Ralph Compton Straight Shooter Read online

  The wagons were parked beside another structure that was twice as long and much more attractive to the eye. Constructed of a simple wooden frame, the structure had no roof or even any complete walls. Instead, the front portion was erected near the wagon while the rear section was set up approximately ten yards away. The side walls were nothing more than support beams adorned with colorful advertisements that Aldus could recite from memory. The front consisted of a waist-high counter with notches carved into a thick rack where four rifles could be propped with their barrels pointing toward the structure’s farthest end. That back wall was something that Aldus never got tired of looking at.

  There were three wooden beams crossing the back wall. The lowest was about as high as a saloon’s bar and was a simple shelf where bottles and Mason jars could be arranged in a row. The second beam had round targets nailed in place. Each target was made of tin and had numbers painted on it along notched vertical and horizontal lines. The uppermost beam was actually a thin pole, situated at about eye level, that was threaded through five specially made targets. Those targets, crafted from iron, were cast in the shape of a duck on top with a heavy circle hanging below, which was heavy enough to always keep the ducks upright no matter how many times they spun around that pole. Fixed to the smallest pieces of wood that were mainly there to give the structure its shape and hold up some of the brightly painted banners were dozens of clay pipes and smaller circles, no bigger than fifty-cent pieces, pasted onto short sticks.

  Another gunshot cracked through the air, followed by a familiar voice that was just loud enough to be heard over the voices of the rifles and the ringing of ears.

  “A fine shot, sir!” the voice proclaimed. “No doubt a mixture of natural-born talent and fine craftsmanship.”

  The man who spoke would have been tall enough to spot from a distance even without the top hat he wore. His body was lean and wiry as if it had been specially made to maneuver within the cramped confines of the wagon parked nearby. His long face was beaming and expressive, marked by a perfectly trimmed goatee. Thick, unruly eyebrows bobbed up and down as he spoke in a quieter tone that Aldus couldn’t make out from where he stood. After easing past a small cluster of folks standing a few paces away from the wooden structure, Aldus crossed his arms and listened closely to the words he could now hear a little better.

  “What you’re holding there is one of my finest models,” the man in the top hat proclaimed. “It fires a forty-two-caliber round with exceptional accuracy.”

  “How reliable is it?” The man who asked that question examined the rifle in his hands. He stood at the front of the wooden structure, and when he sighted along the top of the rifle at the far end, he waited several seconds before pulling his trigger. The only sound came from the rifle itself, and Aldus smirked when the man held the rifle in front of him and said the same thing most men did when they missed what they’d been aiming at.

  “This damn thing isn’t any good,” the man said angrily. “Barrel must be crooked.”

  The man was a muscular fellow with coarse brown hair. At first, it seemed the other, bigger man standing nearby was just another onlooker admiring the finely decorated shooting gallery. But the bigger man’s amusement didn’t come from the finely crafted targets or the attractive arrangement of the clay pipes lined up like so many little flags frozen in motion. He chuckled and slapped the first man on the shoulder while saying, “That’s it, Wes. Must be the rifle.”

  Much of the crowd dispersed, leaving Aldus somewhat exposed since he remained where he’d been standing. At least, he might have been exposed if either of the two other men seemed the least bit interested in him. Instead, they were intent on selecting another rifle. When Wes handed back the one he’d just fired, Aldus could see the holsters strapped around both men’s waists. It wasn’t unusual for men to wear a gun, but he didn’t like the look of those two. Instincts honed from being in a boxing ring for so many years made it easier for Aldus to sniff out other fighters, and those two were definitely more than simple customers looking to buy a new hunting rifle.

  “I need something that’ll be accurate from a distance,” Wes said.

  The man in the top hat took the rifle from him before it was tossed away like so much trash. “Any rifle is good from a distance, my good sir. The real question is how much distance do you need to cover?”

  “Let’s say . . . a hundred yards.”

  “I’d say this rifle could cover that distance quite well.”

  “Enough with that rifle!” Wes snapped. “Show me something else. Something with more kick.”

  Aldus could tell the salesman was getting nervous. Although the fellow in the top hat didn’t make it known outright, he took a bit more time than usual while selecting another rifle from the rack hanging off the exterior of the wagon. Those rifles were displayed on a side panel that could be closed up when the wagon was prepared to roll again. The man in the top hat glanced around, spotted Aldus, and let out a breath.

  “Here’s a good one,” the salesman said while sliding a longer rifle from between the metal rings attached to the panel. “A specially modified Sharps model with adjustable sights and a grip that your hand wraps around like a lover’s embrace.”

  “What the hell did you just say?” Wes asked through a disgusted sneer.

  Without missing a beat, the salesman walked over to him and explained, “It’s one of my own designs.” He held it in both hands and turned it to several different angles so his customers could enjoy it from all sides. Along with the mechanical modifications, there was also Hayes’s own stamp etched into the metal just behind the trigger guard. It was a large H with a smaller Z laid on top of it. “For an extra fee,” he added, “I’ll even specially craft it to fit your very own hand.”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “Because it reduces friction in your grasp. You see, when aiming over long distances, even the slightest shift can put your shot several feet wide of its mark. With my tailor-made stocks, there won’t be any shift at all. I’ll tell you what,” the salesman added. “For no extra charge, I’ll even carve the stock down to fit against your shoulder like it grew there.”

  “Like it what?”

  “Just try for yourself.”

  Wes brought the rifle to his shoulder, grumbling under his breath as he shifted his feet and made slight adjustments of the stock against his shoulder before finally sighting down the barrel. Judging by the angle of the rifle, he was aiming for one of the circle targets in the middle row in front of him. After a long pause, he pulled the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder and sent its round through the air without so much as scraping the edge of any target.

  “That one broke, too?” Wes’s big companion chuckled.

  “You’re drunk, Mose,” Wes said. “Now shut up.” Handing back the rifle, he glared at the salesman and said, “Seems like these guns ain’t worth the price of a bullet. That’s about what I heard, anyway.”

  The salesman took the rifle and straightened up as if he’d been struck across the face. “I beg your pardon? What did you hear?”

  “Just that you’re nothin’ but a huckster and the wares you got for sale belong in a scrap heap.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Man down at the store over on the corner.”

  Looking toward the nearest street, the salesman doffed his top hat to a window marked GRABLE’S FIREARMS. “Miserable slander coming from a defeated competitor. After so many years of my weapons upstaging his, Mr. Grable has resorted to rumormongering to attract more business. I assure you,” he added while motioning toward the banner stretched across the top of the wooden structure, “Zachariah Hayes crafts and sells only the finest weapons. If you would like a demonstration to allay your reservations . . .”

  “All right, then, Mr. Hayes,” Wes said, speaking the salesman’s name as if it were a joke, “I believe I’ll take
you up on that. Show me what a fine weapon that is.”

  “Gladly.” With that, Hayes took the rifle and settled it in his grip. He took ample time to place the stock against his shoulder, align his fingers just right, and even place his cheek against the side of the rifle in just the right spot.

  Mose scratched his head and let out a grunting laugh. “Well, if you take all that time to take a shot, it had better be good.”

  “Nothing should be rushed, my friends,” Hayes said as he reached along the barrel to reposition the sight.

  “How was I supposed to know you had to do that?” Wes snarled.

  Hayes would not be distracted. As he spoke, he did so while moving the barest minimum of muscles to form his words. “I will be happy to provide instruction . . . for a nominal fee, of course. Otherwise, you can simply read the documentation provided with every sale.”

  “Documentation, huh? Never had no documents when I bought a gun. All I needed was bullets and somethin’ to shoot at.”

  “That’s because you are buying common weapons, sir,” Hayes said. “My wares are anything but.”

  Once he was situated, Hayes drew a deep breath, held on to it for a few seconds, and then let it go. When most of the air had been expelled from his lungs, he squeezed his trigger. The rifle barked once, the sound of which was followed by the metallic clang of a bullet striking one of the painted iron circles. He smiled broadly while lowering the rifle and nodded with satisfaction. The circle that was still shaking on its rail had a chipped section of paint at the one o’clock position midway between the center and its farthest edge.

  “There, now!” Hayes declared. “Perfect working order.”

  Wes grimaced as if he’d just coughed up something sour. “Sights still seem a bit off.”

  “I am a gunsmith, sir. Not a sharpshooter.”

  “Pathetic shot, is more like it.”

  Nudging his partner with an elbow, Mose said, “Better shot than you.”

  “Anyone could make a shot when he takes all that time to fuss about,” Wes groused. “We ain’t gonna have that kind of time!”

  “Well, then,” Hayes sighed as he set the rifle down onto the rack and removed his top hat. “I suppose this puts us in something of a predicament.”

  “I guess it does,” Wes grunted. “You enjoy that predicament and I’ll go buy a rifle that I can use without reading a book to figure it out.”

  Hayes allowed the two men to take a few steps away from the front of the shooting gallery before saying, “I have a proposal.”

  Wes stopped and turned around. “You knocking some off the top of the price of that rifle is a proposition I’ll like an awful lot.”

  “Better yet, why don’t I show you how well my rifles perform with the help of a third party?”

  “What’ll that prove?”

  “No offense, sir, but we all have bad days. Any number of factors can account for you missing that target or me hitting it. Whatever the reason, it is not the fault of my rifle and . . . more important . . . my rifles are the only ones in town that can be so easily modified to nullify any particular shortcoming.”

  Wes stepped up to scowl directly into Hayes’s eyes. His chest nearly bumped the salesman when he growled, “What shortcoming are you talking about?”

  Taking half a step back, Hayes showed him a nervous smile. “Just allow me to show how I can modify this rifle for anyone’s use. Surely you’ll see the benefit of buying your firearms from a craftsman instead of just plucking one from a rack.” Turning away from Wes, Hayes glanced around as if he didn’t see Aldus standing nearby. Then, after a second look, the salesman pointed at him and said, “You, sir!”

  Aldus recoiled slightly and then tapped a finger against his chest.

  “Yes . . . you,” Hayes announced. “Would you care to try one of these fine rifles?”

  “I . . . suppose I could,” Aldus replied.

  “Come on over here!”

  Mose rolled his eyes. “This ain’t gonna prove anything other than you’re a lousy shot, Wes. And I already knew that.”

  “Which is all the more reason to buy a specially crafted weapon,” Hayes said. “The right rifle can make any man a marksman, no matter what he may lack in raw skill. That’s the whole reason I—”

  “I ain’t lacking!” Wes said.

  “Poor choice of words on my part,” Hayes said quickly. “Would you care to see if someone other than me can hit their mark with this rifle?”

  Wes glanced toward Grable’s Firearms and shrugged. “Might as well.”

  “Much obliged.” Now that Aldus was standing nearby, Hayes turned toward him and gave him a curt bow. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Would you happen to be an expert in firing a rifle?”

  “I’ve done plenty of hunting,” Aldus replied.

  “Have you ever tried your luck at a shooting gallery?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Handing over the rifle, Hayes said, “Then try your luck at this one. Why not start with one of the bottles?”

  Aldus put the rifle to his shoulder, sighted along its barrel, and fired. His bullet whipped through the air without shattering any glass. “Thought I was dead center,” he grumbled.

  Nodding, Wes chuckled, “I know how that goes.”

  “Try again,” Hayes urged.

  Once more, Aldus took aim and concentrated. This time, his shot nicked the top of his bottle just enough to set it to wobbling on its shelf as a fine mist of glass shards spattered onto the dirt behind the rack.

  “Now, then,” Hayes said as he took the rifle from him, “if you’d allow me to make some slight adjustments. It appears your shots were a bit high and to the right.” His fingers adjusted the sights so minutely that no real movement could be seen in them. However, the salesman continued to ease the sights along a narrow track built into the barrel and then made some similar adjustments to the sights closest to the grip. He handed it back and said, “There, now! Give that a try.”

  Aldus held the rifle as if it were some new thing that he’d never seen before. “Do I do anything differently?”

  “Not in the least. Just aim and fire as you did before.”

  First, Aldus squinted through the sights. Then he opened his eye as wide as it would go. Once he’d settled on some middle ground between the two, he squeezed the trigger and sent a round through the air that caused a bottle to explode into gleaming fragments.

  “Well, I’ll be!” Aldus proclaimed.

  Wes bared his teeth and looked at the lowest rack as if he expected that bottle to somehow still be there. “That was a fix! You two are working together!”

  “I noticed your shots were most likely high as well,” Hayes said while levering in the next round. “Whether this man is a stranger or not, the fact remains that I adjusted the sights thusly. Why don’t you see if there’s a difference for yourself?”

  When he took the rifle after Hayes had touched up the sights again, Wes seemed more than a little reluctant to take his shot. He went through the motions of positioning himself and settling the rifle against his shoulder more as though he was mimicking what he’d seen from the others. He started to fire, eased his finger back, and took a deep breath. Finally the rifle bucked against his shoulder and spat a round into the lower portion of one of the round targets. He seemed more surprised than anyone to hear the resounding metallic clang.

  “You see?” Hayes beamed. “And that was with only minor adjustments. When you purchase a rifle of your own, I will adjust the sights and balance to your specifications. I even have plenty of other rifles for you to choose from. You may just find one with the added punch you requested, and if you don’t, I can craft some ammunition to fit the bill.”

  “How much punch?” Wes asked.

  “How much do you need?”

  Wes and Mose looked back and forth at each other, neither
one wanting to say whatever was going through his mind. Measuring his words carefully, Wes said, “I’ll need something that’s good from at least a hundred yards. Give or take.”

  “Looking to do some hunting?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, I can modify this very rifle to suit you and,” Hayes added, “I’ll also be willing to press some ammunition that will be much better than the normal rounds you’d buy at most stores.”

  “Fine,” Wes said as he set the rifle down. “Get this adjusted and I’ll come back around in a bit to give it a try.”

  “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed,” Hayes said.

  Wes and Mose each looked Aldus up and down before turning their backs on the shooting gallery and walking away.

  Aldus watched them go until both of the other men disappeared from his sight. Still looking in that direction, he asked, “You think they’ll be upset when they find me working here later?”

  “Won’t take away from the quality of that rifle.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Only problem is that he seemed to want a rifle a bit too much.”

  Hayes grinned widely and draped an arm around Aldus’s shoulders. “A customer who’s too eager? No such thing, my friend.”

  Chapter 4

  The saloon was a clean little place situated on the edge of town within eyeshot of the shooting gallery next to Hayes’s wagon. Consisting of canvas walls wrapped around a wooden frame, it drew most of its business from those who either couldn’t wait to get into Cedar Rapids for their drink or needed one on their way out. Aldus and Hayes sat at their usual table next to a flap held open by a hook that fit into a ring stitched into the thick canvas. The table itself was half of a circular dining table. Two of its legs were originals and the others were boards that had been nailed on after being sawed to something close to the correct length.