by Gary Church
“That was pretty impressive,” Adelia called, “but I can do the same with a half-dollar.”
“Can you?” Jack said. “I think I’ll have to ask you to prove it. Right, ladies and gentlemen?”
More applause.
The assistant tossed Adelia a shiny fifty-cent piece, which she held high.
“Show ’em what you’ve got, Miss Flynn,” a fan shouted.
Effortlessly, Adelia tossed the half-dollar, drew her revolver, and fired. Her bent coin went to a young boy in the front row on the opposite side of the audience.
“How about a quarter?” Jack challenged. “I’ll go first.”
Hands on her hips, Adelia said, “If you really want to challenge me, then why don’t we make it a dime?”
Jack stood there rubbing the back of his neck while murmurs rippled through the crowd. At last, he said, “Can even the talented Adelia Flynn do that?”
“I believe I can.”
“Then, by all, means . . . ” He extended his hand and took a few steps back.
Adelia marched to another section of the audience and asked whether anyone had a dime they could lend her. A rotund fellow in a gray suit was only too eager to offer her one from his pocket. She thanked him politely and returned to the center of the performance area.
The snare drummer from Wheatley’s Cowhand Brass Band commenced a tension-enhancing drumroll.
Adelia tossed the dime high, drew her Colt revolver again, and took the shot. The assistant caught the now-bent dime and returned it to the overstuffed fellow in the gray suit.
Jack held his arms wide. “My apologies, Miss Flynn. I did not think that shot was possible.”
“I dare you to try it,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
Jack feigned reticence. But at the urging of the audience, which only escalated when Adelia folded her arms and smiled as though she doubted Jack could match her skill, he gave in.
He shook his head, extracted a dime from his own pocket, and attempted to match Adelia’s feat—and missed.
With an immediate, deep theatrical bow to Adelia, Jack brought the charmed audience to its feet for a prolonged ovation.
The program then drew to a close with a boisterous and colorful display of all sorts of riding and roping skills and tricks by dozens of cast members.
Cimarron Jack Wheatley made a final circuit of the arena, smiling, waving his hat, and thanking the fine people of St. Louis. As he rode, he again scoured the audience, convinced that he’d spot the faces of his competitors, James and Loftus Stilton. But they were nowhere to be seen.
He left the pavilion perplexed. Here for the parade but not for the performance. What, if anything, did that mean?
Cimarron’s Law
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