chapter 1-3
1029 Words
“No rules about that. You fire these guns however you want.”
She picked up the shotgun first. “What’s this loaded with?”
“Buckshot.”
She squinted at the targets. “Those cans filled with something?”
Tate’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “You’ve been the only one to ask. Yes, in fact, they’re each half full of sand. It’s just to keep them from blowing off the fence, you understand. You’ve seen them fall, so you know it’s still a fair contest.”
Perhaps he thought it was fair, but it changed the game significantly.
Hettie judged the distance to the fence at about fifty yards and sucked in a lip. Shotguns weren’t great at distance, since the pellets scattered. But at the line, she could see how Ling had knocked down two sand-filled cans at once three times in a row: the graying split rail had fresh gouges in the wood. Ling had aimed for the railing to shake those cans off.
Hettie tucked the butt of the gun snugly into her shoulder. Ignoring the catcalls from the sidelines, she focused on the same spot Ling had.
She exhaled as she squeezed the trigger and let her body absorb the recoil, rocking back on her wide stance. The first two cans jumped off the rail.
She handed the shotgun back, noting the silence that had fallen. “Winchester, please.”
A befuddled look on his face, James passed her the rifle. She had a feel for the shotgun now; she needed to know what the others were like so she wouldn’t waste her bullets. She aimed for the can at the far right end. The first shot missed. The second made the can hop but not fall. Sand poured from the bullet hole, glinting gold in the sunlight.
She put the rifle down. “Revolver.”
James handed it to her. The thing was heavy and felt alien in her hands. A rifle was an extension of her body—she could put her weight behind it. But the Colt .45 handgun with its overlong barrel felt awkward in her small-seeming hands. She knew the recoil would strain her wrists.
She wrapped both hands around the grip and sighted down the barrel. She aimed for one of the middle of the five remaining cans.
Sending up a prayer, she squeezed the trigger.
Blam! The revolver threw her locked hands up so high she nearly punched herself. The crowd hooted in laughter. “Give up, girlie!” someone shouted.
“Winchester,” she gritted, handing the revolver back. This contest wasn’t done yet.
She knocked down the far left can with the Winchester’s remaining two bullets. But even with three shells in the shotgun, she only knocked down one more can. That left three cans and three bullets in the revolver.
She picked up the revolver again. The grip felt too big, the balance all wrong.
“You gonna shoot or what?” someone yelled. “Hurry up already!”
She breathed deep, squaring her shoulders and hips, letting the jeers fade. The rustle of the leaves shushed. The air stilled.
She squeezed the trigger. Down came the first can. She shifted her aim, squeezed again. Down went the second.
One bullet. One can.
She narrowed her eyes until the space around the can was fuzzy and pulled the trigger.
The can remained stubbornly on the fence.
A roar of disappointment spilled into her head.
“That was fantastic!” Will exclaimed. “No one’ll beat that score.”
She glowered at the lone can on the rail. The thing must be nailed to the fence.
Two men remained in the lineup. Old George Sanders didn’t hit a single target, but the stranger who stepped up last made the short hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
He was tall and broad and dressed almost entirely in black, his white shirt a sharp contrast against his funereal garb. Seeing all those heavy layers of black—including a heavy black duster—glistening in the June heat made Hettie sweat.
He glanced at her from beneath the shadowed brim of his hat. His startling blue gaze sent a stinging dart of cold fire through her.
“Your charms,” Tate prompted, breaking his unblinking stare.
The stranger slowly extracted a number of stones and bits of rope and hair from various pockets and turned. “There’s still more,” Winston prompted, and the man in black stopped.
“Not sure if you want to hold what I’ve got,” he murmured, his lips hitching up at one corner.
“Rules are rules.” Tate grinned toothily.
The stranger looked around him slowly, his gaze almost palpable as it swept the crowd. Hettie felt it brush over her, and her skin broke out in goose pimples.
“Think you’ll be able to handle this, Chief?” The stranger shucked his duster and slung it over the sorcerer’s shoulders. Winston stumbled as if the coat weighed half a ton. Maybe it did, in magical terms.
The stranger rolled his shoulders. The stained white cuffs of his shirt peeked from beneath the well-worn black suit. He strolled up to the table and dragged his blunt fingertips across the three gun cases, his expression thoughtful.
“What do you think his deal is?” Will whispered in awe. “You think he’s a Kukulos warlock?”
Hettie doubted it. Kukulos warlocks used blood magic—they didn’t need to wear heavy mantle coats with all kinds of charms and talismans sewn into them. Their conduit was blood, which meant the smallest open wound was enough to deploy a spell. If the stranger were using magic, though, Winston would catch him.
She was about to explain her theory when the man snatched up all three weapons, tucking the Colt in the front of his pants. He slung the shotgun across his back and started toward the markers, but long before he reached them he brought the Winchester up and started firing, still walking.
He emptied the rifle in rapid succession and knocked down three cans, tossed the weapon carelessly aside, and brought up the shotgun. Down went two more cans. He was still walking toward the markers when he lifted the Colt and squeezed the trigger. The sixth can dove off the rail as if it had been scared away. He narrowed his eyes as his next two shots missed and his feet halted at the marker.
Hettie chewed her lip. The stranger tilted his head, and his eye caught hers.
He raised the gun and fired his last bullet straight into the sky.
The stunned silence erupted in a confused babble, but Hettie hardly heard it. The stranger was smiling at her.
- Writer
