Winchester 1886 (20 page)

So they moved back and fired again.

Shirley went first. She knew she had hit it, and immediately moved back to her table to clean the Remington while the other two men shot. People slapped her on the back. A few ladies even deemed to compliment her. Most of them, however, looked at her as if she were some freak of nature.

The sergeant fired.

When she heard the chime, she stopped cleaning her rifle. She thought for sure that Jay Chase would miss. He was shooting a repeating rifle, for goodness sake.

It was the barber who missed. He bowed graciously, but Shirley saw the tears in his eyes as he accepted condolences and disappeared.

“I guess,” Colonel Curtis said, “we should back up another fifty yards.”

“Good,” a cowboy joked. “We'll be closer to the whiskey.”

“That's a mighty fine rifle you got, lady,” Sergeant Jay Chase said as he cleaned his Winchester.

“I'm impressed with yours as well, Sergeant,” Shirley told him. “I just got rid of a Model 1886 Winchester myself.”

“What for?”

She shrugged. “Honestly, I didn't think that rifle would work in long-distance shooting. I must have been mistaken. It wasn't a .50-caliber, of course.”

“Of course.” Withdrawing the ramrod, Sergeant Chase winked at her. “Maybe you'd like to make things a might more interesting. I can give you a chance to win it.”

“Are you wagering your rifle, Sergeant?”

He nodded. “I've been admiring your Remington, lady.”

She extended her hand. “Well, Sergeant, I think we have a bet.”

 

 

“In this final—Well, I don't know. Maybe it shall be our final round or perhaps our two shooters will be shooting from Montana, perhaps even Idaho, before long. At any rate, this round our two finalists will be shooting from standing positions.”

Shirley tried not to listen to Curtis's rambling. She tried to focus on the bell. After so many rounds, the Remington Rolling Block felt heavier than a mountain howitzer. She also felt the wind picking up just a little, blowing northwest to southeast. Her throat was parched, her lips cracked, and her heart pounded.

She didn't know why. She hadn't felt a case of nerves shooting at targets in three or four years.

“Sergeant Chase, you have the honor of firing first,” Curtis explained.

Shirley drew a deep breath, let it out, and butted the Remington on the ground, turning to watch the soldier lift his Winchester to his shoulder.

Sweating, Chase worked the lever, but lowered the hammer and the Winchester. He took a deep breath.

So,
Shirley thought,
he's nervous, too. Well, who wouldn't be with fifteen hundred dollars and a rifle on the line? Not to mention, bragging rights in Meade County, South Dakota.

After wiping his hands on his blue Army-issue trousers, Chase brought the '86 back up. He slipped the crescent-shaped butt plate against his shoulder, thumbed back the hammer, and took a deliberate aim. The rifle spoke.

People held their breath and waited. There was no chime. The crowd gasped, groaned, moaned, whistled then everyone was looking at Shirley, even Jay Chase, who stood shaking his head, amazed that he had missed.

Eleven hundred yards. Could she even see that red, white, and blue bell?

She set the sights for that distance and brought up the heavy rifle. It began to weave. She cursed her boss, the scalawag Tom Curtis. He had to eliminate shooting sticks in
this
round? He thought she could outshoot a career Army soldier who had probably fought against Indians? She wondered if the good citizens of Sturgis and the Black Hills would tar and feather her along with Colonel Tom C. Curtis when they realized he couldn't pay off the winner or the bets.

She sighted, wet her lips, and waited until her arms held the Rolling Block just slightly steady.

Finally, Shirley inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared. Her shoulder ached. Lowering the rifle, she waited and listened.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

For an eternity, there was no sound. And then . . .

Shirley almost threw up. The crowd roared, and Colonel Tom C. Curtis mopped his brow with a polka-dotted bandana.

Somebody clapped her back. Another tousled her hair. She stepped away from the congratulators and made herself take a deep breath, staring across the plains, across the pond or lake or whatever it was, and shook her head in disbelief.

“Miss Sweet?”

Slowly, she turned to see Sergeant Jay Chase standing beside her, holding out that Winchester rifle. “I believe that this belongs to you, ma'am. Nice shooting.”

She glanced at her own rifle, before shaking her head. “Sergeant Chase, it was a silly bet. I couldn't—”

“No, ma'am.” The soldier cut her off. “A bet is a bet. I am a lot of things, Miss Sweet, but one thing I'm not is a welsher. Take it.” He grinned, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, I bet on you.”

That news made her straighten her posture. “Sergeant, are you saying . . .”

Again, he stopped her and thrust the gun toward her. “No, ma'am. I tried my best. My bet won't match that fifteen hundred bucks you're about to get . . .”

Fat chance,
she thought, of me ever seeing a dime of that purse.

“But it'll tide me over for a few months.”

She took the rifle.

“Besides, on a sergeant's pay, just keeping this .50-caliber cannon in cartridges will leave me busted.”

She knew he was lying. A man like Sergeant Jay Chase would never bet against himself, but she thanked him and watched him bow graciously in defeat and then walk away, leaving her alone with her victory. Well, not alone. People still clapped her back with their massive hands. One shoved a bottle of bourbon at her, but took it back and drank greedily before staggering away.

After a while—she wasn't sure how long—she found herself standing alone on the plains of South Dakota, feeling the wind begin to pick up, still hearing the cheers and curses, songs and celebrations. But the ruckus was coming from the tent saloons.

She held a Remington Rolling Block in her left hand, butted against the ground, and a Winchester 1886 in .50-100-450 in her right, the still-warm barrel aimed at the earth.

 

 

 

“Well, Mann, I hate to see ye go,” the boss said in his Irish brogue as he slid the envelope across the table. “Ye makes a bloody fine miner.”

“Another month,” Jimmy Mann said, “and I'd be a bloody fine mole.”

The boss laughed, then tapped the envelope. “Took out, of course, what ye owed the bloody company.”

Jimmy stared hard through the barred windows that separated the boss and the payroll from the line of employees.

“Don't fret, Mann. Ye ain't like most of 'ese blokes. Keeps to yeself, ye does. Don't drink, don't fight, just read bloody newspaper after bloody newspaper. An' the only time I ever seen ye at the sheriff's office was when ye was readin' dodgers an' the like.” His hand lifted, and Jimmy dragged the envelope, opened it, and seemed satisfied at the cash.

Behind him, another miner grumbled, cursed, and told him to hurry along.

Ignoring the rudeness and impatience, Jimmy nodded at the boss. “Thanks for everything.”

It wasn't something a mine boss heard often in a place like Deadwood. He actually appeared taken aback. “Well, Mann, as long as I'm here, ye'll have a job waitin' for ye.”

Jimmy nodded again and left the payroll line for the last time. He had bought a horse—a blue roan with some thoroughbred in her—a new saddle, and plenty of cartridges for his Colt and his Winchester .45-70. He had money, new clothes, some grub, and a full stomach, having splurged on breakfast at the café closest to his hotel. He had seen everything he needed to see in Deadwood, including—on a whim—Wild Bill Hickok's grave. All he wanted to see was Danny Waco, in the sights of his Winchester '86 short rifle.

The question was, where was Danny Waco?

Jimmy had almost gone blind reading every issue of every newspaper that arrived by stagecoach in Deadwood and every issue that the local newspapers had exchanges with. No newspaper had mentioned his name. Nothing. Maybe Waco had gotten caught in a blizzard. Or killed by some road agent. But Jimmy did not believe that.

He ruled out riding east. Pierre, Sioux Falls, and even Yankton just didn't seem to be towns that would have appealed to Waco. And if the outlaw had had enough of winter, the way Jimmy had, he didn't think Waco would ride up into North Dakota or Canada, either.

So . . . Montana?
Miles City or Billings or even farther west into the mountains and gold camps there?
Wyoming?
Sheridan or Buffalo or maybe start heading south and find Cheyenne or Laramie? He wouldn't want to risk Nebraska, especially not after that fracas in Ogallala and the robbery in Chadron.

Jimmy stood inside the sheriff's office, staring at the map. He was about to choose Cheyenne when he happened to look up. Belle Fourche was closer and a cattle town. He might as well hit it on the way out of South Dakota.

 

 

 

About two or three years back, maybe four, some hired gunmen had left Cheyenne by train to take care of cattle business in Johnson County. The plan was to run off some rustlers. Well, kill off plenty of rustlers and be well paid by the big Wyoming ranchers. Of course, things didn't turn out that way. Oh, the armed force managed to kill a few rustlers—Danny Waco didn't rightly remember just how many—but the way Slick Amos told him, the Wyoming cattlemen were a bunch of idiots, nobody could or would command, and before long the gunmen were under siege themselves. They tried to fort up at some ranch near Buffalo, and likely would have all been killed by some testy citizen-rustlers had not the U.S. Army arrived. The so-called invaders had surrendered to a bunch of bluecoats from Fort McKinney. The gunmen, many of them from Texas, were supposed to have been tried, but since Wyoming cattlemen still called the shots in Cheyenne, most of those old boys, including Slick Amos, just wandered back to Texas.

That little fiasco still weighed on the minds of the people and the law in Cheyenne.

It was why Danny Waco sat at a corner table in the Paradise Saloon rereading the little letter he had been delivered that morning.

“I'm cold, Danny,” Gil Millican said as he poured himself a morning bracer. “I don't rightly think I'll ever warm up.”

“Where's Indian?” Waco asked.

“In the wagon yard, I reckon.” Millican downed his rye. “How long we gonna hol' up here, Danny?”

Waco laughed and slid the paper across the table. “Find out yourself, Gil.”

“I don't know what this means, Danny.” He picked up the letter, read it, shook his head, and turned to Danny. “What's it mean?”

“It's what I hear folks are callin' a white affidavit. Basically, it's an informal request that we take our business and pleasure out of the state of Wyomin'.”

Millican lowered the letter. “They's runnin' us out of Cheyenne.”

Waco snatched the letter, wadded it up, and tossed it onto another table. “In a friendly sort of way.”

“We gonna let 'em do that, Danny?”

His head shook. “Nah. We're gonna leave on our own volition.” He had heard some gambler say that earlier.
Volition.
Didn't know exactly what it meant, but it sure sounded like something an educated man would say. Besides, the marshal who had asked that gambler to take his marked cards elsewhere had laughed and hadn't arrested the sharper, merely escorted him to the depot.

Danny Waco had found Cheyenne to be dull. Not much excitement to be found in the town, not even in most of Wyoming, at least the parts he had seen. Gil Millican was right. It was spring, and the streets were covered with a dusting of snow. They had had to spend a right smart of money on winter coats, and Danny's luck at cards had turned a bit in February.

“Find Indian. Get our horses and gear.” Waco fished a banknote from his vest pocket and tossed it at Millican. “Pay our bill. Because we're honest citizens. Then bring the horses here. We'll head south. Where it's warmer.”

“Mexico?” Millican asked hopefully.

“Hell,” Danny Waco answered.

 

 

 

The owner of Wertheim's Mercantile shrugged, glancing at his wife as she laid out the new scarves on the counter down at the end of the store. Finally, he reached up and touched the barrel of the Winchester 1886 .50-100-450 that Shirley Sweet had brought inside.

“Well, Missus Sweet,” he began, “I just don't know.”

“It's Miss Sweet, Mr. Wertheim. This is the rifle that finished second at that shooting contest near Sturgis.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know. I mean. I heard you. But it's pretty beat up.”

“But it shoots pretty.”

Sweating, he removed his spectacles and again looked at his wife then back to Shirley. “You see, ma'am, most folks here buy shotguns. Deer rifles. Those new Winchesters in .30-30 calibers. The '94 models. They are popular. And we sell a lot of Marlins. But this here is—”

“A .50-100-450. Not many of them around.”

“No, ma'am.”

“You could hang it above your stag horn yonder.” She tilted her nose up at that ugly, pitiful excuse for a trophy of deer antlers that hung above the work-boxes, writing desks, crayons, pens and slate pencils, and the calendar from 1891. She guessed that the Wertheims liked the painting on the calendar. Considered it art.

After a heavy sigh, Mr. Wertheim walked to the cash register, reached underneath the counter, and pulled out a catalog.

Montgomery Ward or Sears & Roebuck, Shirley could not tell.

He thumbed through some pages, pursed his lips, closed the book, and returned the catalog to its place below the cash register. Once he was back in front of Shirley, and after another cautious glance at his wife, he said, “New ones go for nineteen or twenty dollars. I can give you ten.”

Her head shook. “New ones did not finish second in that shooting contest.”

“Yes, ma'am, but . . . maybe if you were to sell your winning rifle.”

“That's not on the table.”

“Well, you see—”

“Thirty dollars.” Grinning, she leaned forward just enough to squeeze her breasts with her arms and give him an eyeful.

He backed up and wet his lips “Thirty dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Is . . . the rifle . . .” He had gotten up some courage. “What else are you”—he took another quick glance at his wife—“selling?”

She straightened. “Perhaps, I should discuss this matter with Missus Wertheim?”

The woman in question had already left for the storeroom. And Mr. Wertheim was heading to the cash register, hitting some lever or button that popped open the cash drawer, and he was soon back with thirty bucks in greenbacks, counting them out for her, and taking the rifle, which he put behind the counter.

Shirley couldn't believe her luck. She would have settled for ten. Expected no more than that, but her luck had returned.

It had certainly soured after winning that shooting match near Bear Butte. Oh, she had traveled with Colonel Tom C. Curtis and his winning attitude after the match, and they had landed in Belle Fourche, a cattle town on the Belle Fourche River near the Montana border.

Belle Fourche was a good town for a man like Colonel Tom C. Curtis. It had grown from a stagecoach station on a line that ran from Medora to Deadwood into a thriving cattle town. Cattle had been shipped out on the railroad for four or five years, bringing in herds from North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota. Town leaders kept saying that the Middle Creek Stockyards would likely ship some 2,500 cattle cars full of beef this year, which would make the town the largest cattle-shipping yard in the world.

Perfect place for con jobs, shooting contests, and that dog-and-pony wild west show.

Shirley had awaked one morning to find that the trains had pulled out the previous night with not just cattle, but with Colonel Tom C. Curtis and some hussy he had found at the Livestock Saloon. He had left her and the rest of his “Extravaganza” with one extravagant bill.

The Colonel Tom C. Curtis's Wild West Extravaganza Featuring Shirley Sweet, the Sharpshooting Wonder of the World was no more. The three wagons had been confiscated for auction. The old bear with only three teeth left had been shot, skinned, and his tough meat sold to a restaurant. The Italian who tried to be a great Sioux warrior hadn't even made it to Belle Fourche, having drunk himself to death in Sturgis. The Texas roper had quickly found a job at some ranch, and was working probably before Colonel Tom C. Curtis and his hussy had stepped off that train. The twelve-year-old runaway with that loud, ugly-sounding trumpet had probably caught a freight.

Shirley Sweet, twenty-three-year-old crackerjack shot, was alone.

She had sold her medals, her signed copy of Buffalo Bill Cody's autobiography, and much of her pride. About all she had left was that valise with a few extra clothes, and the case that carried her Remington Rolling Block. Her other guns were gone and she had just sold the Winchester '86.

Mr. Wertheim was staring at the closed door to the storeroom, waiting for his wife to return.