“Hey, Danny,” Lou said suddenly, “you pretty fast with that old .45?”
“Oh, I played with it some when I first got it,” I said. “I guess everybody wants to be Wyatt Earp once in his Me.”
“How fast are you?” he insisted.
“God, Lou, I don’t know. I never had any way to time it. I could beat that guy on Gunsmoke — Matt Dillon — you know how he used to draw at the start of the program? I’d let him reach first, and then I’d beat him.”
“Pretty fast,” he said, “pretty fast. Let’s see you draw.” He wasn’t going to let it go.
“Aw, hell, Lou, I haven’t handled that thing for two years. I probably couldn’t even find the gun butt.”
“Go ahead, Dan,” Jack said. “Show us how it’s done. You a gun-fanner?”
I shook my head. “I tried fanning just once — out at the range — and I splattered lead all over the country. That might be all right across a card table, but at any land of range, forget it.”
“Let’s see you draw,” Lou said again, prodding me with his elbow. Once again it was a little harder than necessary.
“Sure, Dan,” Sloane said, “let’s see the old pro in action.”
Now don’t ask me, for Chrissake, why I gave in. I don’t know why. The whole idea of having pistols along had spooked me right from the start, and the more that things had built up between these guys, the less I liked it. In the second place, I don’t like to see a bunch of guys messing around with guns. It’s too easy for somebody to get hurt. What makes it even worse is that this quick-draw shit starts too many people’s minds working in the wrong direction. All things considered, the whole damned business may just have been one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done in my life. I suppose when you get right down to it, it was because that goddamn McKlearey rubbed me the wrong way. He acted like he didn’t believe I knew how to handle the damned gun. The fact that I didn’t like McKlearey was pushing me into a whole lot of decisions lately, it occurred to me.
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 me 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 dunking.” 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.