Chapter 36: Calling It Quits

Mark Stevens took an instant liking to Burnett, Texas. There was something about the town. Perhaps it was the look of settled affluence. Two broad streets formed a letter ‘T’, the stem, on which Stevens arrived, a hundred and fifty yards in length and the cross street forty yards shorter. Having seen his share of dreary, crumbling, one-horse places, the newcomer was pleased to note that everything here looked well-kept. First, he encountered the houses, all in good repair and each with its tidy garden. Then came the business places, equally smart in their different way. Both streets were lined with young trees which gave promise of impressive maturity. This looked like a nice place to live.

Another thing that struck Stevens was the activity. It was a Saturday and not yet nine a.m., but people thronged the sidewalks and the stores seemed to be doing brisk business. Buggies and buckboards trundled to and fro. Outside what seemed to be the premier hardware place, a big freight wagon was being unloaded. The deluge of rain which had just eased to a trickle would have reduced the streets of many a town to ankle-deep mud. Here, the gravel surfaces appeared to be coping well with weather and traffic. Some care had gone into that.

Halting outside the Southern Star Hotel, Stevens dismounted, doffed his oilskin and entered, to find a reception desk attended by a small, well-dressed man in his early twenties. The clerk looked up from the register, appraising his latest visitor. He saw a middle-sized man of – as far as the moderate growth of mid-brown facial hair allowed him to guess – about his own age. He also took in the good-quality outfit – pearl-grey Stetson hat, suit, narrow tie and boots, all black, and the shirt, white but somewhat travel-grimed. “Morning,” he said. “Clearing up nicely.”

“That it is. Do you have a room?”

“By an amazing coincidence, I do. Only one.”

“One’s enough. Why the coincidence?”

“Oh, you don’t know?”

“No. Would you like to tell me?”

“Delighted to. This is the one day in the year when we’re usually full. Only reason we have a room now is that we heard from one of our regulars an hour or so ago. He’s sick. First time he hasn’t been able to get here for years. He’ll be sorry to miss the big occasion.”

“What occasion?”

The clerk overcame his surprise. “Well, I imagined you’d come for the contest.”

“No. I’m just passing through. What kind of contest?”

“Our annual rifle-shooting competition. This is the ninth year. We get people from miles around. That’s why I thought you’d know what’s happening.”

“I didn’t. Still, now I’m here, maybe I’ll look in on it. When does it start?”

“One o’clock. First there’s a little exhibition, then the real thing gets going. If you’re any hand with a rifle, you still have time to put your name down. The book’s open till noon. Nice prize. ‘Course, you’d have to beat Ray Gentry.”

Stevens stiffened. “Ray Gentry?”

“That’s right. He came here four years ago. Entered right away and he’s won the prize every year from then on. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“I seem to remember hearing it somewhere. Anyway, I could use a little rest. You got the key?” Stevens paid for two days in advance, took his horse to the livery barn, bolted a breakfast at a busy restaurant, then went to his room. It was true that he needed to put his feet up. He’d been riding hard for too long. But what he’d heard from the clerk precluded relaxation. Had he heard of Ray Gentry?

What a question to ask Mark Stevens of all people. The two had grown up together in a small town in Idaho. Gentry, two years older and much bigger and stronger than Stevens, had pestered him for years, during and after schooldays, often inciting others to do the same. Finally, after receiving a beating from a gang led by Gentry, Stevens decided that life in the town was intolerable. He left within a month of the incident. Now, here they both were – assuming that it was the same Ray Gentry – six years later, in a place well over a thousand miles from where they’d started life.

There were few doubts in Stevens’ mind that the blame for his career after departing from his hometown could be laid at Gentry’s door. Stevens reasoned, or rather rationalised that, had he not banished himself from his birthplace, his affairs wouldn’t have taken the course they did. That path was one followed all too often by unskilled drifters. Mark Stevens had become a small-time bandit – he didn’t have either the imagination or the daring to undertake major operations. Still, he had done well enough out of it to feel that he could now put the past behind him and maybe set himself up in business. Apart from any other considerations, his conscience was troubling him. To date, he had not killed or injured anyone, but if he went on with this way of life, that would be only a matter of time. Now twenty-three, he reckoned he’d better straighten himself out.

It was an irony within an irony that Stevens had wound up in the same place as Ray Gentry. Strange that the two should have reached Burnett, and even more so that Stevens had arrived on this particular day.

There had only ever been one field in which Stevens had outshone Gentry. That was marksmanship. Gentry was good, but Stevens was better. He had in fact won two shooting competitions in the course of his travels, the second one netting him as a prize the Winchester he now owned, which was the best rifle he had ever handled. Now it seemed that fate had decreed this meeting. Well, it was a confrontation from which Stevens would not shrink. It was, he recognised, one of those crucial moments in life.

For well over an hour, Mark Stevens lay there thinking, stroking the still unfamiliar beard and moustache. He had grown the whiskers as a temporary measure after his last hold-up. Anything to confuse the pursuit, he’d reckoned. The change hadn’t yet been either a help or a hindrance, but now it amused him to think it might deceive Ray Gentry – not that deception was necessary. Having reached his conclusion, Stevens picked up his weapon and went to the reception desk, finding the young fellow still in attendance. “I think I’ll try my hand at the shooting,” he said. “What do I do?”

“Good for you,” the clerk answered. “Go along the street to the House of Cards saloon. Our town marshal, Bill Dooley, keeps the register there. You pay five dollars and take your chance. There’s just the one prize – two hundred and fifty dollars. They collect all the five-dollar entry fees and any shortfall below the prize money is made up by the town’s businesses. If we get more than fifty entries – not that we ever have done – the extra cash will go into our community chest.”

Thanking the man, Stevens left. He strolled around the town, confirming his favourable first impression, then went into the saloon, where the book was just about to be closed. “I’d like to take part in the shooting match,” he said to Marshal Dooley.

“Well, you just made it,” the lawman replied. “I guess you’ll be the last entrant. That’ll be five dollars. Better give me your name.”

Stevens handed over the money. “Name,” he said. “Oh, yes. Er ... Marks. Stephen Marks.”

“As long as you’re sure.” The marshal was mildly amused by the hesitation.

“I guess I should know.”

“Okay, Mister Marks,” the marshal emphasised the name, “Being a stranger, maybe you need an explanation of how this thing works?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay. If you go see the mayor, John Wilby – that’s him, talking over yonder. He’ll tell you what’s what.”

Thanking the marshal, Stevens wandered over to the little knot of people surrounding the mayor, who was holding forth on some political point when he noticed the newcomer trying to attract his attention. Interrupting his discourse, he turned to Stevens. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

“Yes. The marshal was saying you’d tell me about the rules of this contest.”

“Certainly. You’re new here, are you not?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, we start in about an hour. First, we have little entertainment. Only a matter of minutes, but I think you’ll enjoy it. Then the contest opens. If I got the signal from Marshal Dooley right just now, you were the last to register. That makes thirty-nine.”

“So it’s likely to take a while, is it?”

“Probably not as long as you might think. We shoot in groups of five, with a last lot if necessary, so that’ll be four this time. Each contestant has five shots, which must be fired within two minutes, from an upright unsupported position, using only the naked eye. The targets are two feet square. They’re blue, with a white circle in the middle, and are initially numbered one to five. We start by setting them at three hundred yards. Those who get all five shots in the white circle proceed. Anyone who doesn’t falls out. Then we set up fresh targets further back, and so it goes on. Each time, more people fail, until we get a winner.”

“What if they all fail at the same point?”

“That’s never happened. If it did, I would adjudicate by examining the groupings for tightness, but I don’t think I need to go into detail right now.”

Stevens nodded. “I guess there won’t be many left at the distance I mentioned?”

“Very few. Ray Gentry, who lives here in town, has taken the prize four years running. As I recall it, he won last year at about that range. He got all his shots in the white circle and the only other fellow left missed with two of his. I don’t think we ever had to go out any further. No one knows what Gentry could do if pressed. Now, I have a few other matters to deal with. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, sir. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

The venue was the open space behind the back lots of the shorter street, and by the scheduled start time a crowd of around five hundred people had gathered for the event. Mark Stevens joined the other competitors and was given his number, thirty-nine. As the last to enter, he would shoot in the final group of four. He had already picked out the burly form of Ray Gentry, surrounded by admirers. The man was full of geniality, swapping banter with those around him. Well, thought Stevens, the local star would soon find it harder to maintain his good humour.

Mayor Wilby was chatting with group of other civic dignitaries. Promptly at one o’clock, he broke away. Walking over to stand on a little platform, he held his arms high and wide and called for attention. He was now in full speech mode. Orotund was the word. However, he kept it tolerably short, recounting briefly the history of the competition and the phenomenal success of the current champion, then offering good wishes to all contestants. Finally, he announced that the proceedings would, as usual, start with an exhibition with knife and handgun and that, for the fifth successive year, he had been able to secure the talents of that redoubtable gentleman, Charlie Two Trees. This brought enthusiastic applause, during which Wilby stepped down.

Mark Stevens turned to the man next to him. “Who’s this Charlie?” he said.

“He’s a Crow Indian. And before you ask, I don’t know what a Crow’s doing here. Nobody else does, either, except him. The rest of his people are way up north. Charlie’s one of a kind. Anyway, you’re in for a treat here. He’s amazing.”

The man himself had now appeared, dressed in a fringed belted buckskin jacket and matching trousers. He was a short stocky elderly fellow, his face alone a study. Looking at it, Mark Stevens was reminded of a roasted walnut. Charlie Two Trees deposited a wooden box on the ground. A boy assigned to help him carried an easel mounted on a little four-wheeled trolley to a point thirty feet away from the marksman, pinning to the frame a target, painted in concentric circles, blue on the outside, then white, then a four-inch bullseye in red.

The old Indian took a handful of throwing knives from his box, tucking them into his belt. He lined himself up with the target, shuffled his feet, then drew one of the knives. His right arm went up high and straight, then swept down, releasing the knife. It hit the target, dead-centre, to a burst of applause. Next, Charlie did the same thing left-handed, the second knife clanging against the first as it drove into the target. The crowd loved it.

The boy returned the knives to the Indian, who then took one in each hand. He tensed himself, standing still for ten seconds, then both arms went up and down together, releasing the two knives simultaneously. Both struck the bullseye close to the centre and barely half an inch apart. The acclaim was loud and long.

Now the boy fastened a length of rope to the trolley, which he pushed back a few feet before moving it to the right-hand side of the clearway, then running back to the left-hand side. At a sign from Charlie, he began to pull the easel from right to left, moving it at a steady walking speed. As the target traversed the space, Charlie, using his right hand, threw four knives, all hitting the shifting target, none more than an inch from the centre. Again, there was a tremendous response. Next, the boy returned the knives, then trotted across the clearway and began to haul the target rightwards. This time, Charlie hurled the four knives with his left hand. All hit the target as accurately as the first throws. The crowd’s reaction was appropriate to the feat.

Returning to his box, Charlie pulled out a gun belt with twin holsters, then he produced two double-action revolvers into each of which he put four bullets, to match the number of knives he’d used. Re-loading as required, he did with the guns what he had done with the knives, showing the same level of accuracy. That would have been remarkable enough if he’d raised the guns to shoulder height and taken careful aim. As it was, he fired from the hips, shooting the instant he cleared leather. Again there was tremendous applause.

Mark Stevens felt dig in his ribs from a short dumpy fellow standing on his right. “He’s going to give us his party piece now,” said the man. “He always saves the best for last.”

Stevens chuckled. “Calls for a drum roll or something, does it?”

“You’ll think so when you’ve seen it. Just watch.”

Charlie’s young assistant took from a coat pocket a small circular piece of stiff yellow card, which he tacked over the centre of the target, so that a clear ring of the red bullseye remained visible. The Indian still had the four knives in his waistband. He raised one in his right hand, threw it as before, then the hand continued downwards, drawing the right-side gun, which again was fired from the hip. Both knife and bullet hit the yellow card. The lad inspected the target and, turning with a wide grin, raised both thumbs, then loosened the card and held it up for all to see before replacing it with an identical one. Charlie repeated his effort left-handed, once more getting knife and bullet into the card. The youngster checked the target again, once more hoisting his thumbs, removing the card and waving it around, then fastening up another of the same size and colour.