that he leave his guns outside. Deerling ignored the old man and found a place in the front row, where he sat with his arms crossed, as if preparing for an argument.
Soon after the preacher began his sermon, a group of large, kite-eared boys began to laugh and talk loudly.
Dr. Tom leaned towards Nate and whispered, “Hellfire’s comin’.”
Deerling stood up, passed in front of the preacher, who faltered in his sermon, and calmly walked to the row of chairs where the youths sat. He pulled one of the Colts from his belt and tapped the boy nearest to him none too gently over the head with the butt end. In the shocked silence of the tent, Deerling walked back to the pulpit, coming to stand behind the sermon giver. The ranger directed the shaken preacher, “Go on ahead with your lesson. Just think of me as the angel Gabriel.”
From that Sunday forward, Deerling had appeared as close to cheerful as Nate had yet seen him.
The food was soon swept away, and the weapons were brought out for inspection.
Deerling gestured to the Dance revolver and Henry rifle that Nate was cleaning and said, “You’re going to need to get more firepower than that.”
“I will when I can pay for it.” After a pause he asked, “You think we’ll see any play?”
Dr. Tom shrugged. “We don’t want to linger here any more than we need to. What’s the farthest distance you’ve ever gotten out of that Henry?”
“A few hundred feet, maybe more.”
“Or maybe less.” Dr. Tom laughed.
Deerling looked at Nate for a moment as though deciding something; then he got up, walked to his bedroll, and reached for a long leather case. Nate had seen the case strapped to the mule and guessed it was a rifle but had not yet seen what kind.
Out of the case, Deerling pulled a Whitworth and handed it to Nate.
Dr. Tom said, “Well, this is a kiss-and-make-up. He don’t even let me hold that rifle.”
Nate had never seen a Whitworth rifle, much less held one. A few Confederate sharpshooters had used them to great effect, but they were rare, and a one-shot deal in a hard engagement. Of all the weapons spread out before him—including two navy Colts, a Smith and Wesson top-break pistol, two Walker Dragoons, and two Winchester rifles—the Whitworth was worth the most, more than all of them put together.
“It’s light,” Nate said, surprised.
Deerling nodded. “I’ve got only six bullets left for it.”
Nate sighted down the barrel, swept it in a slow arc from window to door. He then passed it back to Deerling. “Where’d you come by it?”
“I negotiated heavily for it.”
Dr. Tom slapped the table. “He liberated it from some old reprobate perched on a gully firing at the Henderson town sheriff a quarter mile away. That rifle shoots twice that distance without breakin’ wind.”
Deerling carefully returned the rifle to its case, and Nate thought he looked pleased by the memory. Deerling added, “Maybe I’ll let you fire it sometime. We get to Austin, we’ll draw pay and see about you getting another rifle.”
Nate nodded his genuine thanks and he sat comfortably for another hour in the shadows cast by the oil lamps listening to commentary, mostly by Dr. Tom, about the distances yet to be traveled, the streams and rivers and wide-gaping arroyos to be crossed. About how the land would change, from sand and rock to hills of black soil and prairie, the bands of colors changing with the ground from the damnation red and purple of the desert to endless shades of yellow and green of grasslands.
Having little hardware or tack to clean, Nate crawled into his bedroll and left the two rangers to finish their business. When he woke, it was to the milky, diffused light of dawn. Through sleep-gummed eyes, he became aware of a figure standing next to his bedroll.
Deerling said, “We’ve got to leave now. Tom’s out readying the horses.”
Nate drew his head back like a tortoise, rubbing his face and squinting to better see. Deerling
Soon after the preacher began his sermon, a group of large, kite-eared boys began to laugh and talk loudly.
Dr. Tom leaned towards Nate and whispered, “Hellfire’s comin’.”
Deerling stood up, passed in front of the preacher, who faltered in his sermon, and calmly walked to the row of chairs where the youths sat. He pulled one of the Colts from his belt and tapped the boy nearest to him none too gently over the head with the butt end. In the shocked silence of the tent, Deerling walked back to the pulpit, coming to stand behind the sermon giver. The ranger directed the shaken preacher, “Go on ahead with your lesson. Just think of me as the angel Gabriel.”
From that Sunday forward, Deerling had appeared as close to cheerful as Nate had yet seen him.
The food was soon swept away, and the weapons were brought out for inspection.
Deerling gestured to the Dance revolver and Henry rifle that Nate was cleaning and said, “You’re going to need to get more firepower than that.”
“I will when I can pay for it.” After a pause he asked, “You think we’ll see any play?”
Dr. Tom shrugged. “We don’t want to linger here any more than we need to. What’s the farthest distance you’ve ever gotten out of that Henry?”
“A few hundred feet, maybe more.”
“Or maybe less.” Dr. Tom laughed.
Deerling looked at Nate for a moment as though deciding something; then he got up, walked to his bedroll, and reached for a long leather case. Nate had seen the case strapped to the mule and guessed it was a rifle but had not yet seen what kind.
Out of the case, Deerling pulled a Whitworth and handed it to Nate.
Dr. Tom said, “Well, this is a kiss-and-make-up. He don’t even let me hold that rifle.”
Nate had never seen a Whitworth rifle, much less held one. A few Confederate sharpshooters had used them to great effect, but they were rare, and a one-shot deal in a hard engagement. Of all the weapons spread out before him—including two navy Colts, a Smith and Wesson top-break pistol, two Walker Dragoons, and two Winchester rifles—the Whitworth was worth the most, more than all of them put together.
“It’s light,” Nate said, surprised.
Deerling nodded. “I’ve got only six bullets left for it.”
Nate sighted down the barrel, swept it in a slow arc from window to door. He then passed it back to Deerling. “Where’d you come by it?”
“I negotiated heavily for it.”
Dr. Tom slapped the table. “He liberated it from some old reprobate perched on a gully firing at the Henderson town sheriff a quarter mile away. That rifle shoots twice that distance without breakin’ wind.”
Deerling carefully returned the rifle to its case, and Nate thought he looked pleased by the memory. Deerling added, “Maybe I’ll let you fire it sometime. We get to Austin, we’ll draw pay and see about you getting another rifle.”
Nate nodded his genuine thanks and he sat comfortably for another hour in the shadows cast by the oil lamps listening to commentary, mostly by Dr. Tom, about the distances yet to be traveled, the streams and rivers and wide-gaping arroyos to be crossed. About how the land would change, from sand and rock to hills of black soil and prairie, the bands of colors changing with the ground from the damnation red and purple of the desert to endless shades of yellow and green of grasslands.
Having little hardware or tack to clean, Nate crawled into his bedroll and left the two rangers to finish their business. When he woke, it was to the milky, diffused light of dawn. Through sleep-gummed eyes, he became aware of a figure standing next to his bedroll.
Deerling said, “We’ve got to leave now. Tom’s out readying the horses.”
Nate drew his head back like a tortoise, rubbing his face and squinting to better see. Deerling
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