Peacemaker, p.4
Peacemaker!, page 4
‘Ruby might argue different,’ said Ryker. ‘You know that.’
‘I also know Ruby has a yen fer you,’ said Nolan. ‘An’ I reckon a lady’s yen counts better’n a shootist’s longing. Let’s go.’
The meadow was marked out now with neat lines of almost-white flags, the targets replaced with firmer wood and brighter paint. Whitewash had been daubed over the grass to mark the individual positions of the firers, and a banner hung between two poles, its flourishing lettering announcing The Grand Demonstration of Colonel Colt’s Latest Revolving Pistol. Smaller posters were tacked to the uprights, explaining that after the demonstration two of the handguns would be auctioned off, and orders taken for further supplies. The news of the guns, spread by the excellent publicity and the reputation of the Colt Armory, had brought in as large a crowd as Tucson had ever seen.
Ryker escorted Ruby to the meadow, their relationship a curious mixture of prickly feelings and affection. The gunslinger felt constrained to do something he had never done before; he apologized.
‘I’m sorry about the Mescaleros, Ruby.’ The words came hard, and he fiddled with his hat band, scratching at the silver dollar with the bullet hole punched through the center. ‘I don’t reckon …’
‘Don’t reckon anything, Jack.’ For a moment the woman’s face clouded over. ‘We’re alike, you and me. I might have done the same thing, but don’t ask me to work it out. Don’t ask me to forget it, because I can’t. And I don’t expect Jack Ryker to ask for forgiveness. Just leave it.’
‘Where’s that leave us?’ Ryker adjusted his hat and eased his coat back to expose the deputy’s star. ‘Tell me that.’
‘Where we started, I guess.’ Ruby shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ‘I’ll demonstrate the new Colts and then move on. Like you.’
‘Yeah.’ Ryker eased his jacket backwards to clear the tail from the butt of the Colt’s Navy. ‘Be careful. Those guns are worth money, an’ there’s a whole pack of hard-cases in town to watch.’
Ruby smiled and lifted up on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. ‘I can look after myself, Jack. And so far, you’re the hardest case I’ve chambered.’
He grinned, and pointed towards the meadow, where Engell was perched on the front seat of the wagon, extolling the virtues of the Colt .45 Single Action Revolver.
Ruby laughed. ‘I never met a salesman like him. He can’t shoot a gun worth a pig’s whistle, but he can sure whip up interest. Give him a few minutes and he’ll have you selling your grandmother to buy what he tells you. I’m never quite sure what he’s doing, but I know he does it good. I hope it works here.’
‘Should do,’ said Ryker. ‘That’s one of the best pistols I ever saw.’
Ruby parodied a curtsy. ‘Why thank you, Jack. But surely you know that I only use the best.’
They reached the meadow and Ryker was detailed off by Nolan to supervise the demonstration.
The way Engell had worked it out there would be four shootists competing at ten-minute intervals. Ruby was placed in the central position with two men on her right and one on her left. The rules were that each contestant loaded and fired at the marked targets, loading time and accuracy of hits determined the winners, each one paying a dollar to take part.
There were thirty-six contestants.
Ryker and Nolan were the judges.
The first three contestants carried between them two Colt Dragoons and a Colt’s Army model in the same .44 caliber.
Ruby loaded and hit before the first three shots were loosed.
The next trio proved somewhat better. One carried a Smith & Wesson American; the second, a Colt’s Navy with a Thuer conversion to cartridge loading; and the third a curious .38 caliber pistol that he announced as a Sidney-James rear-loading cartridge gun.
The S&W loaded as fast as the Colt Ruby was using, but after the fourth shot it sprang apart, forcing the contestant to reload. The Thuer conversion shot true and straight, but the problems of inserting shells from the front of the cylinder were overcome by the simplicity of Ruby’s Colt. The Sidney-James proved a disaster. It was, at best, an attempt to convert a cap-and-ball revolver to rear-chamber loads, without much thought given to the problems of barrel to cylinder confinement. Three shells failed to detonate, and then the remaining trio exploded in sequence and left the contestant screaming for bandages as his pulverized hand bled over the grass.
Engell appeared with a roll of cloth that he wrapped around the shattered tendons before dragging the man away, muttering something about not bringing guns so far when parts couldn’t be available.
The remainder of the contest whittled down to three men and Ruby.
Ryker lost out early on, the slow loading of the Navy model Colt getting outpaced by Ruby’s Single Action Colt. That left a man called Wesley Gantry using a .44 Smith & Wesson Russian, along with two contestants called Baldry and Starling, using pistols Ryker had heard of, but never seen before.
The S&W Russian was a rare pistol, but not unfamiliar to him. Like the Schofield and the American models, it hinged on a ball screw connecting the barrel and magazine to the main body of the revolver. A latch pin held the cylinder to the firing chamber, so that when the full load was discharged the latch could be sprung open to split the gun apart and allow a spring mechanism to discharge the cartridges. With the entire cylinder exposed, reloading was fast. But then the gun had to be swung back together, with the latch firmly in place. Another disadvantage was that on opening the pistol, all six shells were ejected: there was no possibility of firing off a trio of shots and then loading the spent chambers. With the S&W pistols it was all or nothing. At the same time, the top latch was liable to break open under heavy work, thus leaving the shootist devoid of firepower.
As a target pistol the Russian was superb. The spur extending from beneath the trigger guard allowed extra control against recoil and a surer placement of the individual shots.
As a fast gun, however, it was of poor quality. The angle of the butt and the low-slung hammer rendered it a poor companion to the better-balanced Colts.
Baldry was firing a .44 caliber Allen & Wheelock center hammer pistol, the massive extension of the forward loading gate seeming to unbalance the relatively slender barrel. Ryker smiled at the unlikely ugliness of the gun. Originally the company had produced a series of multi-barrel handguns, each tube carrying an individual load that was fired by the hammer falling as the entire bunch of barrels revolved around a central axis. These were the ‘pepperbox’ pistols, and so long as Colt retained the patent on the single-barrel revolver, the Allen & Wheelock factory was forced to experiment and continue producing the awkward multi-barrel guns. Colt’s patent had run out in 1857 and since then the A & W manufactory had been trying to design a pistol to match Colt’s production.
The center-hammer Army model was the best thing they had come up with.
Starling was using a Thuer’s conversion of the .44 caliber Colt’s Army model. In essence the gun was simply a heavier version of the revolver Ryker used, its cylinder reworked to allow the frontwards entry of brass jacket shells and the nipples removed so that the refined hammer pin would fall on the fulminate caps centered at the base of the shells.
The only pistol that came anywhere near the precise sturdiness of the Colt Ruby was using was the S&W in Gantry’s hand.
And what that gained in speed of unloading was lost in the complicated machinations of reloading and clipping the cylinder down again before resighting.
Ruby simply emptied her six chambers and worked the ejector rod to expend the used cartridges. Then thumbed fresh loads into each chamber and began to fire again.
She beat them all easily.
‘Now, folks, what better demonstration could you ask for?’ Engell’s voice was powerful for so slight a man. ‘You’ve just watched Miss Ruby here out-shoot every man ready to go up against her.’
‘I’ll go up against her any time,’ shouted a cowhand at the rear of the crowd. ‘Be a pleasure.’
Engell let the laughter die down, then turned the heckling adroitly to his own advantage.
‘Not while she’s carrying Colonel Colt’s Single Action Army revolver, my friend. Not unless you’re bent on committing suicide. That pistol you’ve just seen our lovely markswoman demonstrate is accurate up to fifty yards. And if you get hit by one of those .45 caliber slugs, you won’t be going up against anything.’ He paused before adding, ‘You’ll be going down, my friend. And the only thing going up will be your headstone.’ He waited a moment, letting the words sink in. ‘That pistol is the finest of a pedigree line. Look at you, gentlemen. What do most of you carry in your holsters? A Colt’s Dragoon? A Navy model? The old Army model? And how do you load them, gentlemen? Do you carry a powder flask and a pouch of balls? Or do you favor ready-made cartridges?
‘You’ve just seen how easy it is to load this peerless new weapon. No more troublesome powder flasks! Forget about setting those caps on the firing nipples! Forget about ramming your load! What we are offering today is a glimpse of tomorrow! A handgun that will stand up to the roughest work and still shoot straight. It’s fast and easy to load! It’s reliable! And the expertise of Colonel Colt will make this aristocrat of handguns available to all at the lowest possible cost.
‘Now Miss Ruby will give you one final demonstration. After that, she will present the winner of the contest—Mr. Wesley Gantry—with his prize of twenty dollars. And then we do business!
‘Yes, my friends! We are going to auction two of these magnificent pistols! So far only the Army of our glorious United States can own such a weapon, and civilian models will not be available for some time. But you! Yes, you! You can bid for a matched set of the new Colt’s Single Action Army revolver.’
He reached down to the wagon’s seat, lifting a rosewood case fastened by two gleaming brass catches. With all the expertise of a genuine showman, he held the case above his head. Then, slowly, lowered it to his chest and sprung the catches.
The crowd—the men, at least—gasped as the box fell open.
The interior was lined with plum-colored velvet, the material cut and molded to accept the twin pistols held there. They were the 5-inch barrel models, their metal parts blued to a deep shine, the butts of grained walnut with the prancing horse insignia of the Colt manufactory carved into the wood. Between the guns, like a golden line set there to emphasize the importance of the pistols, were twelve highly-polished cartridges. To one side was a small box, brass, and embossed with the same prancing pony, containing cleaning equipment.
Engell thrust his arms out, turning slowly round so that everyone might see the pistols.
‘These excellent guns will not be on general sale for some time.’ Engell barely needed to raise his voice now. ‘But after our last demonstration, we intend to auction these two. Now watch Miss Ruby!’
While the promoter was speaking a fresh target had been set up. It was a solid plank of pine, about six inches thick and painted with the outline of a man. Small leather pouches were nailed to the outline to mark the eyes, the heart, the center of the stomach, and the lungs. Engell shut the case with a snap and swung his left arm round in an expansive gesture.
‘Ladies and gentleman! Miss Ruby Turner.’
Ruby ducked her head as the crowd swung to face her. She hauled the Colt clear of the holster and snapped the loading gate open. There was a small table beside her with a pile of shells spread across the green baize covering its surface. She began to lift the cartridges, dropping them into the chambers of the pistol with practiced skill. She snapped the loading gate closed and swung the gun up to point on the target. Thumbed back the hammer. Fired.
A leather sack pinned over the left eye of the target figure exploded, releasing a spurt of goat’s blood.
She fired again, puncturing the bag on the left eye.
The bag over the heart.
The one covering the stomach.
Those pinned where the lungs would be.
The plank ran red. Ruby ignored it, working the ejector rod to clear the chambers of spent shells. She reloaded and began to fire again.
The tiny bags jerked and disintegrated, the wood behind shattered into splinters.
She emptied the gun and dropped it back into the holster.
Engell began his spiel again.
‘Examine that target, my friends! Not only has our little lady shown the accuracy of the new Colt, she has also shown you how fast it fires. Take a look at that plank. You’ll be surprised.’
Ryker was: most of Ruby’s shots had torn clear through the six inches of woodwork, each shot hitting clean on target and then passing through to punch massive exit holes out the back. He imagined what that could mean to a human target.
And got interested in the guns.
‘Thirty dollars, top.’
Engell laughed. ‘You’ve seen these guns in action. Don’t insult the genius of Colonel Colt.’
‘Fifty for the pair.’
‘Fifty-five!’
‘Fifty-eight!’
Ryker turned to Ruby. ‘Let me hold it.’
‘Jack!’ She faked a simper. ‘You do care.’
Ryker’s face got hard. ‘The gun! Quick!’
She paled a little and passed him the pistol she had used in the contest. Ryker hefted it, letting his nerves get accustomed to the weight and balance. The weight was little more than that of the Colt’s Navy model. The grip was the same, designed to accommodate all but the largest hands, the same, smooth curve of metal frame and wood grips allowing the pistol to kick up on firing so that the hammer was lifted to where the thumb could easily re-cock, the bulk of the pistol dropping the barrel back into line.
It felt good. It felt like the best gun he’d handled.
‘One hundred dollars!’
His voice cut through the babble of conversation.
‘Hundred and five!’
‘Hundred and twenty!’ Ryker knew that he wanted to own those guns with a certainty he had not felt since he determined to kill his father’s murderers.
‘And ten.’
Ryker saw Wesley Gantry lift a hand.
‘Ten more!’
‘One hundred and forty dollars,’ called Engell. ‘Any more bids?’
‘One fifty,’ Ryker called.
There was a silence: Engell waited.
‘One hundred and fifty dollars. Do I hear someone else?’
The silence went on.
‘Very well! Sold to Mr. Ryker at one hundred and fifty dollars!’
Ryker stepped forwards, delving into his jacket for the necessary bills. By the time he had them counted out his bankroll was down to just over seventy dollars. He passed the notes to Engell and took the cased pistols in return.
‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Ryker. You just made a fine purchase.’
Ryker nodded and turned away. He saw Gantry staring at him, his thin-lipped mouth drawn back in anger. Frank Nolan bellied his way through the crowd to slap his deputy on the back.
‘Like I said, Jack. We got ourselves a fine pair o’ guns.’
‘Like I just bid,’ grunted Ryker. ‘I got me a set of good pistols.’
‘No goddam gratitude left in this world,’ complained Nolan. ‘You help a young feller an’ all you get fer thanks is spit in yore eye.’
Ryker grinned. ‘I’ll buy you dinner. Tell Dolly what to make, an’ I’ll pay the bill.’
‘That include me?’ Ruby came up behind him.
Ryker smiled, stroking the polished casing of the presentation box. ‘I reckon. I’ll need someone to show me the loading techniques.’
It was one of the best meals he had ever eaten, prepared by Dolly herself. Ryker was the guest of honor, flanked on either side by Ruby and Dolly, with Frank Nolan facing him.
Dolly produced three kinds of wine to accompany the meal, then rounded it off with brandy. The food itself was rich, and the addition of the liquor reduced Ryker to a slumbrous state that left only one idea in his mind.
He excused himself and helped Ruby from her chair.
‘Your room or mine?’
‘Mine’s bigger.’
They went to Ruby’s room.
Ryker set the rosewood box under the bed and hung his gun belt over the corner of the brass head. Then he undressed and climbed in with Ruby. Around midnight he heard a clock chime and went to sleep. He was tired, his energy mostly expended. Ruby slung an arm about his neck and rolled her body over his. The musky scent of sex acted as a soporific: Ryker fell fast asleep.
The sound that woke him was unfamiliar, thus intruding on Ruby’s steady breathing and the faint tapping of the wind against the shutters. Had he been alone he would most likely have recognized the noise for the scraping of a key in a lock, but with Ruby spread across him, his senses were slowed, his reactions hindered by the sluggish aftermath of sex.
By the time the door opened, he was easing up from the bed to reach for the Colt’s Navy hung from the brass rail. He got his right hand on the butt and cocked the pistol as he dragged it clear of the holster.
Then something smashed against his face. Ruby screamed. Ryker fought to bring the gun out of the holster, but a second blow slammed his wrist against the brass upright of the bedhead, and the Colt exploded a slug into the wall.
He heard Ruby yell a second time just before something hard and heavy landed across his temple and exploded a cartwheel of light over his eyes. He shut them and went away to a dark place inside his mind where pain lost feeling and there was only the warm, comforting blackness.
The water was cold on his face, splashing over his eyes and running into his mouth so that he gagged and began to choke. Sat up, spitting water on to the sheets.
The first thing he saw was Frank Nolan’s face. It looked worried.
The second thing was Ruby. And that worried him a whole lot more than Nolan looked. Her left eye was puffed up and closed inside a widening circle of discolored flesh. A long, dark bruise angled across her cheek, culminating in the wide split that twisted the corner of her mouth up in a false smile. From the right side of her head, a thin runnel of blood was drying against the skin of her temple.
