It seemed to Jeff that he could still hear the sound of those shots rolling through the cottonwoods. It had not sounded like the cowhands shooting off their guns as they raced their horses through Plainsville. This had been sudden. And there had been no laughter to go with it.
“One of these days,” Nathan told his son, “I'll show you how it's done. Let me see your hands.”
Jeff held out his hands, and his pa whistled softly. “Good and big. That's good. You need big hands to squeeze the butt and catch the hammer.” He held the revolver out to the boy, butt first. “Would you like to try it?”
Jeff blinked in disbelief. He had seen guns all his life, of course, but he had never had a chance to hold one.
“You mean I can shoot it?”
“Sure.” His pa laughed. “Go on, take it.”
Eagerly, Jeff reached for the revolver. Then, with the suddenness of lightning, the revolver blurred in Nathan Blaine's hand and the butt smacked into his palm. Hammer cocked, the muzzle snapped into position directly in front of Jeff's startled eyes.
Jeff had never known pure terror before that moment, with the muzzle so close to his nose that he could smell the burned powder, could feel the heat of the smoking barrel. He felt the blood drain from his face.
Nathan Blaine said, “The muzzle of a gun is not a pretty thing to look into, is it?”
His voice was deadly serious as he lowered the revolver. “Well, that's the first lesson a man has to learn, Jeff, if he wants to stay alive. Don't let yourself get in a position like that again.”
Nathan held the revolver as he had before, by the barrel, upside down, butt extended forward. With one finger hooked in the trigger guard, he gave the gun a flip with his other fingers and wrist. The butt snapped into his palm and the hammer came back on the crook of his thumb at the same moment, and the gun was ready to fire.
“That's called the road agents' spin by some,” Nathan said. “It's sudden death in any language. There's only one way to disarm a man, and that's to make him drop his gun to the ground. When a gunshark makes to hand you his gun, even when it's butt first, you're just a split second away from death.”
Jeff cleared his throat. “I'll—I'll remember.”
“I know you will.” Nathan Blaine smiled quietly. “Do you still want to try it?”
Jeff stared at his father as though he had never seen him before. The boy was not afraid of him, but he understood that the dark look of danger was never far behind Nathan Blaine's black eyes.
“Do you mean it?” Jeff asked.
“I mean it. No tricks this time.”
Jeff jumped from the saddle and took the heavy revolver. That thing of glued steel and polished walnut seemed almost alive, and he had never known that such a thrill of power could come from merely holding a cold, inanimate object. He had not guessed, either, that a .45 could be so heavy. He could hardly keep his arm from trembling as he held the revolver out in front of him. “What'll I shoot at?”
Nathan laughed. “It makes no difference; you won't hit it anyway. This is just to show you what it feels like to have a gun go off in your hand.”
Jeff picked out a cottonwood trunk across the creek. He had to wrestle the hammer back with both hands; then he held the revolver in front of him, aimed it and pulled the trigger.
He had not been prepared for the violent reaction in his hand. He almost dropped the gun. He could feel the shock of the explosion all the way to his shoulder. When the hammer fell, his gun hand leaped up almost over his head, and the roar was deafening.
He had no idea where the bullet went, but the cotton-wood was standing solid and unshaken.
“Try it again,” Nathan said mildly.
This time Jeff was better prepared for the violence of the. recoil. He planted his bare feet solid on the ground, raised his arm slowly and sighted along the barrel, but after the explosion there was no sign that he had hit anything on the other bank. There wasn't even a spray of dust to show where the bullet hit the ground.
“Once more,” his pa said quietly. “This time don't pull the trigger with your finger; just squeeze the butt with your whole hand.”
Jeff tried it the way his pa said, and this time he was delighted to see dirt kick up near the base of the cotton-wood.
“Not bad!” his father said, taking the revolver. He punched out the empty cartridge cases and reloaded the chambers with five rounds from his belt. The hammer went down on the empty chamber and the Colt's went into its holster.
“Could I try it again?” Jeff asked eagerly. “I bet I could hit it the next time!”
But Nathan shook his head. “You've had enough for one day. Just think over what I told you—-that'll do you more good than burnin' up a wagonload of ammunition.”
Jeff noticed that his pa was smiling and seemed to be in high spirits. “Yes, sir,” he said, stepping up to the saddle, “Wirt Sewell is all right as a tinsmith, I guess, but I'll bet he can't teach you to shoot the way your pa can!”
“Shucks,” Jeff said, “Uncle Wirt doesn't even own a gun.
Nathan Blaine laughed. And from the sound, it was easy to tell that he was not a man who laughed often. But now he looked upon his boy with a gentleness that was surprising; the tense line of his mouth was relaxed and the fire behind his eyes was almost invisible.
Jeff climbed up on the bay feeling more a man than he had ever felt in his life. He had felt a good horse between his legs, he had felt the buck of a .45 in his hand, and he had heard a savage music more enticing than a siren's song.
He rode erect arid proud beside the tall figure of his pa.
Nathan was still smiling to himself when they reached the pasture gate. Jeff was put out because this was the one day that Bessie had to be waiting at the gate for him, robbing him of his chance to ride after her on his fine bay mare.
“Seems to me that mare's taken a liking to you, son,” Nathan said. “What do you say I make arrangements to keep her for a while?”
Jeff knew that his eyes were bugging. “You really mean it?”
“Sure I mean it. Look, we'll have a fine time together. Why, you'll be the best rider and the best pistol shot in this part of Texas when your pa gets through with you. And I'll teach you other things, too. Things your Uncle Wirt never even heard about!”
Jeff was stupefied with pleasure. A fine horse to ride all the time! A real Colt's revolver to shoot! Who could tell, maybe his pa would even buy him some thin-soled boots. It seemed that all good things had come at once!
They jogged Bessie almost all the way home. Aunt Beulah was going to raise ned when she found out about it, but Jeff didn't care. Within Jeff's chest there was a kind of pleasant swelling he had never known before. And once his pa reached out and punched him very gently on the shoulder, grinning. It was the only time Nathan had touched him, except for that cool handshake when they had first met in Aunt Beulah's parlor.