Whiskey When We're Dry

by John Larison

  We disembarked. The leaves of a thick cottonwood clattered in the wind. The senator placed his hand on my shoulder and hollered orders to the well-dressed black at the door.

  Boots appeared under the arched doorway and I saw then a tall and thick-shouldered gunman in the same duster and black hat as the others. But I recognized this one as the man from the picture in the paper, the shooter who so held the Governor’s attention.

  The man stared on me as he put in a plug and positioned it proper in his cheek. He wore twin Peacemakers with pearl handles and silver metal and not a patch of rust. When he drew them later I’d see the one on the right hip had a cut-short barrel so it might clear the holster in quicker time. The one on the left hip had a longer barrel for better work at distance. The guard’s eyes did not flinch from me.

  “Am I pretty to you or something?”

  The senator said, “Oh, I do enjoy banter between the fighters!”

  The gunman spat. “You carry a load of earnest considering you’re but a half-pint of a man.” His voice was deep and as seasoned as his eyes. I will admit he reminded me some of Pa. The thought put me in silence.

  The guard enjoyed my hesitation.

  Disappointment arrived now because I had lost the momentum and revealed to him that I was young in the manly arts of bullying. That would be a deficit I could not overcome. And so I decided then to bend it to my advantage. I didn’t look to him again but to my feet. I played the part, which is all manly games ever is.

  The senator had noticed my loss and was on the cusp of saying something when we heard a great number of feet on the marble floors of that palace. There before us come the Governor himself.

  I knew him from the photographs I’d seen in newspapers and campaign posters and I will admit the man in person was commanding of attention. On his lip was a bountiful moustache matched only by his thick sideburns. He had two inches on the next-tallest man and a full foot on me. He was thick throughout but not weighty and he walked with a speed uncommon among men with gray hair. The step from the stone porch did not slow him, he didn’t even glance down, just took it in stride.

  “Is this your man?” he asked the senator. His voice was rich like gravy and I wanted at once for him to approve of me. “He is liable to blow away.”

  The Governor shook his son-in-law’s hand but his eyes never left me. “What’s your wager then, Reginald?”

  “I will wager,” the senator looked upon me with new eyes, “two hundred dollars.”

  The Governor snapped his fingers. “To the range then. Brandy this time, Charles.”

  We walked all of us at the Governor’s pace and the senator hopped his steps to keep up.

  I was back some from my competition and I saw now the shooter walked with a rider’s limp and carried his shoulders with some unease. He worked out his fingers as he walked. Age was stiffening him, as it had Pa.

  We crested a small edge in the topography and I could see across a well-used firing range. A younger black they called Will was sent at a run to deliver two white plates into the dirt of the bank. I thought his fine cloth to be a queer sight among the sage.

  The Governor hollered, “Enough, Will. Place them some distance apart.” It would be a distance of ninety-five paces. I had counted Will’s steps as he traveled. I confirmed them as he returned. The plates faced us from the dirt wall. The wind had built up gusts with the resources to lift my hat. Bullet drift would be a factor.

  It was not a situation I would’ve selected for myself. But it was a situation I had practiced since my girlhood.

  The shooter spat at my feet. Out of strategy I turned my eyes down. If I played the timid he would continue to underestimate me.

  The shooter pulled back his duster and hooked it over his holsters. The fingers of his right hand danced over his sidearm.

  Will took up a stack of plates and come to stand between us shooters. There was little communication between him and the guard or the Governor or anyone else for that matter and so I knew this was a game they had played often. In the dirt before us was the shards of a thousand shot plates.

  “My boy here, upon a timing of his choosing, will wing a plate downrange,” the Governor called. Men was accumulating along the periphery behind him, taking positions on the hill above. I turned behind me and saw the girl with the divided skirts watching. She was being addressed by an older man in a rounded hat but she seemed to be paying no attention to him at all. She seemed to be paying attention only to me.

  “Another plate will be released before the first has landed and you will fire upon that one as well. Then you will take aim downrange on the stationary target. You will have three shots and three shots only. A fourth will disqualify you. He who destroys the most plates wins. In the event of a tie, we will move on to a second game with a doubled wager. Did I leave anything out, boys?

  “Reginald,” the Governor addressed my patron, “care to conduct the coin toss?”

  “It would be my honor.” The senator removed from his pocket a single piece of gold. He said, “The home man calls it in the air.” I was spellbound by the auburn color fluttering up against the desert evening.

  “Tails.”

  The senator caught it. “Tails it is.”

  All eyes looked to the Governor. He nodded to his shooter.

  My competitor said, “He goes first.”

  I felt the weight of their eyes on me. I had never before held the attentions of the sober and wealthy.

  The how shapes the what, and good shooting comes from good form. So I did as I always do. I stretched my hand and lifted my pistol to check its weight. I rolled my shoulders and settled my mind with even breaths. Hunger rumbled through my abdomen and my focus come into keen attention. The entire galaxy existed downrange of my position.

  Will lifted a plate from the crate of them and I saw then the fine design on its middle. Such plates I’d never before eaten from and here I was about to bust one. Will twisted with the plate held flat in his hand and come forward in speed.

  The plate didn’t travel up as I expected but rather out and away and soon began to plane to the right. I was following and unsure of the trajectory on account of that turn, but I could see the black blur of the design in the plate’s middle as my sights passed it and bucked.

  The plate was dust.

  The next one was already in flight and already banking. It wasn’t open to me as the first one had been, it was maintaining its thinnest profile. The pistol erupted and I was blinded by the smoke that drifted back into my face. I heard the gasps of the viewers behind and so I knew I had hit.

  I leveled the old Colt on the distant plate and exhaled half a breath. I fired too soon, I knew that, and I saw the dirt implode at the bottom of the plate and it rolled free and disappeared into the gulch. I had an excess of confidence after the initial success.

  Everyone clapped. It was the most civilized sound I ever heard. It did little to alleviate my regret at missing. I’d come all this way only to miss.

  The Governor proclaimed, “Fine shooting!” Then in a changed voice he said to my competition, “Be true, Drummond. Be true.”

  The plate rose up and hovered there for him and he easily knocked it to the earth. The second was caught in a gust and banked hard and his shot was behind it.

  I could barely contain my relief.

  He brought up his second hand to steady the pistol and took a long aim downrange. His bullet fractured the upper half of the plate.

  The clapping commenced.

  “A draw then,” the senator said. “How lovely. We now double our wagers.”

  Will erected a metal apparatus some thirty paces away, placed four plates within the space of a man’s chest, a fifth where the man’s face would be, and a sixth where his genitals would hang. This contraption was lowered to the ground.

  This time Drummond would be shooting fir
st. He readied himself. I was pouring powder and jamming balls. The spectators behind could be heard snickering at my old-timey ways. “Rustic, isn’t he?”

  The Governor’s voice called over the field. “The pistol must remain holstered until the target hinges up. The shooter has a three count to unload his shots. He who breaks the most plates is the victor.”

  Will stood a distance behind us, a string dangling in his hand. “Are you ready, sir?”

  Drummond nodded.

  Before Will pulled the string he braced and I heard gravel beneath his boot.

  Up come the targets and four of them went to dust. The audience commenced its clapping.

  Drummond cursed. He wanted more busted.

  I was impressed. A three count is no time at all to release six shots and he had done so with time to spare. His misses had been near.

  Quick shooting is a different skill. The pistol is held at navel level, where it can be fired faster. The right hand holds the aim while the left is made to work the hammer. In practice the shooter must always hold the pistol in the same manner and at the same elevation, and true mastery only comes to those who can reckon distance to the foot. As with any shooting skill muscles must be built. I had earned coarse calluses from my hours working the heavy-hammered Colt.

  At the sound of gravel under the man’s boot I drew.

  I didn’t fire at the plates. I fired at the bend of cursive in the design at their center. The first two shattered clean, then my confidence sent a wide miss. I recovered from the surprise and destroyed a third and fourth, then rode the recoil up the face and felt the revolver jump at the shot. The fifth plate wobbled but did not fall.

  The audience gasped.

  It was the Governor himself who marched downrange. He took the plate from its position and a smile come over his face. He walked back toward us. I was sure I had missed.

  “Another doubling of wagers then?” asked the senator. “Not that it’s a problem.”

  The Governor tossed me the plate. I caught it and saw a chip in the rim the size of a pinkie nail. Only the scarcest edge of my bullet had made contact.

  “The day belongs to the kid,” the Governor announced.

  The audience rumbled. When the Governor clapped they did too.

  Drummond spat.

  I worried this victory would put me at odds with the Governor, seeing as I had just cost him four hundred dollars. But his arm come around me and he offered a cigar. He asked, “Now tell me, son. Where did you complete your tutelage?”

  I took his cigar. “My what?”

  “From whom did you learn the fine art of shooting?” He snapped his fingers and Will touched a match to my tobacco. I had never had a cigar before and so began to cough.

  “There now, son. Take a breath, but not of the smoke.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “The name of your mentor then?”

  “My pa.” It was one of the few questions he would ask that I could answer honest. “He was a sharpshooter in the war.”

  “And so you know the long guns?”

  Drummond said, “Son of a Yank.”

  “Oh, leave the kid be,” the Governor said to Drummond. “This isn’t about your old war. He wasn’t even alive then.” He took his arm from me and offered Drummond a cigar too. “Don’t fret, old boy. Our history is long and gloried.” Drummond walked away and left the Governor to return the cigar to his pocket. “He will recover. Son, tell me you know the long guns?”

  “I know the Sharps. I don’t know the Spencer.”

  “Or the Winchester then, I take it,” the Governor said. “You must join me for a meal. Will you?”

  I was fluttering now. He was a leader of men and the high officer of the state and here I was a counterfeit before him. “I am most interested in joining your employment, sir. That’s why I come.”

  He gripped my shoulder in his thick hand and smiled. “Join me for supper and we’ll discuss the rest.”

  * * *

  —

  In a house as high and mighty as the Governor’s, a man don’t just eat in his day clothes. I was given a suit of fine wool to wear and a bath was poured. The attendant stood rigid in the corner holding a bar of soap in his open hand. He was waiting on me to undress.

  “I ain’t likely to need no help with this business.”

  “Of course, sir.” He set the soap on the edge of the tub and bowed his head and spun on a heel and pulled shut the door behind him.

  The door didn’t have a lock to turn so I shed my coat and rolled it tight and wedged it into the crack of the door with little confidence it would hold. I checked the view from the window and then pulled the curtains until they overlapped. I waited and listened. Finally I give in and unbuttoned my shirt and slid free of my trousers.

  I shed the old shirt I had doctored to hold tight my nubs. It was rank now with sweat and grim. I took the soap to it and ground the fibers against the edge of the tub. Wasn’t no washboard but it did remove some stink. I rinsed the cloth and then set it upon the windowsill where the sun might beat on it.

  I held my chest with my hands. My nubs had withered on my journey. I felt too my hips where they punched at the skin barely holding them in. There was a small oval mirror but I didn’t dare look in it.

  The water went brown at once upon my entrance. I took the soap to my skin and lathered and rinsed. I worked fast on account I was sure some fool would burst in any moment.

  When I rose from the water and toweled, my eye caught the glass of whiskey waiting on the bureau. The attendant had left it before I asked him off. I took it up and held it in the light and smelled it. I swallowed the contents down like any man would do. I had tasted whiskey before but this was my first introduction to its effects.

  At once the drink amplified the charms of my present situation. I pulled on the old shirt even though it wasn’t all the way dry. Then I dressed in the attire they left me and laughed instead of gagged at the pinch of the collar. I took up the whiskey glass and waited on the last drop to touch my tongue, and then I turned the mirror so I might see my face in it.

  I blinked at the sight.

  The wounds to my cheek was a shock. Three straight lines, one along the next, each as long as a finger. They was red but not oozing. I would never be free of them.

  My hair was short and uneven and looked fitting of a cowhand who trims it by knife alone. I used the scissors on the bureau to even what was left.

  Then I stood there before myself.

  My eyes had sunk into my face and built an armor of glass between them and the world and I wasn’t even sure of their color no more but for the red about their centers. I worried my brother would not recognize me. I barely recognized my own self.

  All this time I had understood myself to be the same girl who dwelled with Pa them years at home, only now in hiding. But my eyes. Them eyes didn’t belong to that girl, and there wasn’t no pretending otherwise.

  It is the burden of the survivor to wake one day and discover in yourself a stranger.

  * * *

  —

  A black led me up to the middle level of the house and along a glorious table of white finery and crystal and china and drew out a chair near the head. I knew enough to wait for the Governor himself to sit beside me and then I began to sit and felt the attendant slide the chair forward. I thanked him.

  Across the table from me and beside Senator Reginald Scott was the girl with divided skirts. Except now she wore a dress the color of a trout’s side. She was introduced to me as Constance. She said, “You are new to such tables.”

  “I am, ma’am. Hope that ain’t too obvious.”

  “To Mr. Jesse Straight,” the Governor proposed. He held his drink high and all others at the table did the same. I was surprised to see so many faces, most of them men, all of them near on the Governor’s age. “A
prodigy who has yet entered his prime.”

  Drummond was not present, nor did I see a place set for him.

  Around us the black help was dressed in formal attire. The old one I’d come to know as Charles stood in the corner. He too was about the Governor’s age. Will, who had run the plates out on the range, appeared with a platter and brought it first to the Governor, who waved it off, and then to Constance. She looked upon the platter and then up to Will and said something so quiet I couldn’t hear. Will moved along to the senator.

  “We have found with great trial and error, mostly error, that the best help remains the freed slave,” the Governor was speaking to me in private tones. “This father and son we imported from the estate of a Virginia planter turned secessionist turned corpse. Today the Negro, who has just witnessed the closing of the seas upon his old masters, finds himself burdened by the boundlessness that is his freedom. And so it is the Christian duty of the established and capable to build a system of merciful employment for the freedmen, one that recalls the firm walls and narrow gates of his earlier existence but still pays proper homage to his equatorial dignity. Here we pay them a fair wage and offer them quarters fitting of English attendants. If we were to advertise, we would be overrun with similar men. I have put their bucks to great use in my camps. They swing a pick as if their very lives depend upon it. A charming attribute in a workingman, you must agree.”

  He smiled. His face was deep wrinkled around his eyes and his skin wore sun bruises. His hands was thick and well calloused and more powerful than mine would ever be. He might’ve been the leader of men but he was no stranger to hard labor himself. I reckon he was downright fancy to gander at in a former decade.

  Constance was entertaining a whisper from her fiancé. She had never worked chores in the dead of winter or sat alone by a fire worrying on her missing pa. She giggled and pulled a tendril of hair from her cheek with a pinkie. I wondered if I had been born into this house would I possess her charms, or was they straight from the Lord and so would’ve found her even in a hovel beside a shallow lake.