"At least the boy's eager to learn," Jim Kelly said from where he lay on his bunk, reading a copy of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Nate, he continued, "Couple more days and I'll be able to take those stitches out of your scalp. I'll bet your lookin' forward to that. I'd imagine they've been pullin', and are plenty itchy besides."
"They sure are, Jim. Been everything I can do to keep from scratchin' my head or rippin’ these bandages off," Nate answered.
"Well, soon as the stitches are out I'll give you a bar of lye soap. You'll need to go down to the river and scrub your head good. There's liable to be lice in your hair by now. Got to get rid of those. Horseflies and mosquitoes and gnats and chiggers are bad enough. You don't need lice too."
"Stop scarin' the kid, Jim," Jeb said. "Nate, get your guns."
Nate picked up his gunbelt from the bottom of his bunk and buckled it around his waist. Jeb had already punched another hole in the leather to accommodate Nate's waist, which was slimmer than Jonathan's. Nate got his Winchester from under the bunk, then he and Jeb went to the rope corral to check on their horses. When Jeb whistled sharply, Dudley lifted his head, whinnied, and pushed his way through the herd. Big Red was at his heels. They trotted up to the fence, nickering.
"How ya doin’, Dud?” Jeb asked his paint. He gave the horse a kiss on the nose and a piece of biscuit. Alongside him, Nate rubbed Big Red’s muzzle and also gave him some biscuit. The dead horse thief’s emaciated mare wandered up to the fence, her eyes pleading.
“Here ya go, girl.” Jeb gave her a piece of biscuit, which the mare eagerly took. “You’re safe now.”
“What is gonna happen to her?” Nate asked. “She seems like a nice horse. It’s a dirty shame she was treated the way she was.”
“We’ll fatten her up and one of the men will take her. Bein’ a Ranger’s horse is almost as dangerous as bein’ a Ranger,” Jeb said. “Lotta times a man’ll shoot at the horse, rather than the rider. A man on a runnin’ horse is almost impossible to hit. His horse is a bigger target, and once you set a man afoot he’s easier to run down…or gun down. And a lotta horses get crippled up chasin’ outlaws. Sooner or later someone’ll need to replace his horse, and she’ll be ready. Meantime, speakin’ of ready, let’s teach you how to shoot.”
Jeb led Nate over to a clearing alongside the river, a few hundred yards from camp. Several of the other Rangers tagged along to watch. When they arrived, Jeb pointed to a log he had set on a pair of stumps. He had poked holes in the log with his knife and set twigs upright in those.
“Nate, since you’ve hardly shot a gun before—”
"Never shot a gun before," Nate corrected. "Well other than when I shot that man after they killed my brother."
"Never before? Thought you'd done at least some shootin' to make a shot like that."
"Nope. None."
“Did you at least watch your brother practice?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, then, at least you should know you have to thumb back the hammer on that S & W single action, then pull the trigger.”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now there’s a lot to learn about accurate shootin’, especially with a rifle,” Jeb said. “You’ve got to figure in windage, bullet drop over distance, which way your target’s movin’, and how fast. Then you’ve got recoil. We’re not gonna worry about all that today, since mostly we’ll be concentratin’ on usin’ your six-gun. Main thing to remember with a six-gun is it ain’t all that accurate at any sort of distance. Once you get past thirty feet or so with a six-gun, your chances of hittin’ your target drop real fast. And if you’re tryin’ to down a man, especially one who’s shootin’ back at you, you aim for his chest or belly. Lotta men’ll try to aim for the head, but that’s a big mistake. Too easy to miss. You want to aim for the biggest target, which is the chest or belly. I’ve seen sharpshooters durin’ the War who could pick off a man at five hundred yards by puttin’ a bullet in his head, but most men can’t shoot that good, and they don’t have weapons that accurate. Plus, those sharpshooters’ targets were generally never movin’.”
“Sounds like this might be tough,” Nate said.
“It could be. But you’ve got a good eye, and with a lotta practice you should get the hang of it. That’s why we’re gonna start off with your six-gun, workin’ on hittin’ a stationary target. Once you’ve got that down, then we can move on to hittin’ a movin’ target, shootin’ on the run, firin’ from a prone position, droppin’ to your belly then rollin’ and firin’, and even shootin’ from the back of a runnin’ horse, which is dang nigh impossible to do accurately. You’re not gonna worry about any of that right now, just the job at hand. You’ve got your gun loaded, right?”
“Yeah, did that last night.”
“You have a bullet in the chamber under the hammer?”
Many men left the chamber under the hammer empty for safety, only putting a sixth bullet in their gun when certain they would be using it.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Good. Now take the gun out of your holster and aim it, slow and easy. Don’t worry about speed right now. That’ll come later, when we work on your fast draw. Accuracy is far more important than speed, so that’s what I want from you. In a gunfight, it’s usually the man who takes an extra second to make sure of his target who’s the survivor. And never fan the hammer. That’s the fastest way to get yourself killed, when the guy shootin’ back takes careful aim while you’re blastin’ away wildly and puts a bullet through your guts. Now, aim your gun, and try to hit as many of those twigs as you can.”
“All right.” Nate braced himself, steadied his hand, and aimed. He fired off six shots in succession. One of them just clipped the top of a twig, the others either disappearing into the woods or burying themselves in the log. Nate muttered to himself.
“That’s okay, Nate,” Jeb reassured him. “For your first time shootin’, it wasn’t all that bad. At least you didn’t plug yourself.”
“That’s not funny, Jeb.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. I saw a rookie Ranger do that. Never got his gun out of the holster and plugged himself in the leg. Needless to say, he wasn’t a Ranger after that day. Main thing you’re doin’ wrong is, you’re thumbin’ back the hammer too hard, rather’n usin’ a smooth motion. And you’re jerkin’ the trigger. You want to squeeze it, not jerk it. So remember, ease back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. Ease and squeeze. You got that?”
“Ease and squeeze. I got it.”
“Good. Now, reload and try again.”
Nate pushed the empty shells out of his gun and reloaded. He slid the pistol back in its holster, then lifted it cleanly, aimed, and triggered all six rounds. Three twigs disappeared into splinters.
“That’s much better, Nate,” Jake praised. “You’ll get the hang of this real fast.”
“I didn’t even do that good the first time I shot a gun,” Bill Tuttle said, coming up behind them. “I have a feelin’ you’re gonna be quite a marksman, kid. I know I wouldn’t want to face you over the barrel of a six-gun, that’s for certain.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“Reload and try again, Nate,” Jake ordered.
“What about all the bullets I’m wastin’?”
“Don’t worry about ’em. Like Cap’n Dave told you, Ranger pay ain’t all that much, only thirty a month and found, and we’ve got to provide most of our supplies, includin’ our guns and horses, but the State of Texas does supply all the ammunition we need. It’s more important to make sure you’re a good shooter than worryin’ about wastin’ lead practicin’. We’ve got all day, and we’re not gonna stop until you hit all six of those targets ten times in a row. So, reload and try again.”
***
Nate spent almost the entire day practicing his shooting, not even stopping at noon for dinner. Before he was finished, his shooting at a stationary target was so accurate Jeb moved him on to firing at targets tossed in the air, then shooting while running, th
en even dropping to his belly, rolling, aiming and firing. More often than not, Nate hit his target. By late afternoon, Nate was sweat-streaked, his face and hands stained with powdersmoke. His right arm ached, his thumb was throbbing and blistered from constantly thumbing back his gun’s hammer, and his trigger finger was almost numb from pulling the trigger over and over. He was exhausted, but happy. He wasn’t the natural gunman his brother Jonathan had been, but it seemed he would be more than competent with a six-gun.
“You did just fine, Nate,” Jeb praised him as they headed back to camp. “Just keep practicin’ every chance you get.”
“Wish I could handle a gun as easy as Jonathan did,” Nate answered. “And my thumb’s killin’ me. So’s my finger.”
“Very few men are naturals with a firearm like you say Jonathan was,” Jeb said. “I reckon your brother was one of those few. But, with some more practice, you’ll be a man any Ranger’d be glad to have sidin’ him. And your thumb and trigger finger’ll toughen up right quick. They’ll be calloused before you know it. Let’s wash up and get some chuck. George should’ve saved some beans for us, at least. That’ll tide us over until supper.”
“Sure hope he doesn’t still want me to gather firewood,” Nate said.
“You just let me handle ol’ George,” Jeb answered. “The firewood’ll still be there to be gathered tomorrow.”
***
Nate didn’t even bother to stay up with the rest of the men after supper that night. Exhausted after the long hours of target practice, his body aching in places he had never imagined it could ache, he went straight back to his tent as soon as he ate and tumbled into his bunk, not even bothering to pull off his boots or remove his gunbelt. He was asleep two minutes after his head hit the pillow.
8
Nate awakened the next day even before George arrived to rouse him. He sat on the edge of his bunk, yawned and stretched, scratched his belly, then picked up his shirt and shrugged into it. Before buttoning the shirt and tucking it into his denims, he pulled on his socks and picked up one of his boots. He slid his foot into the boot and felt something slithering inside. He shouted in terror, jumped up, and kicked the boot off. It sailed across the tent and hit Dan Morton’s head with a thud, landing next to him on his covers.
“What the…?” Dan shouted.
“Sn… Snake! Nate yelled. He pointed to the reptile crawling out of his boot onto Dan’s blanket.
With a yell and curse of his own, Dan leapt from his bunk. The blanket went flying, snake with it.
“How’d that thing get in here?”
“I dunno, Dan. It was in my boot.”
“Snakes’ll do that, lookin’ for a warm place to hide, but they won’t generally do that in weather this hot. And they hunt durin’ the night. Why would that varmint want to crawl in your boot?”
“I think I know the answer,” Jim Kelly said, from under his blankets. He pointed at Hoot Harrison, who was still in bed, shaking with mirth.
“Hoot?” Dan said.
“What?”
“You put that snake in Nate’s boot, didn’t you?”
“Who, me?” Hoot turned to face the others, his eyes wide with innocence. “Why would I do that to ol’ Nate here? We’re buddies, pardners. Besides, it was just a little ol’ garter snake. Couldn’t hurt anybody, ’cept mebbe a mouse.”
“I’ll kill you, Hoot,” Nate growled.
“Simmer down, Nate,” Jim ordered. “It was just a prank. All rookies get pranks pulled on ’em. But it’s also a good lesson. Snakes and scorpions like to crawl into a man’s boots at night. The inside of a boot is warm and dark, a perfect hidin’ place for those critters. Always shake out your boot before stickin’ your foot in it. That’ll save you from a nasty bite. At least this mornin’ there was no real harm done.”
“Except scarin’ me out of ten years of my life,” Nate retorted.
“Same here,” Dan added. “And a knot on my head where Nate’s boot hit it. He picked up his blanket and gently shook it. The snake fell out and shot under the bottom of the tent wall.
“Now, see what you did, you two? You scared my pet snake so bad he ran away,” Hoot said. “He was more frightened than y’all were.”
George poked his head in the tent.
“What’s goin’ on in here? Nate, you about ready?”
“Just a little excitement,” Jim said. “Nothin’ to worry about.”
“I’ll be right with you, George,” Nate added. He retrieved his boot, pulled it and its mate on, buttoned his shirt and tucked it in, then jammed his Stetson on his head and headed to help prepare breakfast.
***
Later that morning Nate was in the corral along with Dakota Stevens, who acted as the company farrier. While grooming Big Red that morning, Nate had discovered his horse’s right hind shoe was loose.
“I don’t expect you to be a horseshoer, Nate,” Dakota said as he picked up Red’s foot and inspected it, “but it’s not a bad idea to know how to tack a shoe back on if your horse throws one in the middle of nowhere. I always recommend a man carry a couple of extra shoes, some horseshoe nails, and a hammer in his saddlebags, just in case. Trimmin’ knife, too, and small rasp, if you’ve got the space. Shoe pullers and tongs’d take up too much room, but you can trim a hoof with your pocket knife in an emergency.”
“How about my Bowie knife?” Nate asked.
“Too big. A Bowie’s meant for fightin’, not much else.”
Dakota checked all of Red’s feet.
“Nate, his shoes are pretty worn. I’m gonna replace all four of ’em for you. Won’t be able to hot shoe him like a regular blacksmith, since I’ve got no forge, but they’ll stay on until you get to town, even if that’s a month or two from now.”
“I appreciate that, Dakota. How much am I gonna owe you?”
“Me? Nothin’. But you’ll owe the State of Texas two bucks for the shoes. Cap’n Dave’ll take it out of your pay. Now, you watch close while I get to work.”
Dakota took a pair of hoof nippers and, placing one end on each side of a shoe, clipped Red’s feet until all four shoes were removed.
“You’ve got a good horse here, Nate,” he said. “Lotta horses’ll try to kick a farrier to Kingdom Come. Red’s standin’ nice and calm. Only wish he wouldn’t rest his nose on my back and doze off while I’m bent over workin’ on him. His head’s heavy, and those whiskers tickle.”
“You want me to shave those off?”
“No! You just leave ’em be. A horse needs those whiskers. They help him feel his way if he’s gettin’ into a tight spot, or if there’s somethin’ under the grass where he’s grazin’. Never trim the hair from inside his ears nor bob his tail, neither. The hair helps keep dirt and bugs outta his ears, and his tail’s the only protection he’s got against flies and skeeters. I hate those high-falutin’ folks who bob their carriage horses’ tails, thinkin’ it looks pretty. Poor horse has no way to defend itself from bites and stings. Now watch. I’m gonna trim the excess from Red’s hooves and frogs. You want to remove any dead tissue or excess hoof, but you don’t want to trim too close. You can cripple a horse if you do.”
Dakota took a curved-bladed knife and removed dead tissue from Dakota’s frogs and trimmed the edges of his hooves.
“Now, I’m gonna rasp ’em down nice and even. You want the same length all around.”
He took a large rasp and filed down the hooves.
“Now, we put the shoes on. I’ll hold ’em up to Red’s feet, take ’em and pound ’em with a hammer for a good fit if I have to, then nail ’em on. Watch close when I do that.”
Dakota fitted the first shoe to Red’s left forehoof.
“I generally start with this foot and work my way around. Most riders check their horses’ feet in that order. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now look close. You put the nails in these holes. Drive ’em in like so. You want ’em to come out of the wall just about here.”
Dakota hammered s
ix nails into place.
“Next you turn around, pick up his hoof so it’s in front of you, then bend down the ends of the nails and file ’em smooth, along with the hoof wall.”
Nate watched as Dakota finished the first hoof, then dropped Red’s foot to the ground.
“You think you can handle this? If your horse throws a shoe, either you do or you’ll walk. Can’t chance cripplin’ a good horse for life by ridin’ him with one unshod hoof.”
“Yeah. I think I’ll be able to manage.”
“Good. I’ll finish up here, then you can turn Red loose.”
Andy Pratt wandered up while Dakota was nailing the last shoe in place. Next to Nate and Hoot, he was the youngest Ranger in the company, nineteen years old. He was a redhead, with a smattering of freckles across his face and green eyes which always seemed to have a hint of devilment sparkling in them. He was leading his black gelding.
“Howdy, Nate. Howdy, Dakota.”
“Andy,” Dakota said.
“Howdy yourself Andy,” Nate answered.
“Nate, I’ve been admirin’ that sorrel of yours. Sure is a fine lookin’ animal,” Andy said.
“Thanks, Andy.”
“Por nada. I’d bet he’s real fast, too. Not as fast as Jeb’s paint, of course. Dudley’s the fastest horse in this company, mebbe even in all of Texas.”
“He’s also the most spoiled,” Dakota muttered.
“Boy howdy, that’s for certain,” Andy agreed. “But Nate’s horse, there, looks plenty fast. Only thing is, he’s not as fast as my Diablo here, I’d wager.”
“I dunno,” Dakota said. “This here Big Red looks like a mighty fast horse.”
“He’s still not as fast as my Diablo,” Andy insisted.
“I’d say he is,” Nate answered.
“Only one way to prove it,” Andy replied. “We’d have to race each other. You agreeable?”
“What about Cap’n Dave? Would it be all right with him?”
“Heck, we have horse races all the time. Gives us somethin’ to do while we’re hangin’ around camp. The boys’ll even place bets to make things a bit more interestin’. Not that anyone’d be fool enough to bet on your sorrel. Diablo’ll leave him in the dust. What d’ya say, Nate?”
Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) Page 9