missed consistently. Finally he hit one, and Pat said, “Well, that’s an accident.”
Faye smiled. “With enough practice you can do anything, Pat.”
Indeed, practice he did, until finally he became so adept with the Winchester that he could hit three out of four of the clay pigeons. By then, he knew he could hit anything on the run.
Next he knew he would have to handle a pistol. He went to a gun shop in the center of the city and looked for quite a while at guns.
The owner’s name was Abe Lemmons. He seemed curious.
“What will you be doing with the gun, Mr. Riordan?” “Oh, I just need to handle a gun.”
“Well, I tell you what. Most men these days want one of those.44 Colts.” He reached into a glass case and said, “Here. Hold that.”
“It’s pretty heavy.”
“Yes, it’s heavy, plus your hands are small and that handle’s big. Most of these are single action.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means when you fire the gun you have to use your thumb to pull the hammer back before you can shoot again. As I say, you’ve got small hands.”
“What do I need, Mr. Lemmons?”
“Well, I’d say a.38 would just about fit your hand. Here. Try this one for size.”
Faye took the.38, and it did feel very comfortable. “Yes, I can hold this.”
“Well, it has another advantage. It has a double action. You pull the trigger, you can fire again immediately. You don’t have to cock it again before each firing.”
“But it’s a smaller gun than the.44.”
“That it is, but let me tell you something, sir. A.38 will stop a man as quick as a.44 … if you put the bullet between his eyes.”
“Well, I’ll take this one. You have a belt and a holster?”
“You’re going to wear it?”
“Well, when I go into the woods, it’ll be a handy way to carry it.” This was not what Faye had on his mind, but it was a good enough story for Mr. Lemmons.
“Well yes, of course, we have all kinds of belts.” He fitted him with one that would work fine. Faye put it on and slipped the.38 into the holster. It was about even with where his hand was hanging.
“See how quick you can get it out. That’s what those big lawmen out west do.”
Faye’s tremendous speed came to his aid. He pulled the gun and leveled it so quickly that Lemmons batted his eyes and took a step backward.
“Heaven help us! I’ve never seen a man so fast! Well, you got what you need. I hope you don’t ever have to use it.”
“So do I. How much?”
For the next two weeks Faye went deep into the woods carrying a leather bag full of.38 bullets. He carried targets and practiced drawing his gun and shooting at them. At first he would miss the whole tree, but he had a quick, steady eye and a steady hand, and soon he was able to at least hit the tree. He improved daily, both with the speed of his draw and accuracy of hitting the target. Finally the day came when he put six bullets into a six-by-six-inch piece of paper from forty feet away. He smiled, pulled the gun up, and said, “Well, I’ve done that.”
The next few days he went to the public library and found all the writings he could about Judge Parker and his court and especially about the marshals that represented the law in Indian Territory. He had made up his mind that this would be a good place for him to be a man, but how to tell his mother he could not imagine.
She’s going to have a terrible fit, and she’s going to say no, but it’s something I’ve got to do
.
“You want to do what, Faye?”
“I want to prove myself to be more than just a painter.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I feel like I’m only half a man, Mother.”
“You’re just measuring yourself against your father and your brothers.”
“I’m sure that’s true and also against some other people. They’re bigger than I am and stronger, but I want to prove to myself that I am a man. That I’ll survive.”
That was the beginning of the argument. It went on for a week
Faye smiled. “With enough practice you can do anything, Pat.”
Indeed, practice he did, until finally he became so adept with the Winchester that he could hit three out of four of the clay pigeons. By then, he knew he could hit anything on the run.
Next he knew he would have to handle a pistol. He went to a gun shop in the center of the city and looked for quite a while at guns.
The owner’s name was Abe Lemmons. He seemed curious.
“What will you be doing with the gun, Mr. Riordan?” “Oh, I just need to handle a gun.”
“Well, I tell you what. Most men these days want one of those.44 Colts.” He reached into a glass case and said, “Here. Hold that.”
“It’s pretty heavy.”
“Yes, it’s heavy, plus your hands are small and that handle’s big. Most of these are single action.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means when you fire the gun you have to use your thumb to pull the hammer back before you can shoot again. As I say, you’ve got small hands.”
“What do I need, Mr. Lemmons?”
“Well, I’d say a.38 would just about fit your hand. Here. Try this one for size.”
Faye took the.38, and it did feel very comfortable. “Yes, I can hold this.”
“Well, it has another advantage. It has a double action. You pull the trigger, you can fire again immediately. You don’t have to cock it again before each firing.”
“But it’s a smaller gun than the.44.”
“That it is, but let me tell you something, sir. A.38 will stop a man as quick as a.44 … if you put the bullet between his eyes.”
“Well, I’ll take this one. You have a belt and a holster?”
“You’re going to wear it?”
“Well, when I go into the woods, it’ll be a handy way to carry it.” This was not what Faye had on his mind, but it was a good enough story for Mr. Lemmons.
“Well yes, of course, we have all kinds of belts.” He fitted him with one that would work fine. Faye put it on and slipped the.38 into the holster. It was about even with where his hand was hanging.
“See how quick you can get it out. That’s what those big lawmen out west do.”
Faye’s tremendous speed came to his aid. He pulled the gun and leveled it so quickly that Lemmons batted his eyes and took a step backward.
“Heaven help us! I’ve never seen a man so fast! Well, you got what you need. I hope you don’t ever have to use it.”
“So do I. How much?”
For the next two weeks Faye went deep into the woods carrying a leather bag full of.38 bullets. He carried targets and practiced drawing his gun and shooting at them. At first he would miss the whole tree, but he had a quick, steady eye and a steady hand, and soon he was able to at least hit the tree. He improved daily, both with the speed of his draw and accuracy of hitting the target. Finally the day came when he put six bullets into a six-by-six-inch piece of paper from forty feet away. He smiled, pulled the gun up, and said, “Well, I’ve done that.”
The next few days he went to the public library and found all the writings he could about Judge Parker and his court and especially about the marshals that represented the law in Indian Territory. He had made up his mind that this would be a good place for him to be a man, but how to tell his mother he could not imagine.
She’s going to have a terrible fit, and she’s going to say no, but it’s something I’ve got to do
.
“You want to do what, Faye?”
“I want to prove myself to be more than just a painter.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I feel like I’m only half a man, Mother.”
“You’re just measuring yourself against your father and your brothers.”
“I’m sure that’s true and also against some other people. They’re bigger than I am and stronger, but I want to prove to myself that I am a man. That I’ll survive.”
That was the beginning of the argument. It went on for a week
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