“You boys starting a Wild West show or planning on joining Buffalo Bill’s?”
“This ain’t none of your business,” Cullen said. Lifting the big Spencer to his shoulder, he sighted on the target and squeezed the trigger, and then mimicked the sound of the Indian’s head exploding. The boys gave a short, mirthless chuckle, and Graver smelled the alcohol.
“You want you a nice Winchester you’re going after deer or antelope. No point in blowing the thing to pieces and ruining the meat.” Graver picked one with an engraved barrel off the wall. “Here’s a good used one.” He held up the rifle, rubbing his hand along the satiny finish of the stock, and quickly sighted down the barrel. “Looks true.” He turned it over in his hands, suddenly squinting at the memory of the shooting at the windmill. He looked at the boys, who watched him but now glanced away as if they didn’t. Was that guilt on their faces?
“But you boys already own one of these, don’t you? Your pa give it to you?”
Ignoring him, Hayward laid the Russians carefully on the glass and pulled a wad of dollars from his jeans. “Think he’ll take eighty for the pair?” He began smoothing the bills with the side of his hand, larger than his brother’s, Graver noticed.
“You don’t need those,” Cullen muttered to his brother. “That Berdan’s probably seen better days, but it’d get it done. I’m taking the Spencer.” Cullen slipped a thick pack of folded bills from his back pocket. “Come on. Cash money talks, baby brother, cash always talks.” He hefted the long rifle over his shoulder and pushed past Graver, who had to lean back to avoid being hit in the head with the gun barrel.
“Your mother’s waiting for you,” Graver said when they’d completed the transaction.
“Tell her we’re staying in town tonight.” Cullen glanced at his brother and the younger boy nodded.
“Tell her yourself.” Graver walked toward the door.
“Do as you’re told or get packing,” Cullen called after him.
“You didn’t hire me, boy, and you don’t fire me.” Graver half expected Cullen to shoot him in the back as he walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him so as to not rattle the etched glass. He stood on the boardwalk, took a deep breath, and lifted his hat to wipe his eyes on his shirtsleeve.
Astride the stallion, Dulcinea was speaking with Rose, who drove the dilapidated wagon. He studied the way Dulcinea sat, waiting, her big horse restive, chewing the bit and nodding his head up and down, each upward swing slightly higher so that eventually he would hit his rider in the face. Graver was about to intervene when she tweaked the rein and told him to stop. The horse tucked his nose to his chest and rattled the bit with his teeth. Sweat broke out on his neck and around his ears.
“Did you tell them we’re ready to go?” she asked.
He nodded. She sat a horse well, astride, in full command with a deep seat and straight back. “How long do you think they’ll be?”
He wanted to respond that they were spoiled, disrespectful brats, and they needed a good hiding, but shut his mouth and shrugged. Her hands held the reins firm and light at the same time. In English riding, they kept the reins short with constant contact on the bit, which wouldn’t do for cow work where a person had to handle a rope and sometimes a whip, too. A horse had to be trusted to carry itself, to work off the leg and shift with the cowboy’s weight.
“That horse isn’t real cowy,” Graver said by way of making conversation. Jerome smiled.
“I should hope not,” Dulcinea said. “We’re going to breed a new kind of horse out here, one that will, well, one that will be a pleasure to ride and possess greater beauty and intelligence. And it can be taught about cows.” She dropped her chin and frowned. “Where are those boys?”
“You could give them a holler,” Graver said and leaned against the post that held up the porch overhang. He studied the stallion, a tall gray with four white socks, and wondered about its bloodlines.
“We’ll go and set up some bottles and try them out.” Cullen exited first, cradling his new rifle across his chest like an orphan calf, followed by Hayward, adjusting how the new holster rode his hips.
“These sit a little heavy. Maybe I should just wear one. Leave the other one on my saddle. It’s hard to walk. Maybe I should—”
“You bought guns,” Dulcinea said, her expression flat.
“Aren’t they something?” Cullen held up his rifle so it pointed at the stallion’s chest. Graver straightened. Even Hayward looked startled and reached a hand toward his brother, then let it drop.
“Hayward’s too young for those pistols,” she said.
“I am not! Watch—” He drew the guns so quickly she gasped. “I got a cross draw, too.” He flipped the guns into their holsters and just as quickly pulled them out cross armed, wearing a big proud grin.
“But how accurate are you?” Graver said. “Doesn’t matter how fast you are if you can’t shoot straight.”
“I hit everything I’m aiming at.” The boy pouted.
“And I get anything he misses,” Cullen said.
“We’ll have this discussion at the ranch,” Dulcinea said.
Cullen stared at the horse, fascinated, as he slowly shook his head.
She fixed the boys with a hard stare. “I need you to help get the wagons home. You can come back tomorrow or the next day if Higgs doesn’t have work for you.”
“Can I ride him?” Cullen asked.
“In a few days. The mares are a gift for you boys. The stud was for your father, so—” Dulcinea hesitated.
Cullen’s eyes darkened and he looked away.
“I need your help in exchange, though.” She glanced at Graver.
“Can I ride him now, on the way home?” Cullen asked.
“Nooo, you have to earn his trust first. Now what I do need help with . . .”
“Get off the horse,” Cullen said, and his carelessly held rifle swung upward and pointed at his mother. Without thinking, Graver shoved past Hayward and slammed into Cullen hard enough to knock him backward. He grabbed the rifle and flung it away as the boy fell against the Emporium wall, rattling the plate-glass window. Then he pulled him up by the back of his shirt collar, shook him like a puppy, and slapped him hard across the face.
“A man doesn’t point a gun at a lady,” he said with another hard slap, leaving a bright red imprint on the boy’s cheek. “And don’t point a gun at anything you aren’t going to kill.”
With tears in his eyes Cullen yanked free and whispered, “Then you’re dead!”
Graver raised his hand to slap him again, and Dulcinea cried, “Stop! Cullen, Hayward, get on your horses now.”
Hayward looked at his brother, who shook his head as if to clear it and was about to retrieve the rifle when Graver stepped in his way. “At the ranch.”
Cullen slowly released his breath and straightened to stand eye to eye with the older man. “I been beat so hard I couldn’t walk, you think a couple little slaps mean anything? These hills are big, lonesome country—you better ride loose from now on. And you interfere with me and my mother again, I’ll kill you on the spot.” Graver could see tears in the boy’s eyes.
“Anything I can do for you folks?” The sheriff leaned against the wall of the Emporium, watching them.
Mrs. Bennett hesitated, then stepped down from the gray and handed the reins to Graver. “I need to speak with you,” she said, and the sheriff nodded toward his office a few doors away.