“I don’t have a pin.” Timmy let the sorrel’s reins dangle. “Never much saw the need.”
“You will the first time a horse runs off on you,” Jesco predicted. Again he rummaged in his saddlebags until he found the box of ammunition. Then he ambled into the arroyo and hiked east several hundred feet to where it widened. Bits and shards of broken glass and a dozen or so rusted cans pock-marked with bullet holes littered the north bank. In a burlap bag lying at the bottom of the south slope were bottles and cans he brought out last time but had not used.
“Want me to set them up for you?” Timmy offered.
Jesco bent and gripped the bag. As he started to lift it, an ominous rattling turned him to stone. From under the bag slid a blunt, triangular head. A forked tongue darted out.
“A rattler!” Timmy cried.
Brownish splotches rippling, the rattlesnake slowly slithered from underneath. It was a large one, big and thick around as Jesco’s forearm.
“Shoot it!”
Jesco admired the play of light on the scales. The snake moved with a sinuous grace that was marvelous to behold.
“Didn’t you hear me? Shoot it before it bites you!” Timmy clawed for his revolver, and in his excitement nearly dropped it. His forearm shaking, he pointed the six-shooter at the serpent. “Hold still.”
“No,” Jesco said.
“What?”
“Let it be. It hasn’t hurt us, and we won’t hurt it unless it coils.” Jesco firmed his hold on the burlap bag in order not to drop it. Two feet of rattler was visible, with more unwinding.
“It’s just a snake!” Timmy squawked in disbelief. “I can make a necklace of the rattles, like I saw an Indian wear once.”
“No. The snake has as much right to live as you or me.”
Severely disappointed, Timmy jerked his arm down, and shoved his Colt into his holster. “If this don’t beat all. Do you spare scorpions and wasps, too? I hope I’m not as squeamish when I’m your age.”
“Nine years can make a lot of difference in a person’s outlook,” Jesco said. They had made a huge difference in his.
“I could live to be fifty, and I’d still shoot every damn rattler I came across,” Timmy declared. “What if that one bites a cow or a horse? It will be on your shoulders.”
“When was the last time we had a snakebit cow?”
Timmy pondered a bit before he irritably responded. “Never, that I can recollect, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Rattlers bite animals and people all the time.”
Jesco could only think of two instances his whole life. The first had been a childhood friend who poked a stick into a snake den. The second had been a horse that stepped on a diamondback sunning itself. “Careless people and critters, mostly,” he observed.
The snake had stopped rattling, and was crawling off into the grass.
Timmy pushed his hat back. “For your sake, I won’t tell anyone about this. It’s downright embarrassin’.”
Jesco opened the burlap bag and carefully upended it. Bottles and cans tumbled and tinkled at his feet. He shook the bag to verify it was empty, then tossed it aside and began setting up targets. Timmy helped.
“How old were you when you shot your first man?”
“You know better,” Jesco said. He had been the same age as Timmy. If he had that day to live over again, he would light a shuck for parts unknown rather than take that drunk’s life.
“I can’t help bein’ curious. But if you still don’t want to tell me, fine. It’s not as if I plan to go to San Pedro and gun down the citizenry.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Jesco stepped back and willed his body to relax. Tension slowed the reflexes and spoiled a man’s aim.
Timmy had moved to one side, and was waiting in rigid expectancy.
Jesco focused on a tin can. He did not think about what he was going to do, he just did it. He drew and fired from the hip, and the can catapulted skyward. At the apex of its arc he fired again, and the can clattered down the slope and rolled to a stop.
“Woo-eee!,” Timmy whooped. “That was some shootin’!” He scooted to the can and held it up. “Dead center, both shots! How do you do it?”
“Practice.” Jesco commenced replacing the cartridges.
Timmy stuck the tip of a finger into one of the holes. “I could practice from now until forever and still not be as good as you.”
“Why would you want to be? There are more important things to be good at. Look at the big sugar. His own ranch. A fine herd. A fine woman. Do somethin’ worthwhile with your life. Be a rancher or a doctor or own a business. Don’t live by the gun.”
“You must rate me stupid,” Timmy said. “I’m not Billy the Kid. I like bein’ a cowboy. Sure, I wouldn’t mind bein’ slick with a hogleg, but not to kill folks. It’d just be so I could do as you’re doin’ now.”
“Don’t ever change,” Jesco said. To some, the lure of the gun was irresistible. He had been fortunate in that his ma raised him to do to others as he would have them do to him. As a result, his conscience had plagued him terribly after that first shooting, and every shooting since.
“I’d be obliged for another lesson,” Timmy said.
“You’ve had enough.”
“Not when I miss more than I hit what I’m aiming at,” Timmy protested. “Not when molasses moves faster.”
Jesco had him stand facing a bottle with his arms limp at his sides. “Thumb back the hammer as you draw, so when you clear leather all you have to do is squeeze the trigger.”
“You make it sound so simple,” Timmy said. His gaze roved to where they had left their horses. “Say, looks like we’ve got company. Where did he come from?”
Jesco turned.
Strolling toward them was Lafe Dunn.
Chapter 8
John Jesco trusted his instincts. Bitter experience had taught him that to deny them was a surefire invitation to trouble. Now, as Lafe Dunn came strolling down the arroyo, his instincts flared, warning him as the day he first met Dunn that here was an extremely dangerous individual. A natural-born killer.
Timmy Loring did not have Jesco’s experience. He did not have Jesco’s instincts. Smiling warmly, he greeted the new puncher with, “Dunn! Come join us. You’ll get to see Jesco shoot.”
“Is that worth seein’?” was Dunn’s dry reply.
“Haven’t you heard?” Timmy indulged in the hero worship Jesco found so disquieting. “Jesco is the best gun hand on the spread. It’s a treat to watch him practice.”
“You don’t say.” Dunn stopped and regarded Jesco with what Jesco swore was a degree of disdain, then Dunn bestowed his attention on the slope littered with bits and pieces. “I was passin’ by and heard shootin’.”
Jesco’s instincts flared again. The man was lying. He had followed them from the ranch.
“How are you with that hogleg of yours?” Timmy jerked a thumb at the black-handled Colt on Dunn’s right hip.
“I’ve shot a few coyotes and such.” Dunn’s big hands were easy at his side. Suddenly he erupted into motion, and the black-handled Colt was out and level. A single crash, and a bottle dissolved into shards. He shoved the Colt into the holster and patted both. “That’s about the best I can do.”
It was better than most, Jesco noted. That in itself was revealing. The plain truth was that most men were no shakes at all with a six-gun. Back east many went their whole lives without touching one. West of the Mississippi was another story. Guns were essential, another tool in the taming of the land. But few practiced with any regularity. The punchers at the Circle T were typical; they all owned six-shooters, but hardly any could consistently hit a can at ten paces.