“I never stole anything from anybody,” Shanaghy protested. “That I know, bye. That I know. I’ve had my eye on you, boy. Honest men are hard to find. Not many of them amongst my lot.”
Morrissey took a slip of paper from his pocket. “Take this. You go along down to this address and give them this. I’ll send a man along who will teach you to shoot. Practice all you like, and when you’re good enough we’ll let you win some money for us, shooting with customers.”
The shooting gallery was on the Bowery amid dozens of other such establishments, pawnbrokers’ shops, third-class hotels, dance houses, saloons, cheap clothing stores. Up near Prince Street was Tony Pastor’s Opera House, and further down the street the Old Bowery Theater. In between was all manner of vice, trickery, and swindling, a scattering of beggars and pickpockets alert for the unwary. At five cents a shot, there were prizes to be won-twenty dollars to anyone who could hit a bull’s-eye three times in succession, and knives to be given to anyone who could hit a bull’s-eye once. There was a trumpeter who, if struck in the heart, gave vent to a frightening blast on his trumpet. Shanaghy liked the noise and confusion. Many of the sharpers he knew by sight or by name, and the same with the girls who paraded themselves along the street. On the third morning an old man walked up to the shooting gallery. He was a lean, wiry old man with white hair and cool gray eyes. “How much for a shot?” “Five cents … Twenty dollars if you hit the bull’s-eye three times.”
The old man smiled. “And how many times can I win the twenty?” Shanaghy started to say, “As many times as you … “ Suddenly he hesitated, warned by the amused look in the old man’s eyes. “Once,” he said. “If you hit it three times.”
“Down the street,” the old man said, “they let me win three times.”
“Nine bull’s-eyes?” Shanaghy grinned. “You’re puttin’ me on.”
The old man took up a pistol and placed three five-cent pieces on the counter. “I’m good for business, young fellow.” He placed another fifteen cents on the counter. “Six shots in here?” he asked mildly, and before he finished the words he fired. His first shot hit the trumpeter who let go with a piercing blast. People stopped and stared. Instantly, he fired again, another blast.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll win my breakfast money.”
Without even seeming to look or to care, he fired three bullets dead center into the main target. “There … I’ll take your twenty.” Shanaghy paid it out while people crowded around. “You got easy targets, boy. Never picked up an easier twenty in my life!” He half turned toward those gathered around. “I don’t see how he can afford to operate. That’s the easiest twenty I ever picked up!”
The man turned away, winking at Shanaghy. “I’ll be back, son, when I need more money.”
Men crowded to the counter, eager for a chance. For over an hour he was busy loading guns and handing them to customers. Once the trumpet sounded and a street-boy won a knife. It was good business, but Shanaghy kept thinking back to the old man … He had never seen anybody shoot like that, without even seeming to aim. The man just glanced at the target and fired … It was uncanny. On the third day the same man returned and walked up to the counter, when there was nobody around. “Howdy, son. I’m short of cash.” Shanaghy, who found himself liking the old man, said, “I expected you sooner.” “You did, did you? Well, son, it don’t pay to kill the goose. All I want’s a livin’, an’ you fellows can give it to me. Costs me only twenty, thirty dollars a week to live well enough to suit me, and I can pick up that much at one stop. There’s fourteen shootin’ galleries along the Bowery, an’ I call on each of you ever’ two weeks. This time I needed some extry.” He paused. “Down the street I don’t even have to take up a gun. They know I can do it, so they just pay me.”
“Not me,” Shanaghy grinned at him. “I like to see you shoot. I never knew anybody could shoot like that.”
“Where I come from, son, you’d better be able to shoot.”
“How come you’re back here? Too much for you out there?” The man’s eyes chilled. “Ain’t too much for me anywhere, son. I got me a sister back here. I come to visit, but there ain’t nothing I can do back here but shoot. I punch cows some, yonder. And I was a Texas Ranger for a spell-have to make a livin’ somehow. Then I found these here shootin’ galleries. I don’t want to make it hard for any of you, so I sort of scatter myself around.” “Come here whenever you’re of a mind to,” Tom said. “You’re good for business, and I like to see you shoot. I’d give aplenty to shoot like that.” “A body needs a mite of teachin’ and a whole lot of practice. You got to get the feel for it first.”
The old man put both hands on the counter. “This here is an easy livin’ for me. My pa used to give me four or five ca’tridges an’ I was expected to bring back some game for each loading, else he’d tan my hide for being wasteful. When it’s like that, you get so’s you don’t waste much lead. You don’t shoot until you’re sure of your target and you make sure you don’t miss. “It was like that for most youngsters growin’ up along the frontier. Their pa’s were generally busy with farm work or whatever, so if they ate it was the meat the boys shot … or sometimes the girls. We had a neighbor girl could outshoot me with a rifle, but the pistol was too heavy for her.” “You didn’t ever miss?”
“Oh, sure! There for a while I got my hide tanned right often.”
“You never miss here.”
“At this distance? How could I? A man gets to know his gun. Each one is somewhat different, some shootin’ high’ and to the right, some low an’ left. You got to estimate and allow.
“But a man who knows guns, he wants the best, so he just naturally swaps and buys until he gets what he wants. There’s more straight-shootin’ guns than there are men to shoot ‘em, although some of those gents out west can really shoot. “A good many western guns been worked over. I mean, most western men doctor their guns to fit their hands better, or to shoot better, or to ease the trigger-pull … although ‘pull’ is the wrong word. No man who knows how to shoot ever pulls a trigger. He squeezes her off gentle, like you’d squeeze a girl’s hand. Otherwise, you pull off target. More missin’ is done right in the trigger-squeeze than anywhere else.”
“I hear those redskins can’t shoot worth a damn.” “Don’t you believe it! Some shoot as good as any white man. And they’re almighty sly about it. They don’t see no sense in setting themselves up as targets, so they just pop you off from behind any rock or tree.” That was the summer when Shanaghy learned how to shoot.
TWO
Shanaghy awakened in the cool hour of dawn. For a moment he lay still, trying to remember where he was and how he came to be there. He recalled being kicked off the open gondola, then went back to his thoughts about New York. John Morrissey had gone to upstate New York on some political business, and Shanaghy, now promoted to a position as one of Morrissey’s lieutenants, had dropped around to the Gem to check receipts. According to plan he had met Lochlin there. They had barely seated themselves at the table when Cogan, a bartender, stuck his head in the door.
“Mr. Shanaghy, sir? There’s some men comin’ in that look like trouble.” Leaving Lochlin at the table, Shanaghy stepped over to the door. He glanced quickly around. There were four men at the bar, all standing together, and there were others scattered about the room. They all had beers, but there was something about them …
The place was crowded, but somehow the men Cogan had mentioned stood out, and one of them … Shanaghy turned sharply. “Lochlin! Look out! It’s Childers’s men!”
He stepped quickly out into the saloon and pulled the door shut behind him. He had started around the bar when one of the newcomers deliberately knocked the beer from the hand of a bricklayer who stood beside him. The bricklayer turned to protest and the man hit him. Then they started to break the place up. Shanaghy ducked a blow and drove a fist into the middle of the nearest man, and kicked another on the kneecap. The door crashed open and he saw a dozen men coming in, all armed with pick-handles and other clubs. Too many! “Cogan! Murphy! Run!”