“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.”
“Bullshit, 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 drunk 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 teem 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 nun 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 man 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.
Hot-diggety-damn, this was going to be a fun trip!
14
It rained all the next day. The sky sagged and dripped, and the trailer court was gloomy and sad. I tried sleeping, but after about eleven or so it was useless. I visited with Margaret, but she was drying clothes on a rack in the living room, and the place was steamy and smelled of wet clothes so badly that it made me even more miserable. Then a couple of her coffee-drinking friends came in and started the usual woman talk. There was nothing after that but to go to a tavern and drink beer. Clydine was busy registering for classes until about three or so.
The inside of my car felt damp and clammy as I fired it up, and the windshield fogged over immediately. I drove up the street to the Patio, listening to the hiss of my tires on the wet pavement. The parking lot was sodden and full of puddles. I ran inside to get out of the rain as quickly as possible, and sat down on a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. There were four other guys in the place, all about as dispirited as I was.