“I reckon everyone looks a bit more youthful when they ain’t covered in days-old sweat.”
I put my hat on over my wet hair. He’s still staring all doubtful. I’m gonna get caught. They ain’t dumb, and they’re gonna figure it out in time.
“How fast are you really?” I says, changing the focus.
“What?”
I nod to his holstered Remingtons. “How fast?”
A devilish smile flickers ’cross his face. “Gimme a target.”
“That flower,” I says, pointing to a yellow bloom atop a prickly pear ’bout twenty paces off.
Before I even lower my arm, Jesse draws his pistol and fires.
“Come at me!” Will shouts, sitting bolt upright outta a dream. “Where are ya?” He twists, frazzled, weapon in hand.
Jesse laughs and I just stand there staring at the cactus, now flowerless as yellow petals float to its base.
“Yer turn,” Jesse says. “Should I pick something in similar distance?”
“No use,” I says. “I can’t do that with a pistol, not even close. But I’m thinking maybe I should let you teach me after all.”
“Will,” Jesse calls over his shoulder. “I ain’t sure who this is, but I think Nate drowned in the pool overnight.”
“Good. Nate was a grump.”
“And becoming one again right now,” I says, raising my voice at Will.
He rolls onto his side, muttering.
“You better be up in ten,” Jesse says. “We gotta move.” Then he turns to me. “First lesson’ll be quick. I don’t wanna stall in one place much longer.”
“Suits me fine,” I says, ’cus I agree with him. That’s twice now.
He points at the flower of another nearby cactus. “Picture shooting it.”
“All right,” I says, and glance back to him.
“Done already?”
“Well it weren’t exactly a hard task.”
“Fine, then. Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw the flower, and then I imagined it blown to pieces.”
He shakes his head. “No, see, yer approaching it all wrong. It ain’t ’bout the flower or the cactus. It’s ’bout you. The bullet ain’t happening to the flower. Yer happening to the flower. You gotta feel it all—yer stance and the weight of the pistol in yer hand. The wind on yer limbs and if it’s strong enough to tug the lead plum. Then you gotta picture every single movement, from reaching to drawing to aiming to squeezing. You gotta see yerself doing it before you do, and then when you act, you ain’t gotta think ’bout it. You just . . . flow. Let yer limbs catch up to yer mind.”
“So yer saying it’s in yer head?”
“Ain’t everything?”
I suck my bottom lip. It don’t sound too different from how Pa taught me to fire my rifle. It’s just everything’s faster.
“But how’d you see it all so quick? You fired before I even finished pointing out the flower.”
Jesse winks. “That’s lesson number two—the final lesson: practice.”
“Two lessons total?” I says. “And it’s mostly all practice? What do I need a teacher for, then?”
“To come down on you when yer slacking.”
“I don’t slack.”
“You did with yer watch duties this morning.”
“Ugh, yer like a mesquite thorn, Jesse.”
“Poisonous?” he says. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant a nuisance. It’s like yer trying to get me riled.”
“I’m trying to motivate,” he says, pointing at the prickly pear. “Now picture it.”
I sigh heavier than necessary but turn my sights to the flower. There’s the slightest breeze moving the petals from east to west, so my bullet might stray over a long distance, but prolly not one this close. Thinking ’bout the bullet moving through the air leads me to thinking ’bout pulling the trigger, which leads to the draw and the very weight of the Colt in my holster. I see it all in reverse, and in a flash I can imagine it happening. I got my weight pressed down through my left leg right now, and I change that, spreading it out even. I can see my hand going to the holster, drawing the gun, cocking the hammer, aiming the shot, exhaling just as I squeeze, like the bullet is part of my breathing. I image that same bullet flaring from my barrel and slicing through the flower, and I feel so in control, it’s like it can’t happen any other way. It ain’t possible. I already seen the future.
I snap back to reality.
Reach, draw, cock, aim, fire.
“Dear Lord, what is yer problem!” Will says, leaping to his feet. Jesse laughs as his brother tramples ’cross camp to Rio.
“I missed,” I says, looking at the prickly pear. The flower’s gone, but so is the whole flat disc of cactus it were attached to. “I don’t know why. I saw it crystal clear.”
“A flower’s a small target,” Jesse says. “If that were a person, you woulda struck true. Maybe not to the heart if you’d been aiming there, but certainly somewhere on the torso.”
I holster my Colt. “’Cept they’d’ve shot me first. I stood here gawking for ten hours.”
“That’s where the practice comes in,” he says. “And besides, why do you think men stare at each other so much before a shootout? Everyone takes their time, pictures winning. It’s just someone has to be brave enough to pull first, and that’s when it comes down to who’s quickest.”
“Ace high,” I says, remembering what he said yesterday. “The best.”
“You might be an all-right student after all, Nate.”
“I ain’t nothing but a good listener,” I says, teasing.
Jesse barks out a laugh. “You hear that, Will?”
“I heard it,” he says. He heaves his saddle onto Rio and looks at the sky, which is indigo directly overhead, a more violent pink closer to the horizon. “Time to ride?”
Jesse nods. “I reckon so.”
Having cleaned seems a waste by midday. It’s the hottest afternoon yet, and I’m dripping down my back well before noon. I ain’t sure if my hair’s still damp from my bath or if I’m just sweating from my scalp like a waterfall.
“Horses are gonna need a break at the river,” Jesse says.
It’ll be the Agua Fria. It runs nearly dead south, so we’ll cross it and keep on a southeast route, not meeting up with another river till the Salt in Phoenix.
A break for the horses does make sense, and I been drinking so much water, I’m due to refill my canteen. But even in this heat, I hate the thought of stalled time. Yesterday’s dust storm already cost us a few hours by forcing us to make camp early. Alls I can hope is it did the same to Waylan Rose and his boys.
As we ride I practice drawing and sighting cactuses. Jesse tails in my shadow, commenting on my form to Mutt. I think this is his way of critiquing me without being too overbearing. I sorta like it. I can hear what he’s saying, but it ain’t like he’s breathing down my neck.
“Yer really picking up cattle?” I ask him when my arm’s getting tired. “Yer not just tailing me ’cus Abe said I were to be in yer care?”
“We’re headed to Tucson for cattle, I swear it.”
“How’s two cowboys gonna move a herd?”
“Very carefully,” Will interjects.
“Yeah, sure,” I says. “How?”
“With prayer and witchcraft and the real kicker: Mutt. He’s a magic cattle dog.”
“Shut it, Will,” Jesse says.
“I ain’t lying,” he says to me.