Dance on the Wind tb-1

by Terry C. Johnston

  He raised the butt to the curve of his shoulder and nestled it in against the thin strap of muscle beneath the worn, much-washed hickory shirt his mother had made him years before.

  Another of the finalists touched off his shot. The firing line began to drift with the gray gauze of powder smoke suspended on the heavy, muggy air.

  Titus laid his cheek along the smooth half heart of the small cheekpiece carved into the buttstock, trying hard to shut out the sounds of the nearby crowd murmuring, laughing, cheering on their favorites, the clamor of children at play, the unsteady and surprising boom of other shooters firing their rifles behind him. If he wasn’t careful, Titus reminded himself, some man’s shot just might surprise him, and he would end up jerking on the trigger instead of concentrating on nothing more than his own squeezing caress of the trigger.

  When his longrifle went off, he watched through the curl of gray muzzle smoke while his target went spinning to the ground. As he brought the weapon’s buttstock down to rest upon his instep, Titus turned slightly, finding the other nine shooters watching him as if he were delaying them.

  “’Bout time, boy,” harped one.

  Another cried out, “You may look young as a pup an’ wet behin’t the ears—but you take much time to shoot as a ol’t lady!”

  Some of the nearby crowd roared in approval. While most of the other shooters finished reloading without a complaint, a few guffawed at Titus’s expense before they went about their own business.

  Again his eyes anxiously raked the crowd, searching for family. Not finding any, he dropped his gaze back to his shooting pouch, where he raised the tiny iron pick he used to probe and clean the vent hole bored in the breech, then put his pan brush to work. He had crafted it last winter from the hump bristles taken off that bear.

  “It’s awright,” he confided to himself, lips barely moving as he screwed a jag onto the end of his wiping stick. “Likely they’re running late still. That’un was just the first shot, anyways. They’ll be coming along directly.”

  As he drove a greased patch down the length of the barrel, then pulled it free of the muzzle coated with a thick swirl of powder smudge, the youth glanced downrange at the men who were hefting the framework back another two rods—some eleven yards—to the next set of distance stakes driven into the meadow. For the first time he noticed those wooden shafts some four feet tall, standing at regular intervals, each one topped with a long strip of pale cloth barely nudged by the wispy breeze.

  With the ten new targets lined up and his assistants dashing off the range, the judge hollered, “Fire when ready!”

  Titus finished seating the ball and patch against the breech, then brought the hammer back to full cock before the first shooter touched off. Sporadic cheers erupted for a few of the contestants as they struck their mark across that fourteen rods.

  Then sixteen. And finally eighteen rods—a hundred yards of meadow. And that’s when their number began to dwindle.

  At twenty rods one old shooter missed his black smudge.

  Two more rods from that, another pair just grazed the rim of that black smudge with their shots—not near good enough to stay on with the other seven.

  At twenty-four rods they lost a man who jerk-fired and missed his chunk of wood entirely.

  As Titus stood reloading to fire at twenty-six rods, he looked over the crowd once more, expecting to find his family standing somewhere near, to be close at hand, there to cheer on one of their own. Still he could not find them as he ran the ramrod home through its thimbles, then stole another look at the crowd directly behind him to be certain.

  When he turned back to gaze downrange, Titus felt about as alone as he had ever felt in his seventeen summers. What he did this afternoon was damned important—yet evidently not important enough for his father to give off talking of seed and sheep and hogs, or his mother to leave off chatting about babes and spinning, baking and midwifing….

  Then he saw her, squeezing right through the tight first row of spectators.

  Amy raised her arm and waved.

  Silently he mouthed the words across the distance. “Where’s my pap?”

  With a shrug of her shoulders the young woman held up her empty hands and shook her head.

  “Damn them anyway,” he grumbled, turning from her. “Just teach me to do for myself from now on, that’s what it does.”

  Bringing his rifle down to reload for the relay at twenty-eight rods, his eyes glanced her way, finding Amy clapping, raising her arm to wave when she found him sneaking a look in her direction. He tried to smile, if only to speak his thanks in that simple way, then primed the pan as disappointment soured his stomach.

  Already two more shooters had trudged away from the firing line, leaving only four to aim at those shrinking black circles burned into wood planks set atop the stands 150 yards away.

  As he brought his rifle away from his shoulder after that next shot, he heard another man curse at the unfairness of some judge’s call while he trudged off in noisy protest. Just when he was about to drop his eyes to set about reloading, Titus noticed something out of place downrange as the targets were being moved out to thirty rods, drawing ever closer to the far side of the long meadow. It was the way he had learned to hunt: spotting something not quite right, not quite in place. A color where it shouldn’t be, some shape out of the ordinary. And if you paid close enough attention, you were bound to discover some game hiding among that patch of brush, lying to against those shadows.

  While most others might find a tree stand or lie in wait for their quarry to come down a game trail to them—young Titus Bass had taught himself to track his prey, to stalk, eyes moving constantly, searching for something that just did not fit.

  For all this time he hadn’t even noticed it here at this end of the meadow where the firing line had been staked out with a long piece of hemp string. The breeze hardly stirred the frayed cuffs of his drop-front britches, hardly tousled the long hair that hung in brown curls spilling down the back of his neck. But off yonder, 160 yards away, those cloth strips knotted to the tops of the tall stakes told him more than just where the targets were to be placed every two rods across the meadow. The strips fluttered, raised, flapped out straight, snapping in an eddy of wind tormenting the far end of the range.

  He glanced to his left as he snapped the frizzen down over the pan, wondering if any of the three others had recognized what he had, if any of them paid the slightest heed. Two of them were intent on brushing out a pan or reloading. Only one, the tall shooter, stared downrange with knowing intensity. As Titus watched him, the lanky frontiersman slowly tore his eyes off the distance to find the youth regarding him.

  Within his dark beard the man grinned so slightly, Titus wasn’t sure it was a grin at all. Maybe nothing more than a squint there in the late-afternoon light. Nothing more. But no—the youth decided—the eyes had smiled, if nothing else.

  Titus thought he’d sight in on his target, get his range down, and fix on where to hold the front blade in that notch filed in his rear sight—holding just so and high enough.

  He brought his rifle to his shoulder and settled it in, snugging his cheek down on the smooth curly-maple of that half heart. He blinked and found that tiny black smudge way off there, all but blotted out by the front blade. He let out half a breath. Beginning to squeeze on the trigger. Then quickly flicked his eyes over to see what the cloth strip was doing on that faraway stake closest to the targets. Eyes back on the front blade he used to cover the black circle.

  Continuing to squeeze ever so slightly, he blinked again and watched the strip flutter out of the corner of his eye. Titus went back to concentrating on his sight picture, then once more glanced at the strip as it suddenly dropped like a cow’s tail after shooing a bothersome fly.

  Readjusting his sight picture, Bass squeezed a little more insistently. Afraid to hurry, but knowing if he didn’t get his shot off at that moment, the breeze might again rise.

  Another shot echoed his, f
ired almost simultaneously. Without realizing what he was doing he turned to look at the tall man, saw those eyes smile. Plain as sun, it was he who had fired just as Bass had touched off his shot.

  “Shooter two—drop off!” came the judge’s cry as he relayed the determination of those range marshals far downrange using small red flags as semaphore.

  “And shooter seven—you drop off!”

  “What?”

  “Seven missed the circle,” the judge repeated. “Last two shooters can reload.”

  Titus watched the judge turn away, then focused his attention on the far end of the meadow where the range officers were again moving the framework back. Just two targets now. Flicking a glance at the tall man, he found the smile gone out of those eyes. Nothing there but concentration.

  “You can do it, Titus!”

  He jerked up in surprise, finding Amy bouncing on her bare feet at the fringe of the crowd, her hands cupped around her mouth as she cheered him on. For a fleeting moment he remembered how he had cupped his hands around those breasts that heaved now with every leap she took.

  He promised himself he would win this match and they would celebrate tonight, his skin against hers. That hunger suddenly reminded him that she might very well be carrying his child, and all anticipation of being with her, getting his hands back on those breasts, of laying his own hardness down between her legs and finding such exquisite release inside the fuzzy smoothness of her thighs—it all flew off with the great flapping of a monstrous pair of wings.

  He turned his eyes from her, his ears echoing with the crowd’s clapping, rolling over them in a continuous din now.

  “Load up, son,” the tall man instructed.

  Titus jerked about, finding him standing a few yards off, both wrists looped over the upright muzzle of his rifle.

  “W-waiting on me?”

  “’Pears it’s just the two of us now.”

  “I see that,” he snapped testily.

  “Don’t take offense, young’un,” the tall man replied with a shrug. “Weren’t hurrying you none. Take your time. I wanna whip you fair and square.”

  That rankled Titus good. He growled, “Pretty damned sure you’re gonna whip me, are you?”

  “Don’t forget to prime that rifle,” the man said smoothly, in a friendly sort of way. “A hang-fire sure gonna make you more nervous’n you are right now.”

  “I ain’t nervous!” Bass snarled, jabbing the cleaning patch down the barrel. “Whyn’t you just leave me be?”

  “I can do that,” he replied, turning away. “Meant no offense.”

  “Just leave off me, will you? I come here to shoot, not to jaw with the likes of you.”

  Taking his big, low-crowned felt hat off his head and dragging a shirtsleeve across his forehead, the tall man turned back to repeat, “I just wanna beat you fair and square. ’Cause I’m a better shot. Ain’t good to beat you ’cause you done something wrong. A good, hard victory is better’n a easy win any day. So you take your time.”

  “I don’t need no more time to beat you,” Titus replied, jabbing the stopper back in his priming horn. He snapped the frizzen over the powder in the pan.

  “That’s odd, young’un,” the tall man said with a sigh as he brought his rifle up. “From what I been seeing of your shootin’—looked to be you knew the difference atween firing quick … and firing smart.”

  “I’m just as smart as you, any day.” And Bass turned his back on the tall man, dragging the hammer back to full cock and nestling the weapon into his shoulder.

  His right eye watered. He blinked twice, trying to clear it. Thirty-two rods, 170 yards, was a tall order. And rattled the way he was, that made him think on the man he was trying to beat. It was down to the two of them now, their targets out there across the entirety of this grassy meadow on the outskirts of Burlington, Kentucky.

  That far cloth strip was dancing, not near as much as were the others in that thirty-two rods. But he knew enough that the lead ball would have to cut itself through a lot of crosswind to reach that distant target. He inched the muzzle a wee bit farther to the left. Then feared he was holding too far off the target, was allowing too much for that breeze.

  Licking his dry lips, Titus glanced at the long procession of stakes where the cloth strips fluttered between him and the far target. He let half his breath out and began to squeeze, flicking his eyes again to that distant flutter. Against his cheek the air moved. All around him the crowd fell to a muted hush. Dogs barked and yowled behind them, off somewhere in that great camp. He vowed to allow none of it to distract him.

  Would no longer let his family’s lack of caring matter. Only, absolutely only thing to dwell on was this shot—this shot to win. The first shooter ever to win at sixteen years old.

  The distant cloth fluttered down like a red-elm leaf drifting slowly to the autumn grass. The tall man’s gun roared.

  Titus fired a heartbeat later.

  Behind him arose a loud groan.

  His heart rising to his throat, the youth strained to see through the gauzy strips of their gray gunsmoke. The murmurs grew louder. It looked as if his target had fallen, hit by his ball. But the spectators were grumbling, disappointed—for there in the distance atop that wooden frame sat the tall man’s target.

  “Y-you didn’t hit yours!” Titus exclaimed, his mouth going dry with the realization he had won.

  “Looks like you beat me, young’un.” The tall man stepped over to Titus and held out his hand. “Fair and square.”

  Taking the man’s hand, he began to shake, jubilance at his victory just beginning to sink in.

  “Hold on!”

  They both turned at the shrill cry from the judge. Across the meadow the range marshals waved their little red flags back and forth. The judge turned to both shooters as an ominous silence descended upon the crowd.

  “You fellers stay put. We’ll see what they need me for.”

  For those long moments Titus tried to remember to breathe. So close to winning … it all seemed so cruel to drag out his victory with this little drama down there near the targets. Certain that he had hit his, for it had spun off to land in the grass while the tall man’s hadn’t budged at all.

  Now the judge was returning, the two range officers close behind him.

  “It’s over,” the man hollered as he came up.

  Behind the shooters some of the crowd roared their approval while the rest pressed in, hundreds of curious gawkers wanting in on the reason for the delay.

  “We have us a for-certain winner,” the judge added, coming to a halt, the pair of officers at his elbows.

  Both nodded as if they had had themselves a hand in deciding its finality.

  The judge held up one of the two targets, a bullet hole plainly visible just outside the black smudge. “This’un here’s marked for shooter number ten—the young’un here.”

  “He didn’t hit his mark, did he?” a voice asked behind them.

  “No, he didn’t,” the judge replied. “But if the only other shooter left in the match didn’t hit his target at all, then the contest would go to the man who at least hit closest to the mark.”

  “Hear! Hear!” a few shouted. “The boy won it!”

  There was a surge of movement at the edge of that jostling crowd pressing in on the shooters and judges. Amy slipped through them and stopped at Titus’s side, gripping his left arm in her two hands, eyes bright and moist, dancing with glee at his victory. She rose on her toes to plant a kiss on Titus’s cheek.

  “Only problem is,” the judge continued, holding up both the targets and waving them to get the crowd to quiet down, “we can’t for the life of us figure out why shooter eight’s target didn’t fall.”

  The tall man leaned forward, reaching for the wood plank. “Didn’t hit it at all?”

  “That’s what we thought at first,” the judge replied, handing the shooter his target. “The men here thort you’d missed your target clean. ’Cause it didn’t fall off the stand. M
eaning the boy here beat you.”

  “Yeah, but lookee there, will you?” the tall man declared, holding his target up high at the end of his arm so the crowd could see. He stuffed a little finger through the hole.

  Titus’s heart sank.

  “Near square onto the middle,” the judge said. “An’ for some reason your target just got itself notched down in that stand so that it couldn’t fall. No matter—as you can all see, this man’s shot went through the black while the young’un’s here didn’t but nudge the black.”

  One of the range officers immediately leaped forward to hoist the tall man’s arm, and the crowd instantly raised its boisterous agreement.

  “We got us a new champeen!”

  Amy was squeezing his arm as folks shoved past, anxious to press in on the winner.

  “You done just fine, Titus,” she tried to cheer him. “Second outta all them shooters your first year, and shooting all that way over yonder—why, my pa said he ain’t seen such shooting since he can remember.”

  “How come I don’t feel just fine, then, Amy?” he whimpered.

  “Maybe you gotta learn how to win.”

  He jerked up to find the tall man, his hand held out before him.

  “Just like a man’s gotta learn how to lose. You damned near shot the pants off me, boy.” He was smiling broadly now as he pushed that floppy felt hat way back on his head. “Ain’t been that skairt of losing for a long, long time. Purty, it was: the way you know how to handle that ol’ squirrel gun of yours.”

  “It were my grandpap’s.”

  He pushed his hand closer to the youth. “What’s the name you go by, young feller?”

  Titus finally seized the man’s hand again and shook hard, one sturdy pump of his arm. “Titus Bass, mister.”

  “Nice to meet you, Titus Bass. A good grip you got.” He brushed the brim of his hat with a pair of fingers for Amy, then quickly looked back at Titus, eyes twinkling. “My friends call me Levi Gamble.”

  4

  Summer had a way of redeeming itself on an evening like this. These long, hot, and sticky Kentucky summer days grew tiresome in the Ohio country come late August.