Paradise Sky

“Only them that acted like fools got a whacking,” I said. “In front of women or in front of the stove.”

“Be that the case or not, the attitude is the same. There was, by the way, talk of ba

“And how did that come out?” I asked.

“They came around to my point of view.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“No need to speak of it. I know your prowess from a night not long ago. Those were some fine shots in the dark. But to not drift too far from my original point, you haven’t got many turned out in your favor. Jack McCall, that squirrelly son of a bitch, claims to be a defector. Says he’s telling me the insides of it, but I figure he is merely trying to keep my eye off things by leading me to look in the wrong directions. I think it’s his mission to keep watch on me and report to them. I can’t see him with the guts to attempt to dispatch me, but he might have plans to keep me busy or lead me into a trap with the others. Were he to pull his shitty little revolver on me, I could sing a song and take a piss before I needed to pull my weapon. Then I’d have time to shoot him twice.”

“Don’t underestimate a sneak,” I said. “I done that with Ruggert, and he just keeps on coming. A man warned me about him, but I thought I had outrun him by time and distance. He got burned on and cut on by Apache, left out on the plains to die, but sure as the sun comes up and the moon goes down, here he is, and wealthy now. I knowed him when he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, and now he has—”

“Minions,” Bill said. “Still, I am a good judge of character and gunmen. And Jack McCall is no gunman. It’s the others you—or I—have to be concerned with.”

Bill had brought a few bottles with him, and they had corks in them, and he put them out at a goodly distance, say, thirty feet, then went on to shoot the center of those corks, driving them and the lead into the bottles. I tried it using the Colt Mr. Loving had given me and did the same, though I have to say with a bit more concentration between shots.

Bill was like Mr. Loving. He could be talking to you, scratching his ass, and shooting at the same time and not have any chance of missing. I have heard some say that the things Bill was able to do with his pistols was just big talk, but I’m here to tell you that ain’t so. I might also add that Bill did all this with cap and ball weapons, which he preferred.

When those bottles was busted up, he had me toss some hard clay targets from the edge of the hill, sailing them way out and high over that falling carpet of flowers. He hit ten out of ten, then had me flip a dime in the air. It didn’t go too high before the wind caught it, floated it out beyond the hill, but Bill shot it, sent it spi

“Damn, Bill,” I said. “I thought your eyes was bad.”

“Mostly they give me trouble at night. I can’t figure on that, but it’s a kind of moon-blindness that I have. The product of those whores I told you about. I can see shapes, but I can’t get the distinctness of a thing. It’s like there’s sleep in my eyes or someone has rubbed oil over them.”

“You shoot better on instinct than most men shoot by plan and practice.”

“In my line of work, which is mostly gambling, being a good shot is only part of it. Weapons that are finely tuned and oiled and have proper ammunition are what make the difference in living another day. I also load my own ball and powder and therefore have control of its quality.”

He spoke with a certain enthusiasm, but there was behind it a weariness, like he was struggling up one last hill and hoping to get to the top so he could lie down.

“Try the dime, Nat. It will catch on the wind, but if you shoot at the shine, you’ll hit it.”

Bill flipped the dime for me. I used the LeMat, flipping the swivel in such a way I fired off the shotgun round, blasting that dime most likely around the world.

That made Bill laugh like a braying donkey. “That was some trick, Nat. Let me see that thing.”

I handed it to him to look over, and when he was done, he said, “I ain’t never seen nothing like that, ain’t even heard of such.”

I told him about the gun, all that Mr. Loving had told me.

“That’s interesting,” Bill said, “but now let’s see how you do without a trick.”

I reverted to my Colt. I tried to remember all the tips Mr. Loving had given me, the main one being point that pistol like a finger. First time I pointed at that dime I might as well have left the pistol in my leather-lined pocket I missed so bad. I told Bill I had been trying to hit a cloud, which made him laugh. Second time I made the shot without too much thought and sent the dime spi

That was it for wasting dimes. Bill said, “You don’t need that kind of shooting to kill a man, but you do to win a contest. Fact is I can kill better than I can contest. That’s as natural to me as the moving of my bowels. Targets, over a period of time—well, I start to get distracted by everyone else, start seeing the gals in the stands, get it in my mind I have to style for them, and so on. Shooting off the cuff, when needed, or out here shooting targets with a friend, not for a contest, I’m in my place. You, my companion, have the ability to do both and well. You are focused. That is a skill that is hard to teach. You have to come with it in your bones. In a real gunfight the only way to survive is to not think about wi

“Take your time slowly,” I said.

“Exactly. And you are cool under fire, Nat. I have seen you in action. That will win you more fights than a quick draw. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know and do.”

I set some paper targets on sticks that raised them about three feet off the ground; they had black bull’s-eyes painted on them. At forty yards I used my Winchester, pumping the shots with the special lever Mr. Loving had made. I hit six out of ten as fast as I could cock and fire, which for fast shooting with a weapon like that is pretty good. Bill gave it a try and couldn’t hit a thing.

“I never was good with that sort of weapon,” he said. “Too much haste and uncertainty about it.”

We packed our ears with cotton and burned through quite a few shells and loads that day. It was some cost into my savings, as I was supplying Bill with his fixings as well. I figured the trade-off was worth it, spending time with one of the finest shootists that has ever walked the earth.

I practiced dry-firing my guns the rest of the week, except for going up to our spot one afternoon with Win, day before the match. I had plenty of live rounds with me. I wanted to fire a few shots to give me the feel of live ammunition burning through the barrel, but not do it so much my arms got tired of holding up my weapons. I didn’t want to start tomorrow’s shooting match with a liability of tired arms and a powder scorch on my eyes.

I had taken the day off, becoming bolder about my job, knowing full well I was leaving. There was also the fact that Swearengen was sponsoring me for the match. I was representing the Gem. Swearengen, wanting me to know how much he was on my side, said, “Look, you’re going to shoot in that match, I expect you to win. I don’t think it matters if a nigger or a white man wins, long as he represents himself and the Gem well.”

This from a pimp.

I asked if he would like to front some money for ammunition or supply it directly, but here he drew the line. “No. I don’t want to give you an unfair advantage against them that might have to purchase their own,” he said.