . . . that is, I hoped . . . that it was a little more for you, as well.”
Janey felt her eyes well with tears, and she leaned up to kiss him on his cheek, feeling the stubble of a day’s growth of beard. “My name is Janey. Janey Garner.”
She’d decided to expose herself to him, but she chose to use Garner’s last name, rather than Jensen. She didn’t want to bring any more shame to the Jensen name than she already had. Assuming, that is, that there were any Jensens left alive.
Big Ben turned to smile at her. “Conyers. Benjamin R. Conyers.”
CHAPTER 8
Millions of soldiers who had worn the blue and the gray had laid down their arms and picked up where they had left off. Families split by the war were reunited. Friendships were renewed, crops were put in, men and women were married, children were born.
But it was not so for all men. For some, the wounds had cut too deeply and the price had been too dear. Families, fortunes, and dreams were consumed in flames and drowned in blood. So it was for Kirby and Emmett. They had only each other, along with their guns and their courage.
After leaving Baxter Springs, they headed west for a bit, then turned south through Indian Territory, heading for Texas.
“Do you think we need to be wary of the Indians, Pa?”
“No need. All the Indians here is civilized. They got their own towns, their own laws. Most even like white men. Lots of ’em even fought ’n the war. It’s farther out West that we got to be wary of ’em. Out there, I hear tell that Indians is notional folks. The same bands that would leave you alone today might try to kill you tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say. It’s hard for the average white man to understand the Indians’ way of life. But I’m sure there are white men livin’ in the mountains, prob’ly been there thirty or forty years or more, who can understand them better ’n whites can now, them bein’ gone so long from civilization ’n all.”
Every night as they camped, Kirby would practice shooting, though he limited his practice to no more than three shots each day. They were a long way from any chance of buying new bullets.
On the seventh day, he fired three shots, thinking his bullets into the targets all three times. “Did you see that, Pa?”
“Can you do it again?”
Kirby repeated his performance, again hitting his targets with all three bullets.
“All right. Instead of shooting one at a time, I want you to fire three times, one shot right on top of another, and hit these three targets.” Emmett put pine cones on three rocks, the two farthest rocks separated by at least ten yards. He came back to stand beside Kirby.
“Now?” Kirby asked.
“Not yet. I’m going to add something to it.” Emmett took a mess skillet from his pack and put it on the ground in front of him, then he picked up a rock. “When I say, ‘now,’ I want you to start shooting. At the same time, I’ll drop this rock, and I want to hear all three shots before the rock hits the skillet. Do you think you can do that?”
“I can get all three shots off, yes sir.”
“And hit all three targets,” Emmett said.
“I don’t know, Pa. That’s askin’ quite a lot.”
“Wrong answer. Do you think you can do that?”
Kirby smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Emmett returned the smile. “That’s my boy. Now!” he shouted without further notice.
Using his left hand to fan the hammer, Kirby fired three shots so close that it sounded like one. Then clank—the rock hit the skillet. All three targets had been hit.
“You didn’t give me any warning,” Kirby complained.
“I didn’t, did I? Well, you don’t always get a warning. I think the time has come to teach you the quick draw. And this won’t be costin’ us any bullets at all.”
“I’m ready,” Kirby said with a broad smile.
“All right. Empty your pistol before we begin. I wouldn’t want the damn thing to go off accidental while you’re tryin’ to learn.”
Kirby pulled his pistol, poked all the shells out of the cylinder, and stuck it back down into the holster.
“Now, look down at the shank of your holster. That’s the par
t that’s attached to the belt. It should have a little kink in it, so that it causes the butt of the pistol to stick out just a little. You can adjust it, but we may have to make a little modification later on, so that the pistol sticks out far enough all the time so there won’t be anything to get in the way of your draw.”
Kirby made a few adjustments to the shank and finally, after examining it closely, Emmett announced that it was ready and continued with his instructions. “Let your arm hang down completely limp and natural along your side. Don’t crook the elbow . . . don’t stiffen your arm. Don’t do nothin’ but just let it hang there.”
Kirby did as he was instructed.
“Now, without drawing the gun, bend your arm at the elbow until your hand has come up level with the ground. Stick out your trigger finger. Where is it pointing?”
“It’s pointing in the same direction as my arm,” Kirby said.
“All right, now what I want you to do is, move the gun belt until the gun is exactly under your hand. The butt of the pistol should be poking out away from your body just a little. That was why we adjusted the shank a while ago. Remember?”
Kirby adjusted the holster as directed, and Emmett inspected the position of the gun.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Just like that. And the holster should be at the same angle as your arm was a while ago when you lifted it. Do that.”
Kirby repositioned the holster.
“Move your hips forward real slow and bring your shoulders back, grabbing the gun as your hips and shoulders move. But don’t grab it with your whole hand. Curl your middle finger, ring finger, and little finger around the butt of the gun. If you’ve got your holster positioned right, that will put the gun in your hand before you even start to draw it.”
Kirby reacted to the directions, and as Emmett had pointed out, his hand fell naturally to the butt of the pistol. He smiled at the result. “Pa, my hand went right where you said it would.”
“Good. That’s very good. Keep your holster there, and do it that way every time, so that when the gun comes out of the holster, it will just naturally be pointed in the right direction. Now, when you make the draw, make sure you bring the barrel up level, ’cause if you don’t, you’ll shoot low ever’ time.”
Kirby nodded, indicating that he understood the instructions.
“All right. Good. Now, it’s time to cock the gun as you draw it. What you want to do is, pull your thumb across the hammer to cock the gun at the same time you are drawing. The thumb should be moving the hammer back all the while you are bringing the gun up. You got that?”
“Yes, Pa. I got it.”
Emmett chuckled. “So you say. We’ll just see if you listened to anything I said. I want you to draw the gun just the way I told you. But I want you to draw it real slow, so I can see it, and make sure you’re doing everything the right way. Go ahead and draw it now.”
Kirby made the draw, doing it slowly and exactly as he had been instructed. Emmett smiled.
“How did you like that?” Kirby asked.
“Don’t go getting all smug on me now,” Emmett said.
“I did it perfectly.”
“How do you know you did?”
“Because, if I hadn’t done it perfectly, you wouldn’t have called me smug,” Kirby said with a pleased smile.
“Right. Now . . . pick out something to shoot at and draw as fast as you can.”
Kirby frowned. “I don’t have any bullets in the gun.”
“You don’t need any bullets right now. All you need to do is what I told you. Now, I want you to pick out a target.”
“What about that leaf there?”
“What leaf? There are hundreds of leaves. How do I know you won’t just shoot, then claim the leaf you hit is the one you wanted to hit?”
Kirby walked over to a nearby tree and put his finger on one of the leaves. “This one.”
“All right. Draw your pistol as fast as you can and shoot at it.”
Still confused, Kirby asked, “How can I shoot if I don’t have any bullets?”
“Just do what I tell you, Kirby. If I want questions, I’ll ask for them.”
Kirby returned to his original position, drew his pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“Did you hit the leaf?” Emmett asked.
Kirby started to ask his father again how he could hit the leaf if he had no bullets in his gun but checked the question and smiled instead. “Yeah, I hit the leaf.”
“Good. Now, put some bullets in your gun and do it again.”
Kirby loaded the pistol and put it in his holster. He got ready to make his draw—
“Wait.” Emmett stopped him. He picked up the rock.
“You’re goin’ to drop the rock on the skillet again?” Kirby asked.
“No. This time you’re goin’ to drop the rock. What I want you to do is hold it out in front of you. When I tell you to, drop the rock, draw your pistol, and shoot at that leaf.”
Kirby held the rock out in front of him, shoulder high.
“Now!” Emmett shouted.
Kirby dropped the rock, drew his pistol, and fired. Not until after the gun fired, was there the clank of the rock hitting the skillet. The leaf, cut from the tree, fluttered down. Kirby looked over at Emmett and smiled.
“Not bad,” Emmett said.
“Not bad? What do you mean, not bad?”
“You had your hand shoulder high. I want you to be able to do that when your hand is no higher than this.” Emmett demonstrated, holding his hand lower than Kirby’s waist.
“Nobody can do that.” Kirby shook his head.
“You can,” Emmett said. “And better.”
“If you think so,” Kirby said.
“No, Kirby, it’s not what I think. It’s what you think. Actually, it’s not what you think, it’s what you know. You have to know that you can do this.”
Kirby picked up the rock and held it just below his waist. Then, with a confident grin, he moved the rock even lower. Taking a deep breath, he dropped the rock, drew the pistol, and fired . . . before the rock clanked against the skillet. And he hit the target.
As Kirby bedded down that night next to glowing embers of the fire that had cooked their supper, he let his mind pass over events that had brought him and his father near the Cherokee town of Tahlequah in the Indian Territory. He had grown up thinking he would be a farmer like his father. Once he and Luke had even discussed buying acreage just across Shoal Creek from the family farm. If they bought 40 acres apiece, they could farm all the land jointly . . . 120 acres, which would make it one of the biggest farms in Stone County. And because all the land had access to a year-round supply of water, it could be the best farm in the county.
But none of that was to be. His mother was dead. Luke was dead. Janey had run off, who knows where, and his pa had come back from the war no longer interested in farming. If Kirby was truthful with himself, he was no longer interested in it, either.
How strange life was that it could start out in one direction, then make a turn in a completely different direction.
Emmett had another bad coughing spell in his sleep.
Kirby sat up and looked over toward him. “Pa?”
Emmett coughed again. “I’m all right, son. I’ve just got a cough I can’t shake, is all. Go back to sleep.”
Kirby lay back down. He hadn’t been asleep so there was no going back to sleep, but as he lay there, his eyelids began to grow heavy, and finally sleep pushed away all the thoughts tumbling through his mind.
Over the next several days Kirby continued to practice. His draw became so fast that it was a blur, too fast for the eye to follow. His shooting was deadly accurate, as well.
Emmett, having handled guns all his life, was a very good shooter. As he watched, he realized that Kirby was exceptionally good—already better than his pa. Emmett smiled, proud.
He had once been the city marshal of a small town in Missouri,
and had found it necessary, in defense of his own life, to kill two men during his tenure in office. God alone knew how many more men he had killed during the war.
Emmett was glad that the boy could handle himself. He had not told Kirby everything—that he would have gone West whether Pearl was dead or alive, and whether or not Kirby had come with him; that his journey was not one of pure impulse; that he had given his word to Mosby that if it took him forever, he would find and kill the men who had murdered Luke and stolen the gold he was carrying to the Confederate government in Georgia.
In this, he was like his son. Kirby had taken his own oath to kill someone. Ideally, they would be together when they encountered the men they were after.
Crossing into Texas, they came across a few stage stops and trading posts along the way but didn’t ride into any towns until they reached Dallas.
Emmett looked around. “This is it, boy. Dallas, Texas.”
“Wow, this is purt’ nigh as large as Springfield,” Kirby said, taking it all in.
The main street was cut with wheel ruts and hoof marks, and covered with enough horse apples to permeate the air with strong odor. A busy town, it was filled with buckboards, surreys, carriages, and wagons, as well as riders on horseback. Boardwalks ran the entire length of each block and were filled with the citizens of the town, many of them women who walked around holding handkerchiefs to their nose to blot out the smell.
“We might want to stop here, first,” Emmett said, pointing to a gun store. “I expect you’re about out of ammunition, ain’t you?”
“I could sure use some more,” Kirby replied.
Tying their four horses off, the two men went inside.
A clerk sitting behind the counter in a wooden chair leaning against the wall was the only person in the store. He stood up when they entered. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“I need some thirty-six caliber shells,” Kirby said.
“Very good sir. How many do you need?”
“I’d say about two hundred.”
The clerk whistled. “Two hundred? My, that’s a lot of ammunition. I do hope you aren’t planning on restarting the war.” He laughed at his own joke.
Smoke Jensen, the Beginning Page 10
