Joe Lansdale - Dead in the West

Doc grinned. "Plants with teeth."

"Well, I think the dog did it" Mertz said.

"And as Caleb said—who mashed the dog and tossed it in the trash after Nate was dead?

A man that knows what he's doing, or one that's mad strong, could have killed Nate after he killed the dog. He could have grabbed Nate's head just right, twisted it, and bit him.

Especially if he was mad with rabies."

"That's what you think?"

"Just thinking out loud. I'll make out the death certificate. Call it broken neck, loss of blood. Means of death unknown."

Doc put on his hat and went out.

VIII

David did as the Reverend told him. He took some short sticks and placed them across the stage trail and back near the woods. He stuck them into the dirt about two inches and let three inches of stick show above ground.

From where the Reverend stood, across the trail with his back to the trees on that side, it was a fair distance for a pistol—especially shooting at such small and shady targets.

David finished with his task, went over to join the Reverend who held the revolver at his side. He stood by the Reverend and looked across the way. It took him a moment to locate the sticks.

"Can you even see them?" David said.

"I'm not that old yet, son."

"You got enough bullets?"

The Reverend looked at David. "More than we'll need." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small boxes of ammunition. "Enough for a small-size army— but we won't shoot that much."

"Are you men going to shoot or talk those sticks to death?" It was Abby. She had folded up the picnic remains and put them in the wagon.

"Good point," the Reverend said, and smiled at her. My heavens, he thought, I have not been this happy in years.

The Reverend pulled his eyes away from Abby with difficulty. She looked wonderful standing there watching, her hands behind her back, her eyes bright.

"Okay, son ," the Reverend said. "This is a .36 Navy revolver. 1861 model. It has been converted from cap and ball to modern ammunition."

"Why not just buy yourself another one? Pa says a .45 is the thing to have."

"This one has done well by me. I like the feel of it. A gun is more than its caliber. In fact, a gun is the man who holds it."

The Reverend cocked the revolver slowly, lifted it, and fired.

One of the sticks went away.

He did this five more times and five sticks went away.

"Good shooting," David said, "but it's pretty slow."

"I'm teaching you to shoot, not fast draw."

"But I want to learn that too."

"Go and put up some more sticks."

David did as he was told. While he worked, Abby and the Reverend looked at one another but said nothing. It was getting so nothing needed to be said, and even the silence was comfortable.

David came back and stood by the Reverend. "My turn?"

"Almost." The Reverend loaded the revolver and put it in the sash at his waist.

And then he drew. David almost saw it. There was a blur of the Reverend's hand, then the gun was gripped, pointing, being cocked, and the first round barked, and the first stick went away, and the gun was cocked again, and fired and again and again until the air was full of acrid smoke. All the sticks were shot off at ground level.

"God almighty!" David said.

"Watch your language, son. The Lord is not nearly so enthused over good shooting as we are."

"Goddamn, you must be as good as Wild Bill Hickok."

"Most likely better" the Reverend said seriously.

"Can I shoot now? I want to try."

"No fast draw yet, just shooting."

David nodded as the Reverend reloaded. "Why no holster? I'd think you'd need one for a fast draw," David asked.

"Too many dime novels, son. Hickok for instance wore a sash. With the sight filed off"

the Reverend held up the revolver to show that it had been filed off smoothly, "you don't have to worry about snags. And holsters have a tendency to grab a revolver. A sash or even your belt is preferable—go put up some sticks."

David raced across the way to put up new targets. This time he took a big handful of sticks and placed them in a row. He counted them. Eleven.

He rushed back to the Reverend's side.

The Reverend handed him the gun. "When you get ready, take a death grip on it and point it like a finger. Don't try to aim. Just imagine you're lifting a finger and pointing it at one of the sticks. Your aim is naturally better when you do that. Soft squeeze on the trigger."

David lifted the revolver, cocked it, and fired. He didn't even come close. His round hit the edge of the stage trail.

"You're trying too hard to aim. You've got to become one with the gun. It's got to be like part of you, a metal finger."

"Can I put it in my belt and draw it?"

"Only if you want to lose your manhood." David considered. "You mean I might shoot off my pecker?"

"Precisely."

Abby laughed.

"Sorry, ma'm" David said. "I forgot you were there."

"Quite all right "Abby said.

David pointed the revolver across the trail, cocked, and fired. He did this until the cylinder was empty. None of his shots scored, but each came closer.

He handed the empty revolver to the Reverend. "Damn," he said.

"It takes time and patience," the Reverend said. "After you cock it time after time, get used to the weight, you develop muscles in your forearm, then the gun is like an extension of your forearm." The Reverend raised the revolver and pointed, "and the bullet seems more to come out of you than the gun."

The Reverend reloaded, put the revolver in his sash. Though he was giving David sound advice, he realized too that he was showing off a bit for Abby.

He jerked the revolver free with his left hand this time, cocked, and fired six times in succession. Six sticks disappeared.

"Wow! You are better than Wild Bill Hickok."

"I told you that," the Reverend said.

The Reverend reloaded, put the gun in his sash. This time he drew with his right hand, fired, tossed the gun to his left, fired, and tossed it back and forth that way until six more sticks were down.

Twelve shots altogether: one series of six left-handed, one series alternating, and he had not missed a shot.

Abby applauded.

"Thank you, ma'm," the Reverend said. Then to David, "Go see how close I shaved them to the ground."

David ran across the trail to look.

All twelve sticks were cut even with the ground.

Twelve?

He had set up eleven. He remembered distinctly.

Well, no matter, the Reverend had found a stick. But as David bent to examine the one he had not set up, he noticed it was different from the others.

He scraped around it, and when he saw what it really was, he called, "Reverend. Come quick!"

IX

The Reverend put his revolver away and strolled briskly across the shadowy forest trail.

Abby followed.

When he reached David, he squatted down to examine the stick.

It was not a stick.

It was a filthy, human finger shot off at the first knuckle.

The Reverend scraped around it. A moment later he revealed a human hand.

He kept digging.

Soon he revealed an ugly, dirty face wearing an eye patch — though the patch had slipped and the empty eye socket was filled with dirt and forest mold. A worm twisted in the mess.

"Bill Nolan!" David said. "The missing stage driver."

The Reverend dug the rest of the body free.

…

When he had the entire corpse revealed, he said, "Go back to the wagon and get the blanket, David."

David went.

Abby bent down beside the Reverend. The smell of the dead man was strong. "Seems to be our day for dead bodies. What happened to him?"

"I don't know. But someone wanted the body hidden."

David returned with the blanket. The Reverend put it down beside Nolan, then he and David picked him up and put him on it. They folded the blanket over so that the body was covered.