Chapter 5

• The saloon erupted in mirth, a chorus that swelled like a desert storm, and Grinder himself laughed the loudest, though his smile was edged with bitter irony. "Did you have Trillin’ Jack in mind?" he teased, his voice carrying both the weight of memory and the sharp tang of disbelief.
• Duke’s tone wavered between defiance and uncertainty. "No, I didn’t," he insisted, "and I never said that feller could drill ’em every single time. But I'll tell ya true_ he made it two out of four times, sure as the sun cuts the horizon."
• Grinder shook his head slowly, the lines on his face deepening with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "Now, Duke, I swear, you must’ve been drinkin’ when you laid that tale on me. I can’t deny Trillin’ Jack has his moments_ he’s known to accomplish more than any mortal with a gun should but I’ve yet to see a man truly wield that power."
• Lee’s curiosity flared. "And how do you know this, Grinder? I ain’t never once seen him pack a six-shooter."
• Grinder’s eyes gleamed with memories of long-forgotten confrontations. "Sure as the desert winds, I’ve seen him not only pack it but fire it in a way that defied common men’s abilities. It was sheer happenstance_ a twist of fate, if you will that my own eyes beheld that spectacle."
• Duke grew anxious, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Well, if you admit it’s possible for Trillin’ Jack to do such miracles, then I say I’ve seen a man who could pull that trick off." The murmur of speculation surged through the gathered crowd like a warning before a dust storm.
• "Now, who in blazes is this Trillin’ Jack?" Cole Grimwood inquired, his tone both skeptical and tinged with a dark curiosity.
• A bystander, voice husky with legend and lore, declared, "He’s the man who caught Nightfall himself and rode him into oblivion." The tale was spun with the wild flourish of desert myth, eliciting a wry chuckle from some, while others simply shook their heads in disbelief.
• "Some man, if he can ride the devil!" Ted Danny laughed, the sound echoing against the rough-hewn walls of the saloon.
• With a slow nod, Duke elaborated, "I mean, folks spoke of a black mustang runnin’ wild-untamed, fiery_ a symbol of freedom and damnation intertwined. They whispered of his wonder with a gun. But truth be told, only Grinder claims to have seen him work that deadly art."
• Grinder, ever the arbiter of frontier tales, leaned back and said, "Maybe you did see it, and maybe you didn’t, but there are plenty of fine shots in this room. I’d wager fifty bucks that none here could hit a dollar with their six-shooter at twenty paces on a fair day." His challenge hung in the air like the ghost of a promise waiting to be tested.
• Before the tension could be fully measured, Will Durov interjected with a wry smile, "While they’re arguin’," he said, "I reckon I’ll hit the trail."
• Cole Grimwood, never one to miss a moment for mischief, grinned broadly and called out, "Now, let me have a bit of fun with you short-horns." His voice carried an amused yet steely challenge as he raised his tone, "Are you makin’ that bet just to stir trouble, partner, or do you intend to back it up with cold, hard cash?"
• Grinder’s eyes flashed as he pivoted towards Grimwood, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "I’ve never pulled a bluff in all my years that I couldn’t back up!" he snapped, his pride and honor inextricably bound to every wager.
• Grimwood’s response was smooth as the desert night. "Well then, I ain’t so flush as to turn down fifty bucks, especially when a kind Christian soul_ if I may borrow the preachers’ turn of phrase-slides it into my glove. So, lead out the dollar, friend, and let’s kiss it goodbye!"
• Grinder nodded, a slow and deliberate gesture, and in the span of a heartbeat, fifty dollars in gold passed into the waiting hand of an ever-watchful Irishman chosen to safeguard the stakes. Soon, the buzzing saloon spilled out into the open air as a dozen bets were hurriedly placed, each man staking his claim on the outcome of fate. Although a majority leaned towards Grinder’s surety, a not-insignificant few found themselves drawn to the unwavering, inscrutable gaze of Cole Grimwood_ a stranger whose stern countenance, unwavering composure, and almost otherworldly poise commanded an unspoken trust.
• "How do you stand, Cole?" Ted Danny asked, his voice quivering with genuine concern. "Is this truly a safe bet? I've never seen you try such a mark before!"
• Grimwood’s reply was calm, measured, and void of pretense. "It isn’t safe, not if it meant I had to waste my best shot. But these odds that dollar in flight are as even as the shifting sands. Take your pick."
• Ted frowned, shaking his head slowly. "Not me. If you had ten chances to hit that moving dollar, I might dare place my coin on your skill. A stationary coin’s one thing, but the moving one is as unpredictable as the desert wind."
• Then Grinder’s voice rang out from a distance, exactly twenty paces away. "Here you are! Are you ready?" His challenge sliced through the murmurs of the crowd, marking the transition from talk to fate-bound action.
• With practiced precision, Grimwood whipped his revolver into view, letting it gleam in the relentless desert sun as he assumed his stance. "Let ’er go!" he commanded, his voice cool and steady_ a promise of what was to come.
• The coin was sent aloft, spinning in the air with an almost hypnotic grace, a tiny disc of glittering fate against the endless blue. In that suspended moment, Grimwood fired-a shot that found the coin’s flight path but not its descent, leaving the coin to tumble untouched. His challenge settled in the quiet gasp of anticipation.
• Grinder, his tone dripping with sarcasm and self-assurance, called out, "As a kind, Christian soul, I ain’t in your class, stranger! Charity’s always so interestin’ when I’m on the receivin’ end." His words, though jaded, were laced with the undeniable heat of competition, provoking a ripple of chuckles and clapping from the gathered cowpunchers.
• But Grimwood’s face remained as impassive as the stone walls that bore Grimwood witness to so many such duels. "Don’t pack up your doubts just yet, partners," he drawled slowly. Then, turning his piercing gaze upon Grinder, he announced, "I got one hundred bones bettin’ that I can plug that dollar on the second try." His words, delivered with a certainty born of ruthless habit, added a new edge to the challenge.
• Grinder, aware of every heartbeat in the room, grinned as he addressed the assembly, "Boys, I hate to do this, but business is business. Here we are once more." With that, the coin was released again into its graceful arc, and Grimwood-lips drawn tight, brows knitting in deep concentration_ waited until the coin reached its zenith. In one fluid, almost preordained motion, he fired; then, as if defying fate itself, he fired once more. The coin danced through the air in a brilliant, flashing semicircle_ a performance of gunplay so exquisitely choreographed that even the roughest voices in the room hushed in admiration.
• Amid the swelling applause of men hardened by the rigors of the trail and the unyielding desert, Grimwood strode toward Grinder with an outstretched hand. His tone was gentle, yet carried a gravity that silenced lingering doubts. "After all," he intoned quietly, "I knew you weren’t truly hard of heart. It only took a little time_ and a touch of persuasion to make you dig for coin when I pass the box."
• Grinder’s face, a vivid canvas of flushed indignation and wounded pride, contorted into a scowl as he reluctantly handed over not only his immediate winnings but also his hard-earned stake. "It took you two shots to hit it," he grumbled bitterly, "and if I were arguin’ over a pint, maybe you wouldn’t leave with that coin in hand."
• Grimwood, with a mild and almost piteous look of regret mingled with inevitability, leaned in closer. "Partner, I've got a hunch a wanderin’ intuition_ that you’re actually showin’ a pile of brains by not arguin’ this here pint." His words, softly spoken yet piercing like the desert wind, hung in the charged air, a final provocation.
• For a heartbeat, the room fell into that anticipatory hush_ a pregnant pause that heralded the approach of renewed conflict. But Grinder, his gaze locked with Grimwood’s unwavering stare, merely swallowed his wrath. "I suppose you’ll be tellin’ your grandkids how you pulled such sorcery when you’re eighty," he said scornfully. "But around these parts, stranger, they don’t hold such wonder in high regard. Trillin’ Jack," he paused deliberately, as if weighing how much of legend to unleash upon the moment, "can stand with his back to the coins, and when they're thrown, he drills four dollars easier than you managed one and he wouldn’t squander three shots on a solitary dollar. That’s the way the wild demands its economy!"