Page 12 of The Pursuit of Elena Bradford

12

“Mr. Perkins, as the challenger, you can draw a straw.” Dr. Graham held out his hand with two straws sticking up between his thumb and forefinger. “Short straw shoots first.”

Perkins pulled the short straw. “I’ll make quick work of this.” As he stepped up to the line, he peered over at Kirby. “Watch how it’s done by an expert, artist man. Maybe you will learn something.”

“I can hope so.” Kirby kept his voice mild.

He looked around at the men watching. It would be best if they thought he had simply accepted the challenge for the fun of the competition. He spotted General Dawson. That old man could have probably given him some good tips. Madeline Southworth’s father had his eyes fixed on Kirby. Win or lose, he might make some points with him. Even Sanderson had come forward to show interest.

Perkins laughed, but his bluster seemed forced as the timer counted off the seconds before he shouted “Start.” A little powder spilled as the man poured it into the muzzle. His fingers appeared to have a tremble when he positioned the patch and the ball on the muzzle’s opening before he rammed it home. Last, he poured a bit of powder in the flashpan, pulled back the cock, and positioned the gun against his shoulder.

His first shot went wide. The targets shivered in the slight breeze across the range. Beads of sweat popped out on the man’s face as he loaded again. This time the shot pinged into the target. The third shot did as well, but the final shot he got off just as the man called time was high. Some of the men groaned. A few laughed.

Perkins’s face went red. “Two out of four is better than most of you can do.”

Kirby stepped up to the firing line. The rifle felt as though it belonged in his hands. He was surprised at how his muscles remembered the moves to load and fire the same as when he was hunting for food on the western trip. Then, it was a matter of eating meat or corn pones. A man had to be quick to stop a jackrabbit in its tracks.

The powder flashed up a puff of smoke on the first shot. The ping of the ball hitting the metal target sounded good. He breathed in the smell of powder as he loaded again. The smoke drifted away as he aimed and fired again. Another satisfying ping. The rifle was really a sweet piece.

As if to remind him not to get too cocky, on the third load, the powder in the pan flashed but didn’t set off the shot. Kirby poured more powder in the pan, set the full cock again, and pulled the trigger. The gun fired this time and another target pinged.

For the first time, he noticed the men yelling behind him as he loaded for the last shot. He’d won already. He didn’t even have to take the last shot. He had no doubt he could hit the target again, but he needed to let most of these men think they could outshoot him. Even Perkins, who would find an excuse for missing the target twice.

Kirby hadn’t wanted to lose. A five dollar note in his pocket was nothing to sneeze at, but perfection wasn’t necessary. Better for the men around him to feel generous when he did a portrait of them or their wives and daughters. Kirby let the rifle dip slightly. The shot went low.

A few cheers went up, along with some groans from those who must have lost their wagers.

Kirby ignored them as he handed the rifle back to Dr. Graham. “A fine piece. Thank you for letting me fire it. Would you like me to clean the barrel?”

“No, no. I’ll see to it.” The doctor stroked the carving on the rifle’s stock. “You appear to be a man of many talents, Frazier. Handling horses. Marksmanship. Painting.”

“Each of those just takes a confident hand,” Kirby said.

“And skill.” A slight smile slid across Dr. Graham’s face as he went on. “A shame you missed the last shot.”

“Such happens. I suppose my lack of practice showed. My arms tired.” Kirby rubbed his arms.

“Or you deliberately dipped the barrel.” The doctor’s eyes sharpened on him.

Kirby looked around to be sure no one was listening before he shrugged. “Or that.”

“Another talent, I suppose. Reading the feel of the men around you.”

“Knowing the mood of my subjects is always helpful when I’m doing a portrait.” He wasn’t sure if the doctor thought that was a good talent or one to guard against, but he met the man’s gaze without flinching. “And a talent that I have no doubt you share, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, such can be useful in the medical profession to treat a patient’s ills and anxieties. And in keeping my guests happy here at the Springs. Be sure you keep doing that, Frazier.” Dr. Graham smiled broadly then as he slapped Kirby on the shoulder. “Looks like Perkins is coming to pay up.”

“Going first is always bad in a shooting match,” Perkins grumbled as he handed Kirby a bank note. “I think I might have been hoodwinked with you using the doctor’s rifle. He always has the best. You do know he’s the nation’s champion offhand rifle marksman.”

“I’m not surprised. I saw him shooting a couple of days ago.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t get too full of yourself and challenge him. We, the Boone Club, sent out a notice all across the country promising ten thousand dollars to any challenger who could beat him. Nobody even dared try.”

“Smart of them.” Kirby folded the money and put it in his pocket. “I can still do a portrait for you.”

“One of me losing to you?” The man shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“In a portrait, the rest of the story after the pose can go any way you want it to go.”

“True enough. But I best wait until I get over the sting of letting an artist man outshoot me.” He did have the grace to smile slightly. “But tell you what. I can send my wife around, or even better, my niece. My brother says she needs something to cheer her up. She’s been drooping around ever since they got here. Some kind of romantic troubles, but when did girls that age ever have anything else?”

“What’s her name?”

“Wynona.”

“Tell her to hunt me up.” Kirby went back to his easel and picked up his paintbrush. “I’m ready to use my weapon of choice any time.”

The men went back to taking turns at the target until the air was full of smoke and the smell of powder. None of them came over to pose for him or to ask him to sketch them shooting. So Kirby gave up on the paints and sketched the whole scene with pencils and chalk. He picked out a few men to include.

Perkins, of course. And Dr. Graham in his shooting stance. He drew in Sanderson before he slipped away from the group. If the man he’d argued with ever joined the men, Sanderson showed no sign of it. Nor did any other man look uneasy around him. None of his concern, Kirby reminded himself as he began packing up his things when the men started to drift away to other pursuits. No doubt to chairs in the shade on the hotel’s veranda.

General Dawson stepped up behind him to survey the sketch on his easel.

“You do all right with your pen and pencil too.” The old man pointed toward the likeness of himself in the drawing. “You could have made me look younger.”

“A true man embraces his years and the wisdom he’s gained and the adventures seen,” Kirby said.

“Hmm.” General Dawson stepped back and studied the drawing a moment before he said, “If C.C. doesn’t want this, I’ll buy it from you if you’re done with it.”

“This is only a sketch. It needs some finishing up, some shading here and there.” Kirby pointed with his pencil to places on the sketch. “I could copy it on a millboard canvas for something more lasting than a paper sketch.”

“You do that, son, and I’ll hand over the money I made on you today. A tidy little sum. Seems most of the men thought backing Perkins was a sure thing.”

“I admit to being surprised anybody was willing to take their wagers.”

“The men wanted to put their money down. Made it more exciting for them. Me letting them win some money was my contribution to the fun. Have to admit I didn’t think I’d be collecting any winnings, but that didn’t keep me from calling in the bets.” The old man laughed.

“That explains it. I wondered who would bet on the artist.”

The general eyed him. “Now that I’ve talked to you, I’m thinking it might never be smart to bet against the artist. There’s more to you than a paintbrush and a pencil.”

“I don’t know about that. From the time I was a kid, I’ve never wanted to do anything except capture pictures.” Kirby closed the sketchbook and folded up his easel.

“Could be other men ready to challenge you to shooting matches.”

“I’d have to turn them down. Too much chance of an accident with the powder blowing up and taking off a finger.” Kirby held his hands up and flexed his fingers. “I don’t aim to do any more shooting unless I get hungry and need a rabbit for my dinner.”

“Then it could be you shouldn’t have missed that last shot. Made you look beatable.”

“Everyone is beatable.” Kirby smiled. “Except, I hear, Dr. Graham.”

“You have the truth there. C.C. doesn’t miss.” The general gave him a look. “Unless it’s on purpose, the way you did. You should join the army and use your skills for the country.”

“Not unless they need an artist.” Kirby laughed and picked up his supplies.

When he started away, the general stayed in step with him. “Tell me. C.C. says you came in on the stage with those Bradford ladies.”

“I did.” The change in topic surprised Kirby.

“What did you think of them? I’ve always been of the opinion that a man can tell a lot about the people he spends hours with on a stagecoach.”

“I was only in the coach a little while. I rode up with the jehu most of the way.”

“I heard about that too. The runaway horses. But the women. Did they fall apart when the stagecoach was bouncing around?”

“The mother and the younger sister did some praying, I think.”

“A good time for prayer. Those coaches turn over, things can go bad.” The old man nodded. “The older sister wasn’t praying?”

“I couldn’t say for sure. She might have been.”

“Screaming?” The general pitched out the word quietly as he stared down at his feet.

Kirby gave him a curious look, but he didn’t see any reason not to answer. “I heard some shouts and screams. Nothing more than expected. I might have squeaked out a few alarms myself. But I couldn’t say who was doing what since I was out of the coach trying to stop the horses by then.”

“I see.” The general slowed down his pace as he stared down at his feet.

Kirby slowed beside him. “What makes you ask?”

The man looked up at him with a smile. “Well, it’s like this. My wife died a couple of years ago. I’m thinking on recruiting some company for my final years.”

“You have someone in mind? One of those ladies?” Kirby’s heart jolted at the thought it might be Elena, and who else would it be? Ivy wasn’t much more than a child. He might need to get his bid in first with Elena, but surely she wouldn’t agree to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather.

“Just surveying the battlefield. Never good to head unaware into an ambush.”

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Kirby said.

“Never been anything else. You get that painting done, I’ll hand over my winnings. Haven’t counted it yet, but wouldn’t be surprised if it tops what Perkins gave you.”

“Do you want me to make you look younger?”

“Draw it the way you see it, son. That’s always the best way.” The old soldier smiled before he turned down a different path and left Kirby behind.