High Hunt (17 page)

Anyway, I got up and went back into the utility room and got my gun belt. I pulled the wide belt around my waist and buckled it. I was a notch bigger around the belly than I'd been before I went in the Army. Too much beer. I tied the rawhide thong at the bottom of the holster around my thigh and checked the position of the holster. I made a couple of quick passes to be sure I could still find the hammer with my thumb. It seemed to be where I'd left it. I took the gun out of the holster and went back out to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Jack said, “there's the gunfighter. God damn, that gun belt sure looks evil strapped on like that.” Jack was getting a little high again.

“If you start with the gun already out of the holster,” Lou said, “I can see how you could beat Matt Dillon.”

“You want to take a chance on my having forgotten to unload this thing?” I asked him flatly.

“God, no,” Sloane yelped. “For Chrissake don't shoot out my French doors.”

I opened the loading gate, slipped the hammer and rolled the cylinder along my arm at eye level, checking it carefully. I figured I might as well give them the whole show. I snapped the gate shut and spun the gun experimentally a couple times to get the feel of the weight again. Frankly, I felt a little silly.

“Fancy,” Sloane said.

“Just limbering up,” I told him.

“Let's see how it's done,” Lou insisted.

I slipped the pistol into the holster and positioned my hand on the belt buckle.

“Draw!” Lou barked suddenly.

As luck would have it, I was ready, and I found the hammer with my thumb on the first grab. The gun cleared smoothly, and I snapped it about waist high and a little out. It was a fair draw.

“Jesus!” Sloane said blinking.

“God damn!” Jack said. “Just like a strikin' snake.” He was getting a kick out of it.

“Lucky,” I said.

Even Lou looked impressed. Stan grinned. He'd seen this before. God knows how many hours he'd watched me practice when we'd been roommates.

“Do that again,” Jack demanded.

“Why don't I quit while I'm ahead,” I said. “Next time I might not even be able to find the damn thing.”

“No,” he insisted, “I mean do it slow, so we can see how it's done.”

I holstered. “Look,” I said. “You spread out your hand and come back, see? You catch the curve of the hammer on the neck of your thumb, like this. As soon as you hit it, you close in your hand—you cock the gun and grab onto the butt at the same time. Then you pull up and out, putting your trigger finger inside the guard as the gun comes out. You're ready to shoot when it comes up on line. The idea is to make it all one motion.” Silly as it sounds, I was getting a kick out of it. The sullen scowl on McKlearey's face made it all worthwhile.

“You did all
that
just now?” Jack said incredulously. “Shit, if a man was to blink, he'd miss the whole thing.”

“It took a few hours to get it down pat,” I said, doing the tie-down. I'd grabbed a little hard, and my thumb was stinging like hell. I could feel it clear to the elbow. I'd done it OK though, so I figured it was a good time to quit. No point in making a
complete
ass of myself.

“Here,” Sloane said, getting up, “give me some lessons.” He went into the utility room and came out with the Ruger and the new belt and holster. He cinched the belt around his middle.

“Lower,” I said, sitting back down.

He pushed down on the belt. “Won't go no lower,” he complained.

“Loosen it.”

He backed it off a couple of notches. “That's the last hole,” he said.

“It'll do.”

“He looks like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle.” Jack laughed.

“Just keep mouthin' off, Alders,” Sloane threatened, “and I'll drill you before you can blink.” He took on a menacing stance, his hand over the gun butt.

“OK,” I said, “tie it down.”

He grunted as he bent over and lashed the thong around his leg.

“Let's see the gun,” I said. He handed it to me and I opened the loading gate. The pale twinkle of brass stared back at me. I felt a sudden cold hand twist in the pit of my stomach. He must have reloaded it when he put it back in the utility room after we'd been looking them over out in the living room. I should have known this was a mistake. I tipped up the gun, slipped the hammer, and dropped the shells out of the cylinder onto the table, one by one, slowly. They sounded very loud as they hit the table and bounced.

“Shit, man!” Lou said in a strangled whisper.

I picked up one of the shells and looked at the base, “.357 magnum,” I observed in a voice as calm and mild as I could make it. “You could blow the refrigerator right through the wall with one of these.”

Sloane blushed, I swear he did. “I forgot,” he mumbled.

“Or you could knock McKlearey's head halfway down to the bay—beer can and all.”

“All right, I forgot. Don't make a federal case out of it.” Sloane was getting pissed off.

“Well, that's lesson number one,” I said, handing him back the gun. He holstered it.

“Lesson number two. Don't trust anybody when he says a gun is empty. Always check it yourself.” I palmed the shell I was holding.

“But I saw you unload it,” he protested.

“How many bullets on the table?”

He counted and his eyes bulged. He snatched out the gun and checked the cylinder. I dropped the last one on the table.

“Smart ass!” He snorted.

“Never hurts to be sure. Guns are made to kill with. If you're going to play with them, you damn well better be sure they understand. A gun's got a real limited mentality, so
you've
got to do most of the thinking.” Maybe if I could shake them up a little, they'd stop and give the whole business a little thought.

“All right, don't rub it in. What do I do now?”

“Hold your hand about waist high and spread out your fingers.”

“You started from over here,” he objected putting his hand on his belly.

“You can get fancy once you get the hang of it,” I told him.
I talked him through the draw a couple of times. Then he tried it fast and naturally he dropped it on his foot.

“God damn!” he bellowed, hopping around holding the foot.

“Heavy, aren't they?” I asked him pleasantly. “And somehow they always seem to land on your foot.”

He gingerly put his weight on his foot and limped heavily around the room.

“That's called gunfighter's gimp,” I told the others. “Next to the Dodge City Complaint, that's the most common ailment in the business.”

“What's the Dodge City Complaint, for God's sake?” Sloane demanded.

“That's when you start practicing with a loaded gun and blow off your own kneecap.”

“Bull
shit
, too!” He winced. “Not this little black duck.” He started unstrapping the belt. “I'll stick to Indian wrestling. These goddamn things are just as dangerous from the back as from the front.” That's what I'd been trying to tell them.

“Let's see that fuckin' thing,” Lou demanded, getting up. He strapped it on. It hung a little low, but it looked a lot more businesslike on him than it had on Sloane. He went through it slowly a couple times and then began to pick up speed. He was pretty good and not quite as drank as I'd thought.

“Come on, Alders,” he said to Jack, “I'll take you.” He snapped the gun at Jack's head.

God
damn
it, I hate to see somebody do that!

“Come on, shithead,” Jack told him, waving his hand. “Don't point that fuckin' thing at me.”

“Strap on your iron, hen-shit,” Lou said.

“Give me your gun, Dan,” Jack said suddenly. He was about half-drunk, too.

I saw that there was no point in trying to talk them out of it. I stood up, stripped off the belt and handed it to Jack. He strapped it on and tied it down.

“You've got to give me a couple minutes to practice,” he said.

“Sure,” Lou said. “Take as long as you want.”

Jack hooked and drew a few times. He picked it up fairly fast, but I knew he was no match for McKlearey. As I watched him, I noticed for the first time how small my brother's hands were. That .45 looked like a cannon when he pulled it.

“All right, you big-mouth son of a bitch,” he said to Lou. “Somebody call it.”

They squared off about ten feet apart.

“On three,” I said. It might as well be me. I was hoping Jack would win by some fluke. That might quiet things down.

I counted it off, and Lou won by a considerable margin.

“Now I guess we know who's the best man.” He laughed.

“Big deal,” Jack said disgustedly.

Lou snapped the gun at him again. “Back in the old days, you'd be buzzard-bait right now, Alders,” he said. “Well, who's next? Who wants to take on the fastest fuckin' gun in Tacoma?” He stood at a stiff brace, his face fixed in a belligerent leer.

Jack dropped the gun belt back on the table. He was grinding his teeth together. He was really pissed. I knew I should have just let it die, but I couldn't let that bastard get away with it. Goddamn McKlearey rubbed me the wrong way, and I didn't like the way he'd put down my brother. I figured it was time he learned that he wasn't King Shit. I stood up and strapped on the gun.

“Well, well,” he said, “the last of the Alders. I beat you and I'm top gun, huh?”

“That'll be the day,” Stan said quietly.

“You don't think I can?” Lou demanded.

I finished tying down the gun.

“Who's gonna count?” Lou said.

“Never mind the count,” I said. “Just go ahead when you're ready.” I wanted to rub his face in it, and I'd noticed that Lou always squinted when he started to draw. I figured that was about all the edge I'd need.

It was. I had him cold before he got the gun clear. I didn't snap the trigger but just held the gun leveled at his face. He froze and gawked at the awful hole in the muzzle of that .45. I guess Lou'd had enough guns pointed at him for real to know what it was all about. I waited about ten seconds and then slowly squeezed the trigger. The snap of the hammer was very loud.

I spun the gun back into the holster, grinding him a little more. He was still standing there, frozen in the same place. He was actually sweating, and his eyes had a weird look in them.

“And that about takes care of the fastest gun in Tacoma,” I said, and I took off my gun belt.

Lou tried to get Sloane or Stan to draw with him, but they weren't having any. Sloane and I put our guns away, and I figured we'd gotten past
that
little shit-pile. These guys weren't
kidding, empty guns or no. I think we were
all
starting to slip a few gears.

“I can still outhunt you bastards,” Lou said, his voice getting shrill again.

“You'll have to prove that, too,” Jack said.

“Don't worry, I'll prove it,” Lou said. “Any bet you want. First deer, biggest deer, longest shot. You name it, and I'll beat you at it.” He was pissed off now. He'd been put down, and no Marine can ever take that. What was worse, he knew I could do it again, any time I felt like it. Even that might help keep things under control. If he knew I'd be there and I could take him if I had to, it might just keep his mind off the goddamn guns.

“Hey, there's an idea,” Sloane said. “Best deer—using
Boone and Crockett
points—the other guys pitch in and buy him a fifth of his favorite booze.”

“Why not a jug from each guy?” Lou said. “I can drink one jug in an afternoon.”

“All right,” Jack said. “One jug of Black Label from each guy, OK?”

“Why not?” Stan said.

“Sure,” I agreed.

Sloane shrugged. Money didn't mean that much to him.

“And a little side bet, too,” Jack said. “Just between you and me, Lou. Ten bucks says I get a better deer than you do.” I don't think he'd have made the bet if he'd been sober.

“You got it,” Lou said. “Anybody else want a piece of the action?” He looked around.

“I'll cover you,” Stan said. I looked at him quickly. His face was expressionless. “Ten dollars. Same bet.” What the hell was this? I suddenly didn't like the smell of it. Stan didn't make bets—ever. How much did he know anyhow?

“You got it,” Lou said. “Anybody else.” He looked at me. I looked back at him and didn't say anything. I didn't have anything to prove—I didn't have a wife.

Sloane opened another round of beer, and we drifted off into talking about the trip and hunting in general.

“I think I'd better go,” Stan said. “I've got classes tomorrow, and it's going to be a long night tomorrow night.”

“You got a point, Stan,” Jack said.

“Don't forget our fuckin' bet, Larkin,” Lou said. He went into the utility room and came back with that M & P .38 strapped on. He stood in the kitchen, snatching the gun out of
the holster and putting it back. “Take that, you motherfucker,” he muttered, jerking out the pistol and snapping it. I had a vague feeling it was me he was talking to.

Sloane, Jack, and I went with Stan to the front door.

“That McKlearey and I don't get along too well,” he said as he went out.

“Don't feel like the Lone Ranger, Stan,” Jack said. “I got a gutful of that bastard already, and we ain't even left yet.”

“Maybe we can push him off a cliff,” I said.

“
After
he's paid his share of the guide fee.” Sloane giggled.

Stan went on out to his car, and the rest of us went back into the house.

“Son of a
bitch
!” Lou's voice came from the kitchen. We trooped in, and he stood there with blood dripping onto the tiles from a gash in his left hand. The stupid bastard had been trying to
fan
that double-action .38.