Toward the end of that first week, while she was collecting an egg from beneath a protesting hen, it dawned on her that Nate had never once questioned her about her personal life. All he knew was what he’d seen with his own two eyes. She wondered about that, but pushed it aside temporarily, as the attention getting peck from the distraught hen stung the back of her hand. “Why you old hussy!” she said, with mock disapproval. “I should just leave these eggs right where they are until they hatch. Then you’ll be faced with having to raise all them young’uns. Wouldn’t that suit your fancy?” She shooed the hen off the nest, with a brushing backhand, and picked up the egg. “Believe me, you’ll thank me later,” she said with a smile and left the coop, her egg collecting done.
Nate fell in beside her as they walked toward the house.
“You need help carrying that pail?” she asked, seeing that it was nearly full.
“Nah, I can manage alright enough,” he replied, and switched it to his other hand.
They walked in silence for a ways. Finally, she asked, “How come you never ask me about my personal life? You know...young men and things like that?”
He stopped, causing her to do the same. He rested the pail of milk on the ground beside his leg. After looking into her eyes for a moment or two, he placed his hands on her upper arms. “Dolly, I ain’t never had me no kinfolk to speak of. But if I did, I’d a wanted my female young’uns ta be about like you are: all pretty an’ carin’ an’ having a purpose in life...not that I’m necessarily agreein’ with that purpose, you understand? But...well...I reckon what I’m sayin’ is that I don’t wanna know anything about yer personal life.”
Her eyebrows converged. “Why not? I just naturally thought—”
“Look squirt...odds are that yer a really nice girl. You probably got the young men lined up clean ta kingdom come just waitin’ to get you to notice ’em, but all that changed when you made the decision to go after them what done ya wrong. Anything that was yer life before has been shoved onto the back a the stove...so to speak. Until this is all over an’ done with, you won’t be the same person. It’s also my way of thinking that there’s a real good chance that you’ll probably get yerself kilt. Maybe not by them that yer after, but it could come from any direction once word gets out that yer a gunnie.”
“I’m never going to be a gunfighter,” she protested mildly. “I just want to—”
“You call it whatever suits ya. The true fact of the matter is that when I’m done with you, you’ll be a gunnie alright...make no mistake about that. I’d be doin’ you an injustice if I didn’t give you the full benefits of my abilities and what I know. There just ain’t no other way to ensure that you’ll have an even chance out there.” He waved at the air around them then again placed his hand on her arm. “I reckon what I’m saying is that I don’t wanna get ta know all them personal things. Cuz if you was to get yerself gunned down someday, then where would I be? I reckon I could get all stove-up pinin’ away after yer memory. No…I’d just as soon keep this on a man ta man businesslike level.”
“Well then,” she said, with a nodding understanding, “I guess that leaves us right about square one in this relationship.”
“Nope,” he said flatly.
“What?”
“Square two would be more like it. It’s time to progress to the practicin’ aspect of things.”
Her grin was wide and heartfelt. “Now that’s more like it.”
Chapter 7
Dolly was an exceptional student and learned quickly the mechanics of pulling a hogleg in the most efficient manner possible. Her holster proved to be adequate once they had lowered it to an area that was well below her left hip.
She practiced countless hours, always with no bullets in the gun. Nate figured that that way she wouldn’t be inclined to shoot it before the time was right. His reasoning was that by just pulling it and aiming at a target, imaginary or otherwise, every imagined shot was perfect and right on the money...so to speak.
She practiced hard all that week and the next, drawing and aiming, drawing and aiming, fitting it in between doing the chores and cooking the meals. She didn’t even mind that she was only shooting make believe bullets. Quite the contrary would be closer to the truth. The fact that in her mind she never missed encouraged her to no end. Her confidence grew by leaps and bounds until the whole thing had become second nature and was fast-approaching first nature, if there was such a thing.
“You sure are takin’ to this like a thirsty hound dog takes to a puddle of fresh rainwater,” Nate said one afternoon, after watching her for the better part of five minutes or so.”
She twirled the pistol around her finger a couple of times and let it just kinda find its own way into the holster. She grinned at him. “How long have you been watching?” she asked.
“Long enough to see that yer improvin’ way fastern than anyone I ever knowed before...including me.”
“I guess all it takes is the right motivation,” she replied. “Besides...I can’t Miss”
“That being the case, I’m of a mind that maybe it’s time to see just how true that is. Wait here,” he said and spun on the balls of his feet.
He was back in about two shakes of a jackrabbit’s tail. She could see that he was carrying his own gunbelt and pistol, still all rolled up.
“What’re you gonna do with that?” she asked as concern transformed her brow into a washboard of wrinkles. “You ain’t planning on drawing on me, are you?”
“Not hardly, squirt. Fact is...yer to the point now where I figger you might have a chance of shading me.”
She didn’t believe that for an instant and looked on as he unwrapped the belt from around the holster. He then draped it over his shoulder and pointed at her holster. “That outfit has served its purpose. You learned a passel in a short time, despite its deficiencies an’ not ta mention the obstacles it presented.”
“What’dya mean, deficiencies and obstacles?” The wrinkles reappeared across her forehead.
“I mean...that although that .36 is an alright sort, it don’t come nowheres near havin’ the favorable attributes of a Peacemaker.” He pulled the belt from his shoulder and held it out toward her. “Now...you need to unbuckle that thing from around yer waist and lay claim ta this one.”
“No way. I couldn’t. That’s yours. It probably holds a lot of memories for you.”
“You’d be right about that, squirt. But the only problem with that is that they’re all bad ones; ones that I never wanna remember ever again.” He again pushed the gunbelt out toward her. “Now take it, I said.”
She unbuckled her own gunbelt and let it fall to the dirt at her feet. She then accepted the offering, and after catching the end as it came around, buckled it low around her hips. She adjusted it for what she could readily feel was a perfect fit. “Sure does feel like it was made for me,” she said.
“Maybe it was,” he answered. “Now tie it down.” He pointed to the thong that hung from the bottom edge of the holster.
She did as she was told, securing it with a bow.
“Don’t never tie a holster down using a bowknot,” he said. “First thing you know it could come loose at the wrong time and then yer holster’d be flappin’ in the breeze just when you’d be needin’ it the most. Saw that happen to a fella once. He paid for it with his fool life.”
She didn’t argue. She had already decided some time back that he knew exactly what he was talking about. Besides that, it made a whole lot of sense. She untied the bow and retied it, using a granny knot. She then looked at him and nodded once with finality. “How’s that?”
“Just about perfect, I’d say.” He started toward the corral, then stopped and turned around to face her. “Come with me,” he said.
She picked up the discarded gunbelt and followed after him in silence. As they drew near the corral, she noticed a single glass bottle perched atop one of the fenceposts. Once they were still about fifteen feet or so from it, they stopped.
“Yep.”
She held her old holster out to him. Once he took it, she assumed a slight crouch, eyeing the bottle. Then, without any noticeable warning to speak of, she reacted in a flash of movement and the glass shattered. She turned the Colt sideways and looked down at it. “That almost wasn’t fair,” she said simply, and looked at him. “This is the most balanced gun I’ve ever held.”
“That’s been my way a thinkin’ all along. That’s why I want you to have it. If nothing else, it might give you a teensy bit of an edge.”
She let the Colt fall into the holster, and placing her arms around him, hugged him to her. “Thank you,” she said softly, and drew away to arm’s length. “But it’s still yours. I’m just borrowing it for awhile.” She then kissed him on the forehead. “The Lord willing, I’ll be giving it back to you some day.”
“Be that as it may...in the meantime, don’t never forget a few well-intentioned rules: don’t never pull it in anger, don’t never pull it without intendin’ to use it, and don’t never forget that when you do see the need, you ain’t pointing a pistol...yer pointing yer finger.”
*
The practicing had suddenly taken on much more serious aspects. Along with the realization that she was no longer shooting make believe bullets, came the knowledge that she would soon be faced with leaving the peaceful security of Nate’s apple farm and going out on her own to do what needed doing.
She was fast entertaining second thoughts about the whole thing. But, whenever her resolve would falter, her remembrances would kick in and the image of her wounded, blood soaked father laying on that table in Nestor’s barbershop would show itself in her mind’s eyes, and as if that wasn’t enough, that horrible day that she’d been so savagely ravished would return with a vengeance. No, she’d do it alright, and she’d do it right...make no mistake about that.
With nearly four months having already come and gone, and the day fast approaching for her to get on with it, she and Nate had just finished sharing the noonday meal and were gathering the dishes for washing. The sound of an approaching buggy pulled their attention away from the task.
“Wonder who that is?” Nate asked.
“Maybe it would make some sense to go out and see,” she offered playfully.
He placed the load of dishes on the countertop next to the wash pan. “C’mon, let’s go do just that,” he said and headed for the door.
They stood together on the porch as the buggy pulled to a stop in front of the hitchrail.
“Howdy,” Nestor said and pulled his hat. “Sure is a mite on the warm side today.” He ducked his forehead into the crook of an elbow.
“What brings you out this way?” Nate asked.
“Well...maybe nothin’ an’ maybe somethin’.” He turned his attention on Dolly. “Word’s around that yer of a mind to go after them what kilt yer pa if you ever had a hot trail to follow.” He glanced at Nate then returned his attention to Dolly. “Well...there was three fellas in town this mornin’ that might be the ones yer after.”
“What?” Dolly was suddenly flooded with emotion. Her heart raced as she felt a hot rush of adrenalin pump its way up into her cheeks, flushing them crimson. “When? Where?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“Didn’t see ’em with my own two eyes, but Hank Byers said he was over to the cafe, chokin’ down a plate of eggs, when three men came in, pushin’ their weight around. He said they was abusive to just about ever’one around, including Miss Lida. Fact is, the way I heard tell, she was pushed around and made ta cow down to them just cuz she was a Nigra.” He looked at Nate. “Now, that ain’t right.”
“What makes you think they could be the ones I’m wanting to find?” Dolly asked impatiently.
“Well...mainly because, accordin’ ta Hank, they was feelin’ their oats an’ braggin’ about how that if Miss Lida’d been a bit whiter they’d do ta her what they’d done ta that gal a ways up north a here a while back.”
Tears threatened to appear in Dolly’s eyes, but she composed herself just in the nick of time to keep them under control. “They still around?” she asked solemnly.
“Nope. Folks said they rode out to the south, crossed the river, an’ kept right on goin’”
Dolly looked at Nate. “Am I ready?” she asked softly.
“About as ready as ready can be, I’m afraid,” he replied, with the hurt showing itself in his eyes. “You absolutely sure you wanna do this?”
“Not at all, but it’s something that surely needs doing.”
He nodded his understanding.
*
Of course she’d wanted to throw a saddle on the buckskin and leave the same moment she had heard about the men having been in town, but Nate wouldn’t allow it. After a bit of reasoning and coaxing, he was able to convince her to keep a level head and wait until the next day when she’d do better to go after them without her emotions clouding the issue and maybe effecting her draw, if it came right down to that.
She spent the remainder of that day gathering her things together, getting them tied up in a neat bundle, and meditating to get her mind in the right frame. Once she felt better, she spent nearly the last hour before dusk, honing her newfound skills.
Chapter 8
The morning ride into town was pleasant and extremely enjoyable considering the anxiety that Dolly carried inside her. The birds were chirping, a cottontail sat sunning itself while partially hidden behind a rock alongside the road, and a three-point whitetail buck, along with a couple of unconcerned does, stood by and watched with measured indifference as the buckskin gelding and dun mare plodded past.
Despite the pleasantries that were all around her, she felt mildly sick to her stomach. It was actually happening; she was riding out on her own to find and kill someone...three someones, in fact. She rubbed the ache in her midsection, trying to encourage the queasiness to subside. The effort did a measure of good and she turned her thoughts to Nate.
She had tried her best to get him to make the ride into town with her, but to her disappointment, he’d remained steadfast in his refusal. She didn’t fully understand his way of thinking, but decided he most likely would rather not have any part in what she was setting out to do. She respected him for that, but still wished he were making the trip with her.
She completed the ride into town with her stomach having settled down some by the time she arrived. She drew up in front of the barbershop under close scrutiny.
“Looks like you made an addition to yer wardrobe,” Charlie Harris observed. “Ain’t never seen a lady wearin’ a tied down six-shooter before.”
She smiled disarmingly. Electing to not comment, she instead rested her gaze on Nestor. “Where do I find this fella, Byers?” she asked coldly.
“He usually hangs around the Rusty Nickel Saloon.” He rocked his chair forward, landing the front legs squarely on the boardwalk. He pointed. “Over yonderly, other side a the street, about straight across from the cafe.”
She touched a fingertip lightly to the brim of her hat. “Much obliged.” She pulled the buckskin’s head around and gently nudged him with her heels as she towed the mare along behind.
They watched her ride away.
Saying to no one in particular, Nestor commented, “That little lady’s sure got her work cut out for her.”
Dolly reined up and swung down in front of the Rusty Nickel. She patted the buckskin on his neck as she pulled the rein over his head. She spun the end around the hitchrail and jumped onto the porch, electing to forego the convenience of the steps. She sucked in a much needed chestful of courage and headed for the batwings. She’d never been inside one of these places in her entire life, and certainly wasn’t looking forward to the experience. But, all in all, she figured it could have been worse; at least it was early in the day, as opposed to nighttime when it would have been a whole lot livelier.
She pushed the doors aside and went inside.
The
batwings swung rustily behind her, but didn’t look back; this was no time to make a fool mistake. She did, however, allow herself the luxury of deciding that the establishment would have been better named The Rusty Hinge.
The place was just about empty. A sound from off to her left made a successful play for her attention and she looked that way. A huge man was behind the ornate wooden bar that ran pretty much the entire length of the room. He was drying a glass, using the end of a towel that was draped over his shoulder.
“Can I get ya something?” he asked, without looking up.
Dolly didn’t answer, she instead elected to scan the rest of the room. Way over against the far wall was a figure seated at one of the tables with his head buried in his arms on the tabletop. She looked at the bartender. “Is that Hank Byers?”
The barkeep pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “That’s him alright...what’s left of him, anyways.”
She moved to the bar. The bartender was even fatter up close. He wore a disgusting stubble of beard that was discolored by an amber-shaded stain from slobbering his tobacco juice rather than spitting it out cleanly—that is if there was such a thing. He wore an apron that at one time had probably been white, but was now so filthy that it fit in very nicely with the rest of him, she decided.
She jutted a thumb over her shoulder. “Is he drunk?”
The fat slob bent forward at where his waist should have been, and opening his mouth a bit, dribbled tobacco juice in the general direction of the floor.
Probably has a spittoon down there somewhere, she reasoned. Leastways I hope he does.
Unable to lean over far enough, a good portion of the slime remained caught in the stubble on his chin. He wiped at it with the same section of towel he’d been wiping the glass with. She felt her stomach churn.
“About as drunk as a hoot owl, if I’m any judge of things,” he informed her. “You want somethin’ to drink, or you just here to ask into the welfare of that worthless piece a crud?”
She Wore It Tied-Down Page 5
