Do Not Forsake Me(93)

“Sure you did.” Jake took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it as he walked out to pick up the can again. “Like I said, keep your arms straight, keep the sight right where you want it, and don’t jerk on the trigger.”

“I can’t believe I hit it!” Jeff repeated. “This is fun! A man could get used to this.”

Jake set up the can again. “Yeah, he can get real used to it. But it’s just a can, Jeff—not a man. Shooting a man is a whole different thing. And it’s not fun.” Jake walked back to Jeff, who was a bit surprised at the remark. Did shooting men actually bother Jake? He did it so casually.

“Most men I’ve shot deserved it,” Jake told him, as though reading his mind, “and I sometimes even take great satisfaction in taking certain men out of society. But it’s never fun, Jeff, and in the early years I shot men who didn’t deserve it. They just happened to be in my way. That’s not a fun thing to live with.”

“Well, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. I just want you to be ready for the day you actually shoot a human being. It won’t feel good, believe me. Try it again, and keep your arm straight.”

Jeff took aim again. He missed.

“You got excited and jerked the trigger, and the gun came up on you. Remember to squeeze it. Don’t jerk it. Let the trigger do its own thing. And keep your muscles tight. Use up the rest of the bullets. I’m going to get my repeater. Overall, I think you’ll be better off using a rifle if we get in trouble, but I still want you to practice with your own pistol every day.”

He walked to his bedroll to get his carbine while Jeff kept shooting. Jake reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a fifth of whiskey, uncorking it and taking a swallow.

Lloyd lay with his head against his own saddle. He glanced sidelong at his father and watched him take a drink. “Pa, what the hell are you doing?”

“Leave me alone.” Jake corked the whiskey and picked up his carbine, which was fully loaded. He took it over to Jeff and began showing him how to use it. “Your aim will be a lot truer with a rifle, but we’ll keep practicing with both guns.” He had Jeff fire the rifle several times, which meant practicing how to quickly cock it again before each shot.

“What I like about a rifle is you can put a man down before he gets close enough to use his six-gun, but too often your six-gun is your only choice.”

Jeff became a bit concerned at the smell of whiskey on Jake’s breath.

“That’s why you need to remember to keep your arm straight,” Jake continued. “There’s no time to let a shot go wild and miss its target.”

In a flash, Jake’s own six-gun was drawn and fired four times—so quickly that Jeff hardly realized what was happening until it was over with. The can flew all four times until it lay at a distance, finally too shredded to be used for a target. Jake handed him his gun. “My arm was straight the whole time. There are two bullets left in this thing. Do you want to try it?”

Shoot one of Jake Harkner’s guns? “I don’t know. It’s bigger and heavier than my .22, and I swear it’s louder than a rifle. My ears hurt.”

“You might as well get a feel of it. You never know what will happen out here, Jeff. I might have to toss you one of these to use to help me out. At least get an idea how it feels and how it shoots.”

Jeff swallowed. “If you say so.”

“Just remember it’s a hair trigger, so don’t you touch that trigger at all until you’re sure you’re ready to fire it.”

Jeff took the gun that a few weeks ago he’d been so afraid of. He raised it, wondering how in hell Jake could draw and fire it so fast and so well when it weighed so much. He doubted he could even hold it out and aim it with one hand. Using both hands, he held it out, cocked it, and aimed at the shredded mess of a can, then fired. It boomed and kicked back at his hand, but he hit the can. “I did it!” he exclaimed. “And I barely touched the trigger! You were right about that. Wait till I tell my father about this.”

Jake just grinned and took the gun from him to reload it. “The way you keep talking about your father, he must be a pretty good man.”

“He is.”

An odd sadness moved through Jake’s eyes. “Yeah, well, he raised a good kid.” He picked up his rifle and headed for his bedroll. “Reload your own weapon, Jeff.” He glanced at Lloyd then. “Fix a plate of beans for you and Jeff, and get yourselves a fresh biscuit from that sack Sadie gave us.”

“You’re not eating?” Lloyd asked.