by F. M. Parker
The catapult was moved back ten yards to a pre-marked location and turned several degrees so that it would throw the glass spheres past the contestants at a steeper angle.
As the glass balls zipped out from the catapult, Celeste thought of the two birds she had shot. Though she still felt sorrow at killing the wrens, their deaths had told her the level of her skill. Soon she would know how good Dokken was, while he would not know about her. She was pleased at that.
The second elimination round ended with three shooters remaining. Each had a perfect score. Dokken had survived.
The range was increased another ten yards and the catapult turned so that the target would pass almost directly across in front of the shooters.
The initial marksman of the third round missed three of his five targets. He mouthed something that Celeste could not hear but thought must be a curse and stalked off.
Dokken and a large man dressed in elegant clothing were left. The larger man said something to Dokken and laughed. Celeste noted a strange momentary expression came upon Dokken’s face. Was it fear? Why would that be? Then the expression was gone and no one who had not been watching Dokken as intently as Celeste could have caught it.
Dokken’s bullets struck his targets one after another, until the fifth. The glass globe sailed serenely on after the pistol fired.
To Celeste’s amazement, the big man standing off to Dokken’s side raised his pistol to point in the direction of the fast-disappearing glass target. He fired, the burnt gunpowder smoke stabbing out of the black iron barrel. By some unearthly wizardry, the bullet struck the glass ball as it arched down toward the ground far away. The glass exploded and the multitude of glass shards caught the sunlight and gleamed in a brilliant silver shower for a brief instant.
The man immediately turned his revolver upward to the sky and fired four rapid shots to round out the required five. Laughing he slid the weapon into a holster inside his immaculately tailored coat.
The crowd of people was totally silent. Then the meaning of the man’s action was understood. He had proved he was the champion, then had deliberately wasted his shots into the air, thus allowing Dokken to win. The people roared their approval of the man’s deed.
“That fellow just threw away five hundred dollars,” Levi said.
“Yes, he did,” Celeste said, turning to look at the person who had spoken to her. A raggedy, blue-eyed gringo man, more a boy, was looking at her. She saw the rifle in the crook of his arm. “Are you going to compete in the rifle contest?”
“I’m going to try my luck at hitting some of those glass balls.” Levi smiled into the black eyes watching him so earnestly. The woman was one of the prettiest he had ever seen.
Celeste smiled back at Levi. “I wish I could stay and watch you shoot, but I must hurry off to San Francisco.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Good-bye and I hope you win,” Celeste replied.
“Thanks,” Levi replied.
Celeste cut a look at Dokken standing talking to the contest organizer. Then she left the crowd and went to her buggy.
Louden came to Levi. “I’ve bet Mattoon five hundred dollars that you beat Lasch.”
Levi was shocked that Louden had bet such a large sum on him. “What odds did you get?”
“Mattoon gave me two to one that Lasch wins.”
“Who is this Lasch?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself. He began coming to the shoots about two years ago. He always has money and bets heavily on himself.”
“Does he often win?”
“Yes. He’s won every time I’ve been to a match and saw him shoot.”
“Sounds like my work is cut out for me.”
“That it is, and a big job.” Louden’s features were somber. “I’d sure enjoy taking Mattoon’s money.”
“I’ll do my best to help you,” Levi said. He sensed a rivalry between the two men. Was it a friendly one? He gestured with his thumb at Mattoon who stood with another man, quite tall, rail thin and with a long bony face. “Is that second man Lasch?”
Louden looked in the same direction. “Yes, that’s Lasch. He’s an arrogant bastard. Mattoon is probably telling him about the bet he has made with me. Watch yourself for Mattoon doesn’t like losing and Lasch may try a trick on you.”
The shootmaster called from inside the roped-off shooting area. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the rifle match. The purse is six hundred dollars. Winner takes all. That’s a lot of money and I expect you’ll see some fine shooting to win it. Will the contestants come on this side of the rope?”
“I’ll see you later,” Levi told Louden.
“Good luck. Beat Lasch.”
“I’d better. If I don’t, I’ll be flat broke and you will’uv lost a lot of money,” Levi replied. He stepped over the rope. Knowing he had been the last man to sign the register, he took a position at the far side of the gathering of shooters. Baker began to call out names.
Lasch, trailing his rifle, walked toward Levi. His thick-lipped mouth was stretched in a smirkish grin. He halted, and set his feet in a pugnacious stance. “Mattoon just told me there was an army deserter at this match and that you could point him out to me.”
Levi tensed at the word deserter. He remembered Louden’s warning. Mattoon and Lasch didn’t know anything for sure and were playing a game to rattle him and hamper his shooting. Their words were a very real threat for he was a deserter from the army. Union officials would be glad to arrest him and ship him back East for court martial. Or there could be a closer danger. California was a Union state. An army post of some sort might exist in Sacramento and he could be imprisoned there.
Levi locked eyes with Lasch. He must show no concern, no fear at the man’s statement. As he started to reply, the first shooter of the elimination round fired his rifle.
“We’ll have to wait to talk,” Levi said. “See me after the match.” He turned his back to Lasch.
Levi expected Lasch to say something more to him or even grab hold of him for turning his back, but neither happened. After a moment of tense waiting, he heard Lasch move away.
One marksman after the other fired his five rounds. Lasch shot, earning a perfect score. Then Levi stood in the shooter’s box.
He thought of Mattoon with his thousand-dollar bet against him and believing him an army deserter. Then there was Louden betting he would win. And his own desperate need for money. He took a breath, let part out, and nodded to the man working the catapult.
The glass globe whizzed out, rising in the first part of its swift trajectory. Levi lifted the Spencer. The gun came so familiarly to his shoulder. His cheek met the stock, rested against it. His eye looked down the sights, moved the rifle barrel to track the silhouette of the target rushing across the sky. The path of the globe was almost directly away, an easy angle to hit. He pressed the trigger as the flying sphere of glass reached the top of its trajectory. The glass exploded.
The catapult man tripped the arm again. The Spencer roared out. The glass shattered.
Levi fired his five rounds at targets and missed not one of them.
Only eight contestants remained for the second elimination round. Levi had known most of the original riflemen would fail. Though many men were skilled at hitting stationary targets, a small fast-moving one was an entirely different matter.
He looked at Louden, and the man nodded. Levi was glad for the approval, but they were easy targets.
The catapult was carried out twenty yards and positioned so that it would throw the target to cross more steeply in front of the contestants.
The first shooter failed in two of his five attempts to hit the speeding targets. Lasch was the second marksman. His rifle swung easily to track the glass ball whipping across from right to left. He broke all five and turned to glance at Levi.
“It’ll start getting hard after this round,” Lasch said.
“I expect so,” Levi replied.
Each of the next five men f
ailed to hit one or more of the targets thrown past them. Then Levi stepped forward and stood waiting, his ears cocked to hear the metallic snap of the arm of the catapult, and his eyes to spot the speeding target. From the very first time his father had placed a rifle in his hands, Levi had had an uncanny knack of hitting moving targets. He felt that here today in the strange land of California his skill would be tested to the limit by the man called Lasch.
Levi exploded all five of his glass targets and stepped out of the shooter’s position. He extracted the cartridge tube from the stock of the Spencer and began to shove fresh shells into it.
At an order from Baker, the catapult man picked up his machine and carried it to a new location twenty yards more distant. The angle with which the target would cross in front of the contestants was increased further still. Lasch stepped up to shoot.
The arm of the machine was tripped. The glass ball was almost invisible as it drove through the air. Yet Lasch’s bullet broke it. And then four more. He laughed out loud.
Levi stepped to the shooter’s position. Only Lasch and he remained of the contestants. Should Levi win, he would have made two enemies, and he believed they would be tough, unforgiving enemies. His breath was coming swiftly and his muscles were much too tight for accurate shooting. A slight tremor was in his hands.
Damn it, he mustn’t let their threat unnerve him and cause him to miss a target. He had to have the prize money. Perhaps, should he win, he would have made one friend, Louden the Wells Fargo agent. He wasn’t sure what help that could be. But he owed the man to do his best.
Just shoot, he told himself. That’s the only thing you can do for you’ve come too far to stop. Let your rifle answer Mattoon and Lasch. He raised the Spencer and spoke to the catapult man. “Ready.”
The glass ball came hurtling out from the catapult. Levi shot and the target vanished. Number two went the same way, and three, four, and five.
The match organizer spoke to Levi and Lasch. “Gentlemen, you have shown what men can do with rifles. The people have been truly entertained. Still the decision as to which of you is the better marksman has not been made. If I move the targets farther away, I doubt they can be seen to hit. Do you have any suggestions as to how to resolve this?”
“Base the final round on quickness,” Levi said. “Let both of us shoot at the same target. The man who shoots first and breaks the glass would win.”
“How many targets?” asked Baker.
“One or three,” Levi said.
“What do you say, Lasch?” Baker asked.
“That way is okay with me. Use three balls.”
“Then move up and stand beside Coffin. Both of you face the catapult.”
Baker spoke to the catapult man. “Tie a long string on the trip lever so you can get back out of danger. Then launch the first target.”
Levi focused every sense on the metal arm of the machine and the feet of space just in front of it. So focused was his concentration it seemed he could see the particles of air, could hear the tension being put on the trip string.
The metal arm swung. The glass globe leapt into space.
Levi fired. The glass shattered to powder. Lasch did not shoot.
A murmur, almost a gasp rose from the crowd of people. The catapult man looked shaken.
Louden, who stood behind the rope area near Levi, spoke out loud in wonderment. “Coffin burst the ball the second it left the machine. It’s impossible to be that quick. Yet I saw it.”
“Throw another,” Lasch called out in a hoarse, angry voice. “That was only luck.”
The catapult man cocked the launching arm and placed a glass sphere on it. He backed away and worriedly picked up his string. He crouched, and without pausing, tripped the catapult arm.
Levi never afterward could remember raising the Spencer or touching the trigger. But he would always remember the explosion of glass fragments just in front of the catapult.
And Louden’s yell of astonishment, and pleasure.
Chapter 12
Levi turned from the target catapult to Lasch standing beside him in the shooter’s box. The man was gripping his rifle and staring at him with a fierce expression. Levi thought the beaten man was going to strike him with the rifle. But Lasch pivoted away, stepped over the rope marking off the shooter’s area, and pushed roughly into the crowd of spectators.
Levi watched after Lasch until he merged into the people drifting off toward their horses and vehicles. He sighed with relief at the man’s leaving before there was any trouble with him. To his surprise he found his own rifle was held tightly and his finger on the trigger.
“Well done, Levi,” Louden said, drawing near. “And you’re right to watch Lasch. I believe he’s a man who’ll not forget that you showed him up today as a second-rate rifleman and will try to get back at you.”
“He’s sure not second-rate.”
“Compared to you he is.”
“I had to win. I was flat broke.”
“And I sure wanted to take Mattoon’s money. Here he comes now and he doesn’t look happy.”
“George, you made a lucky bet, and I’m here to pay off,” Mattoon called out as he approached.
Louden chuckled. “Coffin said he’d win and he did just that. So cross my palm with gold.”
“No gold. How about paper money?”
“As long as it’s Union money.”
“That’s what it is.” Mattoon pulled a large roll of bills from his pocket and began to count.
“One thousand dollars and you’re paid in full,” Mattoon said, laying the last bill on the Wells Fargo man’s hand.
“You’ll probably get it all back next time we bet.”
“Not if Coffin shoots.”
Mattoon turned and studied Levi’s face, and then ran his sight up and down the young man’s lanky body. After a moment and without a sour expression, he focused back on Louden. “I’ll see you later, George. First time you come to San Francisco, let me know and plan to come to my home for dinner.”
“I’ll do that. So long.”
Louden, staring after Mattoon, spoke to Levi. “He’s a sharp businessman and has financial interests throughout California. Some of his businesses I don’t approve of and he’s fought and killed some men in duels that I thought were unnecessary. But he’s got friends in high places. He could one day be mayor of San Francisco, or maybe governor of the state.”
“He didn’t act like he wanted to be my friend,” Levi said. “And now after losing a thousand dollars, he sure won’t be.”
“Mattoon’s quite changeable, and difficult to understand. One day hard and sharp-tongued, and the next day just the opposite.”
“This must have been his bad day.”
“Yes, I’d say so. Levi, I want you to come to work for Wells Fargo. The pay will be five dollars a day. That’s the best pay an honest, working man can earn in California.”
“What would be my duties?”
“Ride rifle guard on the gold shipments Wells Fargo brings down from the mountains. We transport nearly three-quarters of the gold from the mining camps and the towns such as Placerville and Dutch Flat. We guarantee safe delivery to the U.S. Mint in San Francisco. Outlaws are hurting us damn bad, holding up the stages and wagons and making off with the gold.”
“I don’t want a job that would mean shooting somebody.”
“But I need a man like you, a man better than anyone else with a rifle. I’ll make your pay six dollars a day.”
“It’s not the pay. It’s the shooting that I might have to do. I don’t want to be responsible for someone dying.”
“But you would only be fighting robbers who’d kill you for a dollar.”
“There’s little likelihood of that if I’m not riding guard on one of your gold wagons. I thank you for the offer, but I’ve got to turn it down.”
“I’m down right sorry to hear that,” Louden said. “However the job is always open for you to take at any time. If you change your mind, look m
e up. I’m in the Wells Fargo office in Sacramento part of the time, but mostly in San Francisco.”
“I’ll do that,” Levi replied. He put out his hand. “Thank you for your trust, and your job offer.”
“I hope we meet again.”
“So do I.”
“Keep your horse. You’ve earned it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Louden. I’ve got to likin’ that old horse.”
* * *
Levi entered Sacramento, found the riverfront, and purchased passage for himself and his mount on the river steamboat Whipple bound for San Francisco. There were nearly a hundred other passengers, city people, miners from the gold fields of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, loggers from the lumber camps, and farmers who tended the thousands of acres of crop land in the inland valley. A few of the passengers were like Levi, new people from the far regions of the east.
A few minutes later the Whipple, its boilers hot, smoke streaming from its twin smokestacks, and pistons beating like some giant heart deep within the wooden body, pulled away from the pier and plowed downriver. To Levi’s surprise, the Whipple towed a huge barge that was pressed low in the water by thousands of sacks of wheat piled high upon its deck.
He climbed to the second deck so that he could see over the manmade levees. Several chairs were lined up beside the deck house. Levi seated himself and settled back to enjoy the trip, some four hours long he had been informed by the ticket agent. He felt pleased with the money in his pocket, but he regretted making enemies of Mattoon and Lasch.
Sacramento fell away behind and the river became tree lined. Beyond the trees, were broad fields with every square foot covered with golden wheat stubble, or shocks of bundled wheat not yet run through the thrashing machine. Levi smiled with pleasure. The farmers had reaped a large harvest. He had found a rich and generous land.
The Sacramento River wound its course to the west across the wide flat land of the San Joaquin Valley. Many steamboats passed heading up river. Nearly everyone towed a barge behind, some of them empty. Levi judged the empty barges were going to Sacramento to pick up a load of grain.
