After a few more minutes of overblown oratory, Parker Vandiver took his seat. The mayor graciously offered the podium to Jared. He politely refused. The audience was disappointed, but some remembered when he had been honored after the war. He had refused to speak then out of sorrow for those not fortunate enough to come home. There were murmurs of approval and nods of understanding. They had been worried over some of his wild escapades, but anyone with eyes could see that he had married a real lady and was devoted to her. Marriage had settled him down. No doubt about it.
It was a good thing that the attention of the crowd was riveted on Jared and his wife, for had they been watching Olivia, they would have seen the perturbed expression on her face. She was angry with her son for not publicly commending the Vandivers and the railroad venture.
The formalities were out of the way, and everyone was ready to have a good time. Barrels of iced-down beer were heaved onto wagon beds, relay races were organized, the band assembled in the bandstand and began playing their limited repertoire.
As Jared was helping Lauren off the platform, one of the local youths came rushing up to him. The boy’s freckled face was flushed, and his carrot-red hair radiated from his head like a burnished halo.
“Jared, Jared, there’s gonna be a shootin’ contest and they sent me to fetch you. Come on. They’re waitin’.”
Jared smiled at the boy’s exuberance. “Lauren, may I present Billy Holt. Billy, Mrs. Lockett.” The boy gave her a perfunctory nod. “Shooting contest, huh?” Jared continued. “Why did they send you after me, Billy?”
“Ah, hellfire and damnation! You know—” Realizing what he’d said, Billy turned scarlet cheeks toward Lauren. “Oh, pardon me, Miz Lockett,” he gulped. Not able to meet her eyes, he turned back to Jared. “Hell, Jared, you know you’re the best goddam shot anywhere around. It won’t be no kinda contest atall if you ain’t in it.” He was so excited that the other expletives escaped unnoticed.
“Lauren, what do you think? Would you like to see a shooting contest?”
She smiled up at Jared. “It sounds as though everyone will be disappointed if you don’t enter it.”
“I’ll do it only if you’ll go with me and watch.”
Billy was hopping first on one foot and then the other, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “Please, Miz Lockett?”
“Yes! Lead the way.” She laughed.
Billy leapt into the air and whooped, then raced off to let the others know that the star attraction was on his way.
Jared yelled for Pepe to bring his holster and pistol from the back of the buggy.
Lauren looked up at him in feigned exasperation. “You knew all along there would be a contest, didn’t you? And you planned to enter it.”
“Well, it’s nice to be begged every once in a while.” He grinned engagingly. “I just hope I don’t humiliate myself. Obviously I have a reputation to maintain.”
They strolled over to the men who were gathering for the contest. Some were checking out their revolvers and others were placing bets on the outcome of the match. The odds were strongly in Jared’s favor.
Billy and some of his cohorts had assembled bottles and cans for targets, and were lining them up on a fence rail about thirty yards away from the large oak tree that served as the base.
Jared took off his coat and handed it to Lauren as Pepe brought him his holster. He checked the Colt pistol, twirling the chambers and nodding in satisfaction. Lauren remembered being told that vaqueros loaded only five of the chambers in the Colts which most of them toted. The first chamber was always kept empty, preventing excited cowboys from shooting their own knees, toes, or friends in a stressful situation.
The ground rules were laid down by Carson whom, it appeared, was the accepted referee. “Each man takes three shots. One miss and he’s disqualified,” he intoned.
The ten men entering the contest lined up. Jared was last in line to shoot. He caught a glimpse of Kurt Vandiver leaning negligently against a tree. He wasn’t watching the contest. He was watching Lauren. Jared looked toward her and she gave him an encouraging smile. He turned his attention back to the contest.
It became boring as all of the gunmen proved to be expert marksmen. But slowly, one by one, they began to miss shots. There were three entries left, Jared among them, when someone suggested that they “fan” their hammers and try to hit three of the targets.
The first man stepped to the line that had been drawn on the ground and, when given t
he signal, fired rapidly while fanning the hammer of his pistol. He hit three of the targets. The second man only hit two of the bottles.
Jared stepped to the line. He picked a cheroot out of his breast pocket, nonchalantly struck a match, and lit the cigar, drawing on it for several seconds while everyone stood stock-still in anticipation and awe at his insouciance. His pistol was in his holster, though Lauren had seen him loading it while the others were shooting.
“Call it when you’re ready, Carson,” he said over his shoulder.
“You’re going to draw?” Carson asked in amazement.
“Yes. Call it.” He spoke calmly, though Lauren could sense his excitement.
Carson shrugged and gave the call. “Draw!”
With the speed of lightning, Jared whipped his pistol from the holster and loud retorts spewed from the barrel so fast that they sounded like one continuous blast. When the smoke cleared, the witnesses saw only one bottle left on the fence. He had hit five out of six!