“Did you see that?” someone asked at the next table.
“Of course I seen it. I was in here when it happened, wasn’t I?”
“He beat Amos Bodine,” the first man said, not to be denied telling the story, even though he was telling it to another eyewitness. “I tell you true, I didn’t think anyone would ever be able to beat Amos Bodine.”
“Hell, he beat Bodine and the man he was ridin’ with.”
“What’s the name of the fella that shot Bodine?” one of the others asked.
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
The sheriff was in the saloon almost before the gun smoke drifted away. He saw the two men lying on the floor. Then he looked over at the table where Smoke was just rejoining Matt with a beer in one hand and Matt’s pop in the other.
“Hello, Sheriff Adams,” Smoke said.
Adams nodded toward the two dead men. “I see you got Bodine and Colby.”
“Colby, huh? I was wondering who it was. I never got the chance to ask him his name,” Smoke answered matter-of-factly.
Adams stared at Smoke for a moment; then he saw the humor of the statement and he chuckled. “Well, it’s too late to make friends now.”
“What were they in town for?” Smoke asked. “Surely they weren’t here just to kill me?”
Adams shook his head. “He just came in today, bringin’ a body for claim. He would’a been gone by tomorrrow once the money come in. If you had waited one more day before comin’ in, you two wouldn’t have run in to each other.”
“If not now, later,” Smoke said. “People like Bodine don’t seem to care much whether the reward poster is still good or not.”
“I reckon not,” Sheriff Adams said. He looked over at Matt, then stroked his chin as he studied him.
“Who’d you say this young man was?” he asked.
“I didn’t say who he was. But he’s my partner,” Smoke said.
“The reason I asked is, I got a letter from the sheriff in Soda Creek. Seems a boy ran away from the Home up there.”
“The Home?”
“The Home for Wayward Boys and Girls,” Sheriff Adams said.
“You don’t say,” Smoke replied. “What about this boy that ran away? What did he do?”
“He ran away.”
“No, I mean, why was he in the Home? Had he stolen from someone?”
“Oh, I don’t know whether he stole anything or not. The letter didn’t say anything about that. It just said that he ran away from the Home.”
“You get a name for the boy that ran away?”
“The sheriff said his name is Matt.”
Smoke chuckled. “You don’t say. Well, now, that is a coincidence. My partner’s name is Matt. But he sure doesn’t belong in a home for wayward boys and girls.”
“No, I reckon not,” Sheriff Adams said.
Smoke looked over at the two bodies. By now, Lennie Holman, the town undertaker, had arrived and was looking at the two men, gauging the size of the coffins he would have to make.
“Are you going to need me for a hearing or anything?” Smoke asked.
Sheriff Adams shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know Bodine, and there’s no doubt in my mind what happened here. Also, there are enough eyewitnesses to give me all the statements I need.”
“Well, if you do need me, Matt and I are going to spend today and tomorrow in town.”
“Enjoy your stay,” the sheriff said. With a final nod, Sheriff Adams left the table, then went over to start talking to the eyewitnesses. There were many who saw it happen, and nearly all were anxious to tell their story.
“I don’t mind telling you, I was a little nervous when you told the sheriff that my name was Matt.”
“I had to tell him,” Smoke said. “Otherwise, I might have tripped up and called you Matt. Best to get that part out in the open.”
“And then when you said I didn’t come from the home, well, I . . .”
“That’s not what I said,” Smoke interrupted.
“What?”
“I didn’t lie. What I said was, ‘My partner’s name is Matt. But he sure doesn’t belong in a home for wayward boys and girls.’ I didn’t say you didn’t come from there.”
Matt chuckled. “No, I guess you didn’t.” Matt turned the sarsaparilla up to his lips, then looked across the table toward Smoke. “You know, someday I hope to be as fast with a gun as you are,” he said.
“Why? So you can kill Payson?”
“No,” Matt said. “I mean, yes, I am going to kill Payson. But that’s not the reason I want to be fast with a gun.”
“What is the reason?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe it is just because I would like to be really good at something.”
Smoke smiled at his young friend. “That’s a good enough reason,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
“And what do you think about this one, young sir?” the gunsmith asked, handing a pistol to Matt. The first place they had gone to after leaving the saloon was a gunsmith shop.
“It’s a beauty,” Matt said, holding the pistol gingerly in his hand as he looked at it. “What kind is it?”
“It is a Model 1861 Colt, manufactured at the Colt firearm factory in Hartford, Connecticut,” the gunsmith replied.
“Take a look at the markings on the gun,” Smoke suggested.
Matt studied the markings. On the barrel was stamped: “Address COL. SAML COLT New York U.S. AMERICA.” The left front side of the frame was marked: “Colts/patent.” The caliber marking, “.36 CAL,” was stamped on the left rear side of the trigger guard.
“You like it?” Smoke asked.
“Yes,” Matt replied.
“We’ll take it,” Smoke said to the gunsmith. “And a gun belt and holster rig.”
“Yes, sir,” the gunsmith said. “Would you like it wrapped, or in a box?”
Smoke looked at Matt and smiled. “I’m sure he would much rather wear it.”
“Yes!” Matt said excitedly. “I would rather wear it.”
“Then, wear it you shall, young sir,” the gunsmith said, selecting a belt and handing it to Matt.
Matt put the belt on, then slipped the gun down into the holster.
“Let’s see your draw,” Smoke suggested.
Matt drew the pistol as fast as he could, and Smoke laughed.
“What is it?” he asked. “What did I do wrong?”
“Let’s start with what you did right,” Smoke said.
Matt smiled. “All right, what did I do that was right?”
“You didn’t drop it,” Smoke said.
“That’s it? I didn’t drop it?”
“That’s it,” Smoke said. “Everything else you did was wrong.”
“Will you teach me?”
Smoke nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
Smoke’s cabin in the Gore Range of Colorado
“When you shot that bounty hunter, that was the fastest draw I ever saw,” Matt said.
“Was it?”
“It sure was,” Matt answered enthusiastically.
“How many fast draws have you seen?”
“Well—uh—I guess that is the only one I’ve ever seen,” Matt admitted.
Smoke chuckled. “Then it isn’t very hard to be the fastest, is it?”
“Are you the fastest?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know,” Smoke replied. “There are some out there who are very fast. Wild Bill Hickock, Payson Allison, Ian MacCallister, Angus Boone.”
“I’ve heard of Hickock, Allison, and MacCallster,” Matt said. “But I’ve never heard of Angus Boone. Who is he?”
“Some people call him the Gravedigger,” Smoke said.
“Is he fast?”
“Very fast,” Smoke said. “And he is one of those rare people who kills for the sake of killing.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“Because he likes killing,” Smoke said.
“Well, I wouldn’t enjoy kil
ling,” Matt said. “But I do want to be fast.”
“Being fast means nothing if you can’t hit what you are shooting at,” Smoke explained. “First thing we have to do with you is teach you how to shoot.”
“I can shoot,” Matt said. “I used to go squirrel hunting back when I was only eight or nine years old. I could hit them too.”
“But you were using a rifle then, right? Or maybe a shotgun?”
“A shotgun,” Matt admitted sheepishly.
“Well, that’s pretty good, but now you have to learn to use a handgun, and that is very different. Are you willing to learn?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Take off your holster and give it to me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you don’t need it right now, and I don’t even want you thinking about it. This is shooting, not fast draw.”
“Whatever you say,” Matt said, unbuckling his gun belt and handing it to Smoke.
“All right, show me what you can do,” Smoke said. Looking around he found a rusty can, then stepped off about thirty yards and placed the can on a rock. “Shoot that can,” he said.
Matt pulled the trigger. The pistol boomed and the bullet kicked up dirt well to the side of the rock where the can was sitting. It ricocheted across the meadow, making a loud whine.
“I missed,” Matt said.
“Try again.”
Matt fired a second time, with the same result.
“Here, let me see what we can do to help,” Smoke said. Putting his hands on Matt’s shoulders, he turned the boy to a position of about forty-five degrees from the target.
“Now, don’t turn your body, but look at the target by turning your head and eyes only.”
Matt responded.
“Bring the pistol up to eye level and sight on the target. Then, close your eyes, raise your pistol and arm straight up, and with your eyes still closed, bring your arm back down until it feels to you as if you are lined up with the target.”
“Like this?” Matt asked, doing as instructed.
“Yes,” Smoke said.
Matt let his arm come back down, then he opened his eyes. He was almost perfectly aligned.
“It’s there!” he said excitedly.
“Good,” Smoke said. “Now, spread your feet apart about the width of your shoulders. Keep your legs straight, but not stiff. Think you can do that?”
Matt tried it a few times, then looked at Smoke. “Yes, I can do it,” he said.
“What are you going to do with your other arm?” Smoke asked.
“I don’t know. What should I do?”
“Forget that it is there. It should be totally relaxed.”
“All right,” Matt said, again responding to Smoke’s instruction.
“Now, again, look at your target by turning your head and eyes slightly without moving from the neck down. Once you are looking at it, raise your pistol so you can sight on the target. You should feel that the pistol is hanging from above, and not that you are pushing it up from below.”
Again, Matt complied with Smoke’s instructions.
“Are you aiming at the target now?”
“Yes.”
“Shoot it.”
Matt pulled the trigger. Again the pistol boomed and the bullet whined, but this time it knocked the can up into the air with a direct hit.
“Hey!” Matt shouted in excitement. “I did it!”
Smoke made Matt practice shooting every day for the next month. Matt was a natural shooter, and he hit the can so many times that, toward the end of his shooting, rather than reset the can, he just continued to shoot it, knocking it about the meadow.
Then, one day, Smoke came out to watch him. He stood there for a few minutes, nodded, then went back into the cabin. When he returned, he was carrying the pistol belt. He handed the holster rig to Matt.
“Put it on,” he said.
“All right!” Matt replied excitedly.
“Empty your gun.”
“Empty it?”
“I don’t want you to shoot yourself in the leg while you are practicing.”
Matt chuckled. “I don’t want to shoot myself in the leg either,” he said as he poked the cartridges out of the revolver. He put the empty gun back into his holster.
“I’m going to show you a draw,” Smoke said. “First, I’ll do it fast, then I’ll do it slow, so you can see what I’m doing.”
Smoke drew his pistol and fired, doing it with such blazing speed that, even though Matt was watching him, he was unable to see the actual draw. He saw only a quick jump.
“Now, I’ll do it slow,” Smoke said.
Smoke eased the pistol from his holster. As he was doing so, his left hand came across his body to fan back the hammer. He pulled the trigger when the gun came in line with the target. The gun had traveled just enough distance to clear the holster.
“You didn’t bring the gun up to aim it,” Matt said.
“No, I didn’t,” Smoke answered. “I aimed before I drew the gun.”
Matt thought for a second, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know that doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I think I know what you mean.”
“Matt, it all comes down to this,” Smoke said. “The time is going to come when you will just think the gun into your hand, and the bullet into your target. The arm, the hand, the trigger finger are no longer there. They are just an extension of your mind. You think draw and shoot, and your mind will draw and shoot the gun for you.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do you think about breathing?” Smoke asked.
“No, I just breathe.”
“Think about breathing.”
Matt took a few breaths, then laughed. “It’s harder when you think about it.”
“When you can draw and shoot a gun the same way you breathe, you’ll be ready,” Smoke said. “Now, let me show you something.”
Smoke emptied Matt’s pistol, and handed it to him. Then he emptied his own gun, checking each chamber in the cylinder again. He put his gun back in his holster.
“Point your gun at me,” Smoke said. “When you see me start my draw, pull the trigger.”
“Ha,” Matt said. “Do you think I’m so slow that you have to give me that much of a head start?”
“Just do it,” Smoke said.
“All right.” Matt raised the pistol and aimed it at Smoke.
Smoke drew his pistol, fanned the hammer, and pulled the trigger before Matt could pull the trigger on his own gun.
“Wait, I wasn’t ready,” Matt said.
“We’ll try it again,” Smoke offered.
They did it several times, and Smoke beat Matt every time.
“How did you do that?” Matt asked.
Smoke chuckled. “Don’t be so impressed,” he said. “It was easy.”
“Because I’m so slow?”
“No. You could be faster than I am, and I would still beat you.”
Matt shook his head. “Wait a minute, that doesn’t make sense. If I was faster than you, how would you beat me?”
“Remember when I said you had to think the gun into your hand?”
“Yes.”
“Thinking about it takes longer than actually doing it,” Smoke said. “See, when you saw me start my draw, you had to think to pull the trigger. But I had already thought about it. I had already thought the gun into my hand.”
“That’s amazing,” Matt said.
“No, it’s just a fact, but it might save your life some day.”
“I see.”
“All right, put your pistol back in your holster and start working on your draw,” Smoke said.
“When can I load my pistol?”
“I’ll let you know when.”
For two weeks, Matt drew and pulled the trigger to an empty pistol. Then Smoke let him start drawing and shooting.
Before the first snow, Matt was good enough to perform a few shooting tricks. With tin cans put on posts that were set fifty
yards apart, Matt stepped halfway between the two. He stood there, his gun in his holster, looking over at Smoke.
“Are you ready?” Smoke asked.
Matt nodded. “I’m ready,” he said.
Smoke held a rock out over a pie pan. Matt watched Smoke’s hand. When Smoke opened his hand to let the rock fall, Matt drew his pistol, shot the can off the post to the right of him, then whirled and shot the can off the post to the left.
After the sound of the second shot, the sound of the rock hitting the pie plate could be heard.
“You got both shots off in under a second,” Smoke said, grinning broadly.
“Is that pretty good?” Matt asked.
Smoke nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That’s very good.”
“How good?”
“What do you mean?”
“How many do you think are faster?”
“It doesn’t matter how many are faster,” Smoke said.
Matt looked confused. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter how many are faster?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Smoke repeated. “There may be some who are faster. There probably are some who are faster. But you have now reached the point to where the speed of your draw is no longer a consideration.”
“What is?”
Smoke sighed, and ran his hand through his hair before he answered.
“I’ve held this for last, Matt. What I’m about to tell you is the final secret of the gunfighter. And, I’m sorry to say, it is a terrible secret.”
“What is the secret?”
“At this level, being fast or accurate is not the differing factor. At this level, everyone is fast and everyone is accurate. But not everyone is willing to kill.”
“What?”
“The average man will pause—hesitate for just a heartbeat—before the pull of a trigger that he knows is going to kill,” Smoke explained. “In a situation like that, the victory goes to the man who will not hesitate.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“I hope you do see,” Smoke said. “Because being able to see and understand that will keep you alive.”
“How do you overcome it?”
“You have one thing going for you,” Smoke said. “You have had it going for you from the beginning, and if you hadn’t had it, I don’t think I would have taught you how to use a gun at all.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Page 10