The man had several small wooden balls in his hand, and he threw them into the air one by one, scarcely pausing between each throw. Within instants, six of the balls were in the air.
Cully realized what the woman was going to attempt. The Colts seemed to leap into her hands as the balls hung in the air for a fraction of a second. The guns belched smoke and flame, each one blasting three times. Cully saw several balls explode into splinters.
He shook his head in amazement as only three of the balls thudded back onto the ground. She had hit three out of six. Considering the distance, the size of the targets, and their movement, that was remarkable.
The midget who was assisting her in her practice thought so, too. He hurried over to pick up the balls she had missed and called, "You got three of them, Jemma! That's great!"
The woman shook her head. "That means I missed three, Grady. I can do better." She took fresh cartridges from the loops of the belt around her hips and began thumbing them into the cylinders of the Colts. "Set up the target."
The man called Grady walked to a nearby wagon and took out a folding wooden stand, much like an artist's easel. Instead of a canvas, it held a standard bullseye target. Grady set it up and then stepped back.
The woman holstered her guns, faced the target, and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Then she palmed the right-hand Colt in an eye-blurring draw and fired three times, the shots coming so close together they sounded like one long roar. There was a split-second's pause as she tossed the gun effortlessly into her left hand and triggered it three more times.
Cully whistled softly as he saw four of the slugs smack into the bullseye. The other two missed being in the center only by a whisker.
The woman, hearing the whistle, glanced over and saw Cully standing there. She openly met his admiring gaze and asked, "What do you think?"
"Pretty good shooting," Cully said, smiling. He could not resist adding, "For a woman, that is."
"For a woman?" Grady exclaimed. "That's mighty good shooting for anybody!"
The woman regarded Cully coolly, her blue eyes taking in his dark good looks, the badge on his shirt, and the Colt riding on his own hip. A smile suddenly appeared on her face. "I saw you in town during the parade, Deputy," she said. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"The marshal and I came out here on business," Cully explained, disarmed by a sudden lack of self-confidence. He was unaccustomed to women who didn’t bat their eyelashes at him and act coy. And he certainly was unused to talking to a woman who was wearing two Peacemakers.
"I'm Jemma Richardson," she said.
"Cully Markham." He touched the brim of his hat. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
Jemma inclined her head toward the target. "You said my shooting was pretty good—for a woman. Would you care to give it a try?"
Cully shifted his feet. "I'm not much of a trick shooter," he muttered. "I can't do a lot of fancy stuff."
"Surely you've shot at a target before."
"Well, sure—"
"Put up another target, Grady," Jemma broke in, calling to the midget.
"You bet," Grady replied, a broad grin on his face.
Cully hadn’t planned to demonstrate his own skill, but he was stuck now. As Grady tacked a fresh target onto the stand, he stepped up beside Jemma Richardson and slipped out his Colt to check the loads.
"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Markham," Jemma said lightly.
"Same trick?"
"Whatever you feel comfortable with."
Cully nodded and faced the target. As Jemma had done, he took a deep breath, then drew his gun.
His draw was every bit as fast. He fired from the hip, three shots, then performed the same maneuver, switching hands and continuing the fire. He was a little slower at the shift, a little clumsier, and he fired only two shots afterward since his gun had contained only five rounds because the hammer had been resting on an empty chamber.
Grady ran forward to check the target as Cully reloaded. The midget let out a yelp when he saw the five hits grouped closely within the bullseye. "All five in the center," Grady said shakily, as if he could not believe it. “That’s dime novel stuff. Call him Deadeye Dick!”
Jemma glanced sharply at Cully. "That's not bad," she admitted with some reluctance. "How are you at moving targets?"
"I've shot at a few," Cully replied simply.
She nodded, then called, "All right, Grady, you know what to do."
As Grady fetched more of the small wooden balls from the wagon, Cully slid another shell into his Colt, giving it a full wheel this time. He said to the woman, "I reckon you've run into a lot of fellas who try to outshoot you."
"You're hardly the first," Jemma replied wryly. "But you're good, I have to admit that."
"You're awfully good yourself," he said.
Grady returned from the wagon, three of the little balls in each hand. He took his position and asked, "You ready, mister?"
Cully nodded, his eyes never leaving the balls in the man's hands. Grady threw them into the air, one at a time as he had with Jemma. Cully's gun was out by the time the first one had reached the apex of its flight, and the thunder of the six shots filled the air. Three of the thrown balls blew apart; the other three fell to the earth.
Grady laughed and seemed relieved that Cully hadn’t bettered Jemma on this test. He ran forward to pick up the unhit balls as Cully reloaded.
"That's very good," Jemma said.
"I heard you say a few minutes ago that you could do better than three out of six."
She shrugged. "I have. One night I got five of them. That's the best I've ever done. The trick is more difficult than it looks."
Cully strolled over to Grady and asked, "Could I see those?"
Grady handed over the three balls. Cully looked at them for a moment, then nodded. He held one of them out to Jemma, who had followed him over. "See that gouge on the side?" Cully asked. "One of my slugs did that. I just didn't hit it dead center."
Jemma frowned dubiously, but she had to nod. "That's what it looks like, all right. Get the spinner, Grady." There was fresh determination in her voice.
Feeling eyes on him, Cully glanced over his shoulder to see that a growing crowd of circus people was watching him, their attention drawn by the unusual number of shots. He looked past the performers and roustabouts and saw Lucas Flint and the professor approaching.
Grady came out of the wagon carrying a spoked wheel attached to a wooden stand. At the end of each spoke was a small circular attachment that held a ball of colored glass. Cully realized how the gadget worked. Grady would stand it up, set the wheel spinning, then get out of the way while Jemma shot at the whirling glass balls.
Jemma nodded to Grady, who carried the spinner a few more yards away. Professor Houser made his way through the crowd of onlookers, stepped up to Jemma, and said, "My dear, I hope you realize that I do not intend to pay for everything you shoot to pieces in these impromptu contests."
"You know you can take it out of my salary, Professor," Jemma returned.
Houser sighed. "Very well. I suppose I should be getting accustomed to this by now."
Flint frowned at his deputy. "Seems like I recall somebody else acting like this, Cully, at Angus's recently," he said, referring to Ned Cooper.
"Why don't you shoot first this time?" Jemma said to her opponent.
Cully considered, then nodded. "Sure. Why not?" He looked at Grady, who was standing with a hand on one of the spinner's spokes. "Let 'er rip!"
Grady spun the wheel and scurried away to the side, while Cully's pistol seemed to leap into his hand. He emptied it, saw splinters of glass glinting in the air as some of the balls exploded, and then waited for the spinner to slow enough for the results of his shots to be visible.
Only two of the glass balls were shattered.
Cully frowned as Jemma called, "Start it again, Grady!" The spinner hadn’t yet come to a complete halt as Grady once more set it revolving at a dizzying spee
d. Jemma drew and fired, blasting six bullets at the target.
"Stop it," she said to Grady as she holstered her gun.
He hurried forward and reached up to grasp one of the spokes, bringing the spinner to an abrupt stop. A cheer went up from the onlookers when they saw that all six of the remaining balls were gone.
Cully caught his breath. "Damn!" he said fervently.
Jemma shook her head. "Actually it's easier than it looks, once you're accustomed to it. I suppose it was unfair to make you go first." Her horse was tied to a stake nearby, and it had been grazing peacefully all through the exhibition, obviously unfazed by the sound of gunfire. Now Jemma went over to him and pulled the Winchester from the saddle boot. She turned back to Cully and said, "How are you with a Yellowboy?"
"Never fired one," Cully admitted, admiring the recently developed model. "I'm pretty good with a Henry repeater, though."
Jemma tossed the rifle to him. Cully caught it deftly, then turned it in his hands, studying with appreciation the intricate engraving on its breech and butt plates.
"Like to give it a try?" Jemma asked.
Cully nodded.
Flint and Houser exchanged a glance and then turned away, leaving the others to watch the continuing show. As the two men strolled away from the clearing and back toward Houser's wagon, the ringmaster shook his head and said, "Ah, youth! To have some of that pride and exuberance again!"
"Cully's exuberant, all right," Flint agreed dryly. The Winchester began to crack behind them. "And he's got an eye for a pretty lady."
"A description which fits the fair Jemma quite well," Houser commented. He changed the subject by adding, "Marshal, I was wondering if it would be possible to remain here in the vicinity of your town for several days?"
"I figured you'd just put on a show or two and then be back on the road as soon as possible," Flint said.
"That's the usual procedure, but I believe the troupe could use a rest. We've been traveling for quite a while now, and to be honest, we're all a bit tired. Besides, we seem to be experiencing a rash of problems with the wagons—axles breaking, wheels coming off, that sort of thing. I would like to check out all the vehicles and make any needed repairs while we're halted."
"Sounds reasonable enough." Flint nodded.
"And we could also put on some extra performances while we're here. The troupe likes to try out new things, you know, while we have a live audience. You can't get an honest reaction from other circus folk. We've all seen too much to be properly amazed anymore."
Flint grinned. "Stay as long as you like, Professor, as long as there's no trouble."
"I assure you there won't be, Marshal." Houser sounded slightly distracted as he went on. "At least, I certainly hope not."
Back on the edge of the camp, amid clapping and cheering from the onlookers, Cully was admitting, "When it comes to trick shooting, a woman can do as well as a man."
"Sometimes better," Jemma said with a smile.
Cully grinned at her. "Yeah. Sometimes better."
He had proved no match for her speed and accuracy with the Winchester. With handguns, they were on even terms, which in itself was amazing. He had never before encountered a woman who could shoot like Jemma Richardson. He was going to take this defeat gracefully, though, he told himself. The woman was too damned pretty to get mad at.
"Of course, there's a big difference between shooting at a target and shooting at some jasper who's shooting back at you," Cully could not resist pointing out. "That makes it a mite harder to concentrate."
"I'm sure it does," Jemma admitted. "And I'm glad I've never had to do that."
"I hope you never do." Cully hesitated. The crowd was drifting away, returning to their tasks now that the shooting display was over. Cully went on. "I think I'd better tell you about a fellow named Ned Cooper."
Quickly, he explained about Cooper and his drunken boasting. With a concerned look in her eyes, Jemma asked, "Do you think he plans to interrupt the circus performance?"
"I wouldn't put it past him. He thinks he's the biggest curly wolf to ever come out of the woods. He might try to prove it."
Jemma shrugged. "I wouldn't worry too much about him if I were you, Mr. Markham. I've run into his type plenty of times since I joined the circus several years ago. I'm sure I can handle him."
Despite the confident words, Cully heard an undertone of doubt in her voice. "Well, I'll be around in case Cooper does try something," he said. "And why don't you call me Cully?"
She smiled warmly at him. "All right, Cully. And I'm Jemma. Don't forget, our first performance is tonight."
"I'll be there," Cully promised with a grin.
7
Angus MacQuarrie put all of his considerable strength into one final effort to overwhelm the danger facing him. As the muscles in his arm and shoulder bunched and rippled, he gave one last mighty heave. He groaned with the effort, as did the man sitting across the table from him.
The man gasped when the strain finally became too much for him. His knuckles rapped sharply against the tabletop as Angus forced his hand down.
The reaction from the crowd gathered around the table in Angus's Tavern was mixed. Most of the men cheered because they had been backing Angus all the way. A groan of dismay went up from those few foolhardy souls who had bet on the big, rangy cowhand.
Angus stood up and clasped his hands over his head in a gesture of victory. Forcing a grin, he tried to conceal the aches and pains that coursed through his arm and shoulder.
His defeated opponent slumped back in his chair, rubbing his throbbing forearm. "I'll get you next time, Angus," he vowed. "You're gettin' old, you blamed Scotsman. You can't win forever."
"I'll give ye another chance, laddie." Angus laughed.
One of the other patrons slapped the tavern's proprietor on the back. "Nobody's ever beaten Angus at arm wrestling, and plenty have tried," he declared. "I'm willing to wager that nobody ever will."
"Ye'd best save ye money," Angus cautioned him. "Nobody wins forever. Sooner or later, somebody comes along who gets the better o' ye."
A shadow fell across the bright patch of sunlight that came in through the swinging batwing doors, a shadow large enough to blot out much of the light. Noticing it first, Angus turned to learn the cause.
A man stood just inside the saloon, his massive hands resting on the batwings he had shoved aside. Tall and broad, with a heavy jaw, dark bristling eyebrows, and not another hair on his head, the newcomer appeared quite intimidating until he abruptly smiled.
"Hello," he said in a mild voice as the knot of men around the table turned to stare at him. "Can a man get a drink in here?"
Angus nodded and broke away from the group of customers. "Aye, tha' he can. Welcome, stranger, to Angus's Tavern. Angus MacQuarrie is me name." He extended a hand toward the stranger.
The man took Angus's hand in a paw equally as large. "Bruno Waldman," he said. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacQuarrie."
One of the customers suddenly pointed a finger at Bruno Waldman. "Say, I recognize you now, mister. You're with the circus. You were in the parade."
"That's right," another man piped up. "You were wearing some kind of funny-lookin' mountain-lion pelt."
"Actually, it's a leopard-skin costume for my strong-man act," Waldman replied. He stepped into the tavern and crossed the room to the bar. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants, he was an impressive figure even without his circus costume. No one in the room was taller, and only Angus could match his width of shoulder. Busier than usual this afternoon, the tavern was crowded with people who had come to Abilene for the circus parade and were staying for the first performance that night. Following Angus's success in the arm wrestling match, most of the customers had gone back to their drinking. Many of them were watching the strong man, some surreptitiously, others openly staring.
Angus moved behind the bar and leaned his palms on it. "An' what'll ye be having, Mr. Waldman?"
"Call me Bruno, please. And I'll
have cold beer."
"Me beer's as cold as ye'll find a'tween the Mississippi 'n' the Barb'ry Coast, Bruno," Angus boasted. He picked up a mug from the backbar and filled it, then slid the brew to a stop in front of Bruno.
The big bald man lifted the mug to his lips, his throat working as he swallowed. When the beer was at least half gone, he thumped the mug back on the bar and smiled in satisfaction.
"It's good," Bruno said simply. "Not like back home in Munich, mind you, but good."
"Ah, 'tis a Prussian ye be."
Bruno finished off the beer and sighed. "Not for a long time. I've been in America for more than twenty years. It's my home now. Or rather, wherever the circus goes is my home."
"Tha' circus o' yours has got folks in an uproar 'round here," Angus told him, leaning on the bar. "’Tis the most exciting thing t'be hitting this town in a long time."
Bruno shoved the mug across the bar toward Angus and grinned. "I'm glad we can entertain people." He inclined his head toward the table where the arm wrestling contest had taken place. "Although it looked as if you were putting on quite a show when I got here."
Angus beamed as he refilled the mug and gave it back to Bruno. "Ye saw it, did ye?"
"Just the end of it. You were just polishing the fellow off when I got here, so I stayed outside on the boardwalk and watched through the door. I didn't want to distract you."
Angus waved a hand. "'Twould'na mattered if ye had come in with trumpets blaring. I would'na noticed ye for concentration."
"Congratulations. I could tell you were quite an arm wrestler as soon as I saw you."
The tavern keeper's smile grew wide as he listened to the compliments from the burly but soft-spoken Waldman. A customer standing at the bar a few feet away from Bruno ventured, "Angus's taken on everybody in these parts and beaten 'em all. There's nobody better."
Bruno smiled at the man. "Is that so?"
"Angus's the undisputed champion of Abilene and the surrounding vicinity," the man went on. "Probably all of Kansas, too. If he hasn't wrestled all the young bucks yet, he will. Sooner or later they all come to Angus's seeking him out."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 28