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.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Rusty, he sure was smiling a lot. Maybe he thought he’d get my job. I thought maybe he’d get it, too. Them people in Puma County, they wanted their sheriff to be top dog, and I’d just gotten whipped by an itsy-bitsy trick shooter, cute as a button, but she didn’t have to go hunt down bad men or shoot it out with real people.
It sure graveled me. I was thinking of proposing, back when it all started. She was real nice material for a wife, but not if she could outshoot me any time she felt like it. It got me all churned up. She was just the sort of woman I wanted. She sure was a looker, and she smiled sweetly, and was even more smart than my ma.
Speaking of which, my ma always said I might be slow, but I made up for it by being quick with my hands. But not quick enough to beat Miss Amanda Quick. It sure was making a mess in my head, all this feeling that was getting constipated and I couldn’t get it out.
Rusty was spending a lot of time with the Ukrainian twins, but the twins weren’t happy. Anna, she wanted no part of Rusty, and Natasha, she wanted to marry him right away, real bad. So the two were fighting, and getting mad, and feeling hopeless because they were connected. And no one could help them.
Rusty wandered over to that big field after the first Wild West show, and got to studying the clay pigeons that we’d shot up. I don’t know what had started him doing that, but he did it, and he found some pigeons that weren’t broken up, and that were peppered with little pits in them, especially where a part had broken off. He slid a couple of those in his britches, and came back to the sheriff office.
Things were bad around there. Some of those people, like Reggie Thimble, they really did want me to turn in my badge, and were saying they didn’t feel protected in Puma County anymore because some pipsqueak girl had shown the whole world that I couldn’t hit a barn side at ten feet.
The one that annoyed me the most was Delphinium Sanders, the banker’s wife. She wanted me to ask Miss Quick to be the sheriff of Puma County. She thought the idea of a female sheriff was just fine, but I reminded her that Miss Quick might be a trick shot, but could she drag drunks to the lockup, and wrestle some bank robber to the ground?
They were all just salivating at the chance to get rid of me, but I wasn’t going to be got rid of. I’d stay glued to my job until they got tired of getting rid of me. That’s how it had been since I got hired to clean up Doubtful.
Rusty waited patiently for all those meanspirited people to get out, and then he laid the three clay pigeons on my desk. Two had an edge nipped away, and one was intact.
“I waited until they got past the rodeo stuff, and thought I’d have a look,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do? Put these up on the wall?’ I asked.
Rusty, he just looked like he was tired of me. “You got eyes, dontcha?”
So I studied them, not making much of it.
“She’s shooting sand from her rifle,” he said. “Turned her rifle into a little shotgun.”
Sure enough, the surfaces of the clay birds were pitted, especially along the edges where they had a piece blown off.
“Sand did that,” Rusty said.
“She’s a good shot.”
“Sure she is. A fine shot, but she was giving herself an edge you didn’t have.”
That sort of relieved me. Maybe I’d ask her to marry me after all. I was a better shot than she was. If I was going to fall for a gal, she’d better not outdraw me.
“Sand. I’d heard about it. Someone was telling me once that’s how Annie Oakley does it. She’s so good, I don’t believe it, but you never know. This little sweetheart, she’s too good to be true, and I got the itch to look at the targets, those that weren’t busted up.”
I eyed the clay birds. Show these little pigeons around, and maybe the town would get off my back. But I decided that for now, I’d just let it be a secret. I was sweet on her, and didn’t want to hurt her any. She had a way of dimpling up when she smiled that made me think of a little white cottage and rambling roses, and a big double bed.
The next day, I went to watch the show again, and sure took some ribbing.
“You gonna study how it’s done?” Turk asked.
That’s how he was. He was always asking if I was going to study how to get Critter tamed, and I always told him I didn’t want Critter tamed. I wanted him ornery enough so no one would mess with him but me.
The show was just fine. Billy Bones could sure put on some star-spangled entertainment. The crowd was sparse that afternoon, mostly because it was threatening to rain, and not even weathered cowboys want to stand around through a mess of showers. Not even for Miss Amanda Quick, World’s Finest Sharpshooter.
She was wearing those same embroidered buckskins and white boots, and a big loose blouse that wouldn’t constrict her movement. There wasn’t a contest this time; she just went through her stuff, adding some tricks to the display. She shot a playing card in half, aiming at its edge, not its flat side. She shot a cigar from Billy Bones’s mouth. He wasn’t even nervous. She had a few more equestrian tricks, too. She shot at targets from under the neck of a galloping horse, and did it bareback. I sure didn’t know how she could lean forward along the neck of a racing nag, lean over one side without falling off, aim her revolver from somewhere under the nag’s jaw, and hit a bull’s-eye.
But she was doing it, and all them cowboys, they finally started clapping. Who’d ever seen the like?
Me, I was just getting more and more sweet on her. It was making me sort of grumpy. She’d pull out of town in a few days, and the show would go to the next town, and that would be the last I’d ever see of her.
The rodeo part of the show was pretty good, too. Calf roping, bull riding, bronc riding, stuff like that. But there were acts in between, including a mess of wild Indians chasing a stagecoach. We hadn’t had anything like that around Doubtful for a few years, with all the tribes stuck on reservations, but it was fun to see all the roustabouts in the show painted up and wearing bonnets, and shooting blanks at the stagecoach.
Well, on my way back into town I passed Belle’s, and there was Rusty, and stretched on the walk were the Siamese twins. Natasha was out cold, and Anna was stuck with waiting until Natasha woke up, so they could move again.
“Trouble?” I asked Rusty.
“Yeah, Anna got mad at Natasha again, and bonked her with a skillet. See that lump? She hit her sister so hard it knocked her out. But there’s nothing she can do, since Natasha’s got to wake up first.”
That was assault, and I had laws to enforce, but I’d have to wait until Natasha came around. Belle, she was applying cold compresses to Natasha’s blonde hair, while Anna stared enviously, not getting any attention at all. It sure was hell to be a Siamese twin, I thought.
Rusty wasn’t very happy. He kept staring at me, knowing exactly what I was going to do. I was going to arrest Anna for assault.
Natasha finally shook her head, glared at Anna, said something in Ukrainian that sounded pretty tough, and then moaned and felt the lump on her head.
“All right, ladies, I got to haul you to Hanging Judge Earwig,” I said.
“But you can’t,” Rusty said.
“There was an assault, and I’m sworn to uphold the law.”
“Oh, Cotton, come to your senses,” Belle said.
But I was feeling stubborn. I just got whupped by a button-sized sharpshooter, and I was ready to take it out on the nearest offender.
“Ladies, you get up and follow me.”
“I’m sick,” Natasha said. “I need to lie down.”
“You just got assaulted. Come along now.”
“If you do this to them, find some other place to board,” Belle said. “You’re a beast.”
“I got the law to enforce,” I said.
Rusty just shook his head and eyed me as if I belonged on some other planet.
We made our slow way to the courthouse, up the stairs, while Natasha groaned, and into the chamber, rank with Judge Earwig’s underarm odor. Both Belle and Rusty tagged along. Belle was acting like a pregnant thunderstorm. And Rusty had gone silent.
“What have we here?” Earwig asked, licking his moustache.
“Assault, Your Honor. This here one, Anna, conked this here one, Natasha, with a frying pan, and I will show you her bump as evidence.”
Earwig studied Natasha’s bump, which bulged from her head, just above the forehead.
“You, the alleged victim, tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know the words,” she said.
“Well, if you want justice, learn the words,” Earwig said. He was in a testy mood. The courtroom was hot and he probably wanted to go home and soak his bunions in Epsom salts.
“I saw it, and I’ll tell it,” Belle said.
“Are you prejudiced on one side or the other?”
“You bet your ass, I am. These two have been at each other ever since they got moved in. The one on the right, Anna, didn’t want to leave the carny show. The one on the left, Natasha, is being courted by the deputy, here, Rusty Irons, and wants to marry him. And now the fight has turned violent, and neither is going to win it.”
“That so?” he asked Natasha.
She nodded.
“You have any means to make a living?” he asked Natasha.
She shook her head, but Anna said yes, with the carny show.
“Vagrants,” he said. “I sentence you to two days in the county jail.”
“But Your Honor, the cot in the jail is too narrow. And you can’t put the victim in prison; Anna did it, not Natasha,” Rusty said.
Hanging Judge Earwig glared, and for a moment I thought he’d throw Rusty in with the ladies. But he chose a more subdued approach.
“I’m punishing them for vagrancy. They’ll both go in; sleep on the floor.”
“You’re a beast,” said Belle.
Hanging Judge Earwig didn’t object. In fact, he smiled, ear to ear, with the compliment.
“I’ll suspend the sentence if someone puts ten dollars in the Charity Jar,” he said.
He was looking at Rusty, who was beginning to acquire some understanding about the burdens of marriage.
Rusty sighed, dug into his britches, pulled out two fives, a fifth of his monthly wage, and stuffed them into the charity jar. Earwig was, of course, his own favorite charity.
“Say, where are they from?” he asked.
“Lvov, Ukraine, Your Honor,” Rusty said.
“Ah! A Lvov triangle,” he said, and leered.
Out on the street, Rusty lit into me. “You just cost me a fortune,” he said.
“Well, propose to both. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“Fat chance any preacher would marry all of us,” he replied.
“Men ruin women’s lives,” Belle said.
I was thinking the opposite. That little blonde sharpshooter sure had made my own life a lot meaner.