Ralph Compton Comanche Trail by Carlton Stowers Page B

property.”
    â€œLeave the mules. You’ll find your guns down at the bottom of the trail. Does that seem a friendly exchange?”
    â€œThought you wasn’t wanting the mules.”
    â€œI wasn’t,” Stalling said as he returned to his chair, “but somebody’s likely to.”
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    â€œI don’t reckon I learned much back there,” Taylor said as they rode away from the Hills.
    â€œExcept maybe the fact that it appeared you once knew the man.”
    Barclay told him of his long-ago encounter with Stallings and his band of outlaws, careful to leave out any mention of Jolene Cavanaugh.
    â€œDid it cross your mind as we visited that you might still want to kill him for what he did?”
    â€œNope. He’s done dead already. He just ain’t accepted the fact yet.”
    In truth, they had learned something during the strange visit. “What we’ll want to do is find us a place to make camp,” Barclay said, “somewhere far enough away from the Hills so as to be out of sight of those men manning the guard tower and anyone who might be coming to pay a visit. We’ll just hunker down and wait.”
    Taylor gave him a puzzled look.
    â€œWe could hope to stumble onto the site of the Comanches’ camp. No telling where they are, and I ain’t of a mind to spend the rest of my days wanderin’ around these parts. I figure Stallings was being truthful when he said they come to do business with him, so what I’m suggesting is we just wait and let ’em come to us. Then when they take their leave we can follow at a safe distance.”
    â€œHow long you think we’ll have to wait?”
    Barclay grunted. “Could be a while. Or maybe not. We’ll just have to give our patience some exercise and see what develops. Meanwhile, maybe we could pass some time teachin’ you how to properly shoot that Colt they just give back to you.”
    Taylor rubbed his hand against the holster belted to his waist. “I suppose.”
    â€œIf you ever read any of them dime novels,” Barclay said, “they’re filled with gunfighters claiming to be fast draws, fannin’ their guns with one hand while shooting with the other, always hittin’ their target without so much as aiming. I’m here to tell you that ain’t the way of the real world. I’ll do what I can to teach you.”
    That evening, just before dusk, they stood facing a steep ridge where they had lifted a rotting tree trunk into place. They were well out of earshot of the Cookson Hills that now loomed in the distance. Barclay described the proper stance to take, the way to hold a pistol with not one hand but two, and how to sight down its barrel. “If time permits,” he said, “it’s a good idea to take a deep breath and hold it before you shoot. Keeps the hands steadier and gives you a better chance of hittin’ your target. You always want to squeeze the trigger real slow.”
    â€œAnd if Indians or outlaws are suddenly bearing down on us and time is of the essence?”
    â€œThen forget all the fancy stuff I’m telling you. Just point and start shootin’.”
    Their ammunition was limited, so Taylor’s first lesson consisted of only six shots. Five raised small puffs of red dust well away from the target. One hit the old tree with apleasing thud. “Now what you’ll want to do,” Barclay said, “is think on what you just done. Let your mind’s eye take aim and shoot, over and over again, until it begins to feel a natural thing to do.”
    That night as he slept, Taylor fired shot after dream shot, reducing the tree trunk to nothing but pulp. It was when the target suddenly turned from a rotted tree to a smiling woman with long black hair, wearing a peasant blouse, that he woke, sweat beading on his forehead.
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