Chapter 7

• Jack’s eyes flitted from Grinder to Grimwood and back once more, searching in the shifting shadows for the meaning behind the charged atmosphere. Something was amiss, a disquiet in the air that defied the quiet rhythm of his life. For years, Old Joe Harrington had drilled into him the sacred code: to eschew conflict was the highest offense against God and man. That lesson_ that if one avoided crossing another’s path, then no one would dare cross theirs_ had steadied his heart like the calm before a gathering storm. He had navigated life’s placid currents without ever encountering the turbulent rapids of wrath.
• Yet, now, amid the mocking laughter of his companions_ a laughter that resonated with an edge of scorn akin to that directed at a fiery young colt struggling futilely against a lashing rope_ Jack felt exposed, misunderstood. The mirth around him was unsettling, a peculiar blend of ridicule and pity. Though the intent behind it was not overt malice, it left him unsure, prompting him to return a tentative smile to the throng, as if it could bridge the gap between his inner reserve and their boisterous derision.
• Grinder, ever the boisterous soul and eager to dispel the tension, gave Jack a hearty slap on the shoulder_ a gesture meant to convey camaraderie and to buoy his spirits. But Jack recoiled as though stung by the touch of a serpent; his instincts, honed on years of solitude, shunned the invasive contact of another’s body like a wild stallion avoids the noose of a flying rope.
• “Steady up, pal,” Grinder coaxed in his gruff but earnest tone. “The lads mean no harm. See that tall man over there? He’s riled to the quick_ and he’ll soon bet his very sombrero against you when it comes to shootin’.”
• Turning his attention to Grimwood, Grinder continued with a conspiratorial lilt, “Look here, partner, this is the man I said could nail the four dollars before they hit the dust. I figure you don’t quite grasp how it’s done, do you?”
• Grimwood’s gaze hardened, his voice dripping with disdain as he spat, “Him? Best send him back to his ma before someone gets a chance to proper mess him up! That whelp wouldn’t know a gun if it bit him, for all the fight in him.”
• Grinder allowed a pregnant silence to stretch, letting the tension build before his next words broke through like the crack of a whip. “Stranger, I’ve still got somewhere around five hundred dollars in that cash drawer_ a hundred dollar bill for every cent of which screams that Jack can pull off what I promised.”
• Grimwood’s eyes narrowed as he weighed the wager. Though his own moral code wavered in the face of profit, he could not ignore the sting of humiliation from the memory of that formidable rider who had dared to commandeer Bushy Fury. The memory stirred a Grimwood fury within him. Yet, the lure of five hundred dollars was potent_ a siren call too loud to ignore.
• “Come on, hurry up,” Grinder urged, his voice a mix of impatience and confident bravado. “I ain’t got time to guess what you’re thinkin’, stranger. And let me tell you_ I don’t listen to the clamor of talk as much as I listen to the ring of coin.”
• Before Grimwood could muster a retort, a rough voice rang out from the crowd, slicing through the murmurs like a blade through soft leather. “You’re plumb loco if you think any man in this world can get away with a stunt like that! Pick four in the air!”
• Grimwood’s retort was sharp as he snapped, “Keep your jaw to yourself! If this feller wants to donate a little more to charity, let him. Grinder, I’ve got five hundred dollars here to back your bet.”
• Another voice, rough and full of challenge, interjected, “Make him give you proper odds, Grinder_ because ”
• But Grimwood’s cutting glance silenced the suggestion, and soon the air was laden with a hush so deep that even the wind seemed to pause.
• Grinder’s white lips glistened with anticipation as he declared, “You can see I’m not packing any shootin’ irons,” referring to Jack’s bare hands, “so who’s got a suggestion?”
• In that charged silence, every man present fanned out his own weapon_ a collection of well-worn revolvers and six-shooters that glimmered in the low light like relics of a bygone era. The very air thrummed with the potential for violence, yet there was an unspoken reverence for the miracle that was about to unfold. One by one, Jack took each gun into his capable hands. It was as if an unseen intelligence resided in his fingertips, guiding him to discern the subtle qualities in each weapon.
• He held the first revolver, nodding in appraisal. “Nice gun,” he murmured, “but that barrel’s too heavy_ a whole ounce more than I can abide.”
• The cowpuncher, proud of his cherished piece, bristled, “What d’you mean? I’ve trusted this gun for near eight years!”
• Jack offered a polite apology as he passed it along, “I’m sorry, but a top-heavy gun just doesn’t work for me.”
• The process continued with a careful deliberation that bordered on the mystical. Another man’s weapon was examined and swiftly returned. “Cylinder’s too tight,” Jack pronounced with decisive clarity, before moving on to another, “Bad handle. I don’t like the feel of it.”
• When he finally paused over Cole Grimwood’s collection of arms, Grimwood’s scowl deepened under the weight of Jack’s silent judgment. Jack met his gaze with gentle surprise and explained quietly, “You see, a gun must be handled like a living creature_ if you don’t treat it right, it won’t treat you right. Your weapon isn’t clean, stranger, and a dirty gun loses its footing.”
• Grimwood’s eyes flashed, and with a muttered curse he returned his arms to their holsters. “Ted,” he grumbled to his friend Danny, who stood nearby, “what do you reckon he meant by that? You think he’s got something up his sleeve? Acts just like a damned woman sometimes.”
• Danny, his tone solemn, replied, “I don’t know. He seems queer_ different, in a way I can’t place.”
• Meanwhile, Jack had finally found his pair_ a set of revolvers that seemed to whisper promises of precision and power. With both guns in hand, he began a graceful, almost balletic practice routine. He twirled the weapons, testing their actions, the sound of metal and the quiet click of the mechanisms a prelude to the impending challenge. In the dead silence that followed, one man stepped off to mark the twenty yards that lay between him and Jack’s position.
• With his back turned to the expectant crowd, Jack stood firm at the mark, his arms steady and his smile enigmatic, as if sharing a private secret with the guns that obeyed his touch. “How you feelin’, Jack?” Grinder asked anxiously.
• “Everything’s fine,” Jack replied, his voice as calm as a placid lake.
• “Are you gettin’ weak?” Grinder pressed, unable to hide his concern.
• “No, I’m all right,” came the measured reply.
• “Steady up, partner,” Grinder insisted, only to exclaim, “Look at my hand!” as he gestured toward the unyielding stillness of Jack’s extended arm_ a silent testament to his focus.
• At that moment, Grinder’s gamble took shape. “Remember,” he cautioned, “I’ve got nearly everything I own staked on you, and the stranger’s fixin’ to claim his four dollars.”
• Grimwood stepped forward, holding the coins_ a quartet of silver promises of fate and fortune_ until he called out, “Are you ready?”
• “Let her go!” Jack commanded in a tone devoid of excitement, as if merely issuing an order to a well-trained beast. With that, Grimwood hurled the coins into the air. They spun in a rapid, dizzying danced_ a fleeting constellation of glinting orbs, each propelled high so that Jack might wait until they began their descent. The higher the coins flew, the faster they fell, perfecting their trajectory toward the mark.