18
FIRST NIGHT OF COWBOY TRAINING: FIREARMS.
After a day of dusty travel, we are camped in a clearing surrounded by wild plum trees. Clusters of pink and white flowers already show tight buds of fruit, which Andy used to spice up the pigeon stew. All around us is a flaming sky, reflecting a recently departed sun. Ten paces from the fire, Peety brushes Princesa’s teeth with a corncob.
Cay stands in front of us, spinning his Colt around his finger so fast it blurs. Andy, picking burrs out of her new horse blanket, rolls her eyes at me.
It should’ve been obvious a long time ago that Cay was not born in the Year of the Rabbit like West, but in the Year of the Tiger. The Chinese New Year starts later than the Western calendar year, which means Cay must have been born in early January, when it was still the Year of the Tiger. He’s fearless, but a show-off, which leads to recklessness. Yet he could charm the spots off a leopard, so people will follow him regardless. It doesn’t hurt that the beauty of Tigers makes them difficult not to watch.
West leans against one of the trees, stripping the leaves off a slender twig. “Stop playing to the gallery. You’re going to teach them bad habits. No one spins his gun if he values life and limb.”
“Sourpuss.” Cay reholsters his piece. “Now kids, the two rules of cowboy brotherhood are: keep your sense of humor, and leave the meddling to women. We had a boss once who liked to stick his nose in everyone’s business. You try to cut out a steer and he takes up half your time showing you he can do it better. Or, he’ll try to stir up trouble by telling you that your girl was kissing Hank What’s-his-face. That kind of person just gets his teeth knocked out, and I’m not sorry I did it, either.”
West slices his branch through the air with a snapping sound. “Even if it turns out your girl was kissing Hank What’s-his-face.”
Grimacing, Cay dismisses his cousin with a wave. “Now, Andy, you choose first, because I guess life didn’t hand you a lot of first chances. Who do you want to have as your teacher? Sourpuss, or me?”
Andy looks from West to me and her eyes become sly. “I guess I’ll go with the teeth knocker.” She gets up from her spot next to me. “Don’t have too much fun,” she drops in my ear. Then she and Cay are making tracks away from the campsite.
I erase all signs of delight from my face. West gives me a hard look then tosses his stick away. Kneeling, he loads his rifle as easy as a reflex, then slings it over his back. He cocks his head to say, Follow me, and sets off in the opposite direction from Cay and Andy.
Peety nods at me. “Good luck.”
The soft chatter of foraging birds and squirrels replaces the thick Scottish brogue of curses in my head as I pad after West. He walks with the ease of someone with places to go but time to get there. I’m entranced by the fluidity of his movement, like the way he bites on his finger and then flicks it skyward to make a point, to test the wind, to show he’s thinking. How he plucks a stem of grass and places it between his teeth.
Yellow doesn’t blend with white. “A single drop of yolk can ruin a meringue,” the headmistress of a music conservatory in New York told Father when she denied me admittance. Still, I can’t help wondering how it would feel to walk a little closer to West, so that our shadows touched. Chinese people believe Rabbits and Snakes make for a propitious union, since the word for happiness, fu, looks like the two animals intertwined.
A tree with a fallen branch blocks our path. West sets a hand on the branch, then hops over in one easy motion, barely pulling his chambray shirt out from his trousers. I scale it with a lot more effort, then scamper after him.
We hike through a wooded area tinted violet. The humidity has lifted, and the cool breeze feels as lovely as a fresh sheet against my cheek.
West looks up. “This is the best time to hunt, when the animals are out looking for their suppers. ’Course, with a painted sky, light’s not always good.”
I never heard anyone call the sky painted before, but it’s the perfect word. Clouds outlined in gold streak across the firmament, casting uneven shadows over the landscape.
“My father said that artists see the world differently than normal people. I see a tree where you might see a collection of lines, shapes, and shadows.”
“I see a tree, too.”
“So it’s not true?”
“It ain’t true that I’m an artist.”
An unladylike honk bursts from my nose. “I’ve seen—” I halt, wondering if I should be admitting that I peek at his pictures when he draws.
His eyes slide to me. “Drawing’s my way of keeping a diary. It don’t mean anything else.” His voice is gruff, almost defensive.
“If you say so. But artists don’t really have a choice in the matter. They create because they have to.”
He grunts. “Ain’t a proper way to make a living.”
“Tell that to Michelangelo. He got more than three thousand ducats for painting the Sistine Chapel in Italy. That’s about twenty thousand U.S. dollars.”
West blinks as if splashed by water, but doesn’t lose his stride.
“The Tudor monarchs would hire a royal painter to follow them around, drawing pictures of them. Sometimes the king’s painter was given a fancy title like Baron or Viscount.”
Leaves crunch, though I realize I am the only one stepping on them. West carefully avoids the tree litter without even looking at the ground.
“Of course,” I prattle on, “the king’s minstrel was given a fancy title and a pretty wife.”
To my surprise, he chuckles, a strangely intimate sound that makes my heart flutter. “So I shoulda taken up the harmonica after all.” Stopping, he rests his hands loosely on his hips and sweeps his gaze around me. Then his amusement gives way to something more serious. “That stuff you said about not having a choice. Is it the same way with your music?”
“Yes. My father said I was born with a song in my fingers. I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t make music. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do.”
“Besides gold rushing.”
“Of—of course . . . besides that,” I stammer. Then I shut my mouth, hoping I have not inadvertently given myself away.
Thankfully, he does not seem to notice my discomfort. His gaze drifts upward where a hat-shaped cloud is slowly stretching apart. “We best get started.”
We park on a bald spot of ground. He tugs the bandanna off his neck and spreads it between us. All we need is a basket and a bottle of wine. As I entertain my picnic fantasy, I don’t notice him hoisting his eyebrows at me until he reaches over and lifts the Colt out of my belt. I have been struck stupid.
“How many times you fire this?” He lays the gun on the bandanna.
“Once.” I wish I still had hair to hide behind.
“So you didn’t shoot a ‘moosh’?”
I grimace and shake my head.
Suppressing his amusement, he draws a pouch and two tins from his pockets and lays them next to the gun. His sleeve pulls back to reveal the first two scars on his arm, like two white fingerprints on the back of his wrist. The marks are not raised, like Andy’s scar, but they share a neatness of form, as if they were made deliberately. I quickly look away before he notices me studying them, and add Yorkshire’s powder horn to the assembly.
He opens the chamber of the Colt and starts filling the five slots with the objects on the bandanna. “First, pour the powder, then wad, bullet, ram it, grease, caps.”
I fill the last three slots. My hands shake, though I’m not sure what makes me more nervous, his close scrutiny of my fingers, or the possibility that I could kill us by mishandling the gunpowder. Finally, he takes the gun from me and puts it on full cock.