Chapter Twenty-six
There sure was a nice crowd standing around the makeshift arena. Billy Bones, dressed in fringed and beaded buckskins, got the show on the road. With a wave, he ushered in a passel of riders, and a bugler and a flag-bearer, and these got into a smart trot, while the bugler bugled away, all sorts of stuff that sounded like the army—“Tattoo,” “Boots and Saddles,” “Charge,”—and the fellow with the flag broke into a trot, and ran the banner around the arena, while the cowboys cheered, except for the old Confederates, who stayed real silent.
But the noise of it all was real fine, and it got the show off to a bang-up start.
Then Billy Bones, on a white stallion, comes trotting to the center, and he lifts his megaphone, and begins bellowing at the mob.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Miss Amanda Quick, ace sharpshooter, trick-shot artist, and bull’s-eye champion.”
She came sailing out, wearing a soft fringed buckskin skirt, boots, a generous silky blouse, and a flat-crowned hat with a bright pink hatband. All them cowboys, they whistled and lusted and some got real silent.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the local marksman and champion and lawman, the famous, the legendary, the invincible, Cotton Pickens!”
I guess that was me. So I trotted out there, lifted my old hat, bowed, and smiled. There was nothing to do but shake Miss Quick’s dainty little hand, so I pumped it a few times, and we both smiled. I was going to clean her clock, so I smiled a heap.
Some gun bearers brought our stuff out. They would do the reloading, and all of that, so we could concentrate on the contest.
This was going to be good. This here lady, she was so small she could hardly lift a long gun, so I had all the advantage.
Billy lifted his megaphone and bawled, “All right, you fine citizens of Puma County, watch this. Our first event will be trap shooting, ten clay pigeons, and may the best, ah, person win.”
Well, ladies first. Her man handed her a shiny little .410-gauge shotgun, a toy gun for a toy lady, and I smiled. That peashooter couldn’t pop a pigeon. The fellow at the traps, about fifty feet away, was all set, so she nodded. The clay bird whizzed along a flat trajectory, maybe fifteen feet up, and she shattered it easily. She handed the gun to her batman, and he gave her another, loaded and ready.
The cowboys whistled. Some of them had gotten beers from the saloons, and were sucking hard, soaking up enough suds to begin making smart observations.
Well, the way this was set up, she would tackle all ten birds, and then it’d be my chance to beat her. She sure was cute. She wasn’t paying attention to me, any, or the crowd, which was making antifemale remarks. She’d heard them all before, and they bounced off her back. Instead, she was all business. She blew away the second and third birds, took a corner out of the fourth, which counted as a kill, knocked the fifth to smithereens, almost missed the sixth from leading it too much, but nicked it and that counted as a kill. After each shot, she traded guns with her loader, one of the show’s roustabouts, and smiled. It sure didn’t take long to finish the job: She’d knocked down every bird, and with that toy gun, too.
She smiled sweetly, and I was thinking I wouldn’t mind marrying her, but only if I could shoot better than her. Who’d want to be married to a sharpshooting woman? It sure was something to ponder.
So, she waited quietly for the applause to wither away, and then it was my turn.
Rusty, he had a nice sheriff-office twelve-gauge ready for me, and I took it. I didn’t need anyone reloading, so I waved him away. I always do a job myself. I hefted the twelve-gauge, and nodded. They sent a bird sailing across the field, and I blew it to smithereens, with a good, satisfying boom. I stuffed another shell in, and blew the next one to bits. The boys watching all this, they started whistling and laughing. I sure was having a fine time. And Miss Quick, she forced a smile on her pretty lips, and clapped as I knocked each bird down. It was so easy I was almost feeling embarrassed. It didn’t take long before I had permanently ruined ten clay pigeons, and then the local crowd, they were huzzahing the local sheriff, and I was feeling just fine.
Billy Bones, he was yelling into his megaphone. “Excellent shooting, a tie, both contestants not missing a trick.”
I bowed to the crowd. Miss Quick, she just smiled.
“And now, we’ll have some handgun competition,” Billy Bones said. “Knock a hole through the ace of spades at twenty feet. Best of six attempts.”
In other words, empty one loaded six-gun. Well, that would be a piece of cake.
They rigged up a pole with the ace of spades sticking out of it. I’d heard that in the show, Bones himself would hold the card in his fingers and let her blow the spade away. But not this fine August afternoon, with heat rising from the parched clay, and a mess of boozy cowboys watching. And Bones might trust Miss Quick not to shoot his fingers off, but he sure didn’t trust me.
She punctured the spade, a little high, and Billy Bones paraded the card around the perimeter, where everyone could see it. She had a way of lifting the revolver, sighting down its barrel, and shooting in one graceful movement. Her second shot was dead center; her third a little left, and her fourth and fifth right through the ace.
Not bad, I thought. I was beginning to respect her. She used a little .32-caliber revolver, and knew what she was doing. I would use my old .44, which was big and heavy, and put the bullet right where I intended. I punctured those aces of spades each time, and we were tied once again, and she was smiling, and I was waving my hat, and everyone was having a fine old time.
This sure was a fine old afternoon.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, a true test of marksmanship. A contest that separates the gifted from the brilliant. I give you, shooting clay birds out of the sky—with rifles. The contestants will take turns, five in all.”
The cowboys, they began clucking at that one. How could you shoot a clay disk sailing through space fifty feet away, with a single bullet? I confess, I didn’t like the odds on that one, but maybe it would be a tough act for little Miss Quick, too. If she could do it, she was some sort of genius.
The spectators knew it, too, and there was a sort of buzzing as they whispered about it. But Miss Quick, she was smiling to beat the band, and her man handed her a nice rifle, of a caliber I could only guess at, but not too large. She was still working with smaller, ladylike weapons. She seemed to enjoy herself, though. She must have blown a few cartons of bullets away, practicing this one.
She nodded, the keepers tripped the trap, and a clay bird sailed out into the blue. She followed it for a moment, squeezed, absorbed the recoil, and the bird sailed on, unscathed.
The crowd erupted. She’d finally missed one.
Me, I studied my old, battered forty-four, which used the same cartridges as my revolver, and I suspected I was in for it, this time. It was a worthy old rifle, and I knew its quirks, but blowing a clay disk out of the sky would be pushing its limits.
I nodded, followed the gray little thing, led it, fired, and watched it sail to earth untouched.
“Even up!” yelled Billy Bones, making sure everyone at the show got it.
Miss Quick, she took a loaded rifle from her batman, smiled again, nodded, and watched the target sail. A shot racked the quiet, and the clay disk disintegrated.
Holy cats. She had done it with a single-shot rifle.
I missed that next shot, so I was one down, and now the cowboys were jeering. Even Mayor Waller was yelling.
“Turn in your badge, Pickens,” yelled County Supervisor Reggie Thimble.
The amazing Miss Quick nailed the next bird, and the next, and the next, and I was blowing lead through thin air. That sure was an experience.
“Congratulations,” I said to her. “I don’t think I’ll marry you.”
She thought that was pretty fine humor. She didn’t know I was plumb serious.
That mess of friends watching this show, they turned real silent.
Billy Bones lifted his megaphone. “Now, wasn’t that outstanding? Let’s give Miss Amanda Quick a good hand. Have you ever seen anything like it?”
There sure were a lot of whistles from the cowboys, and Miss Quick curtseyed in each direction, cheerfully acknowledging the cowboy cheers coming her way.
At least I didn’t have to curtsey to any mess of cowboys, so there was some good in it. Winning isn’t everything, you know. A feller has to stay dignified and stern.
Then old Billy Bones, looking real cheerful, announced the next one.
“And now, my good friends in Doubtful, Wyoming, we will have an exhibition of equestrian marksmanship. While we set up that bull’s-eye target over there, and we ready a steed for each contestant, I’ll tell you what we’re about to see.
“Each contestant will take three passes at the target, while mounted on a galloping steed, which the contestant will control with knee commands. Miss Quick will shoot at the target using an upside-down rifle. We know that your fine sheriff has not had occasion to fire his weapon upside down, so he is free to compete using his rifle any way he wants to. The contestants will take turns, of course, ladies first.”
Well, I thought I had a real good chance if they didn’t put some trick horse under me that would ruin my shot.
Miss Quick swiftly mounted on a fine gray charger, and was handed her rifle by her batman. Using only her knees to control the horse, she circled around the arena, waving to the cowboys and merchants, blowing kisses to all of them, and finally she headed toward the far end, put the horse into a trajectory that would take her past the bull’s-eye, and spurred the horse. It leapt ahead, and she leveled her upside-down rifle, her trigger finger on top, rather than underneath, and when she was opposite the target, she snapped a shot.
Dead center. A hole smack in the middle of the middle.
My turn. I climbed up on the nag they gave me, gave him a quick whirl, and was satisfied. It was an improvement on Critter. I cut loose, leveled my forty-four, and blasted away as I came even. I watched the paper disintegrate where I holed it.
It was a good shot, but a bit off center, an inch or two high left.
“Well, that was a fine exhibition, just fine, outstanding,” Billy Bones announced.
But now the cowboys were hooting at me. And that’s how it went the next two passes. I did fine; she did better, while holding a rifle that was upside down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll now show you the targets,” Bones said, as his roustabouts carried them around the edges of the arena. “Your man Cotton Pickens did just fine, outstanding shooting, but I’m proud to say our little Miss Quick bested him.”
All them cowboys were sure applauding and yelling and hooting.
“Turn in your badge, Pickens,” County Supervisor Reggie Thimble yelled.
“You’d have to pay her more than me,” I replied. I had him there.