Resolution

27.

There was an old wooden barrel set on its end out there. Beside it was a pile of empty tin cans. There were five cans on top of the barrel. Arrayed about twenty-five yards away from the barrel were the troops of Wolfson’s new army. It was a sorrowful-looking group. But I’d seen some of O’Malley’s, and they were no better. We had a guy fired from the Pinkertons, a former shotgun messenger, two buffalo skinners who still smelled of it, a guy who’d been a deputy sheriff in Lincoln County, couple of guys who’d been in the Army, some others whose history I never did know, and out front and noisy, Henry Boyle.

“We need to see you shoot,” I said to the troops.

"You needs to see me shoot?” Boyle said. “You don’t know about me already?”

“Need to see it,” I said.

“I ain’t wasting my time on tin cans,” he said.

He looked around at his fellow soldiers and grinned widely.

“Whyn’t you fellas just trot me out a sodbuster or two?” he said.

He went into a sudden crouch and drew and pretended to shoot at a sodbuster. The draw was very quick. He slid the Colt back in its holster and straightened up, still playing to the other troops.

“Okay?”

I looked at Virgil. He nodded and walked in front of the army with his back to the barrel twenty-five yards away. He turned easily, drew his gun comfortably, and shot all five cans off the barrel. He opened the cylinder, took out the spent rounds, put in five fresh ones, and closed the cylinder. Everybody stared at him.

“Can you do that?” Virgil said to Boyle.

One of the odd things about seeing Virgil Cole shoot was that he never looked fast; everything looked sort of comfortable and relaxed. But I who had seen him shoot for real many times knew that however slow he looked, he was always just a little faster than the man he was shooting against. Since I had known him, no one had ever beaten him. A kid like Boyle would know the reputation, but he’d be puzzled by the fact that Virgil didn’t seem quick.

“That wasn’t fast,” Boyle said.

Virgil walked down to the barrel and put five new cans up.

“Accurate’s good,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you shoot?”

The kid made a sort of scornful laugh and went into his crouch, did his fast draw, and knocked down two of the five cans.

“That was fast,” the kid said.

“Sure,” Virgil said, “and you missed three out of five. They was men shooting back, you’d be dead.”

“And you’da been dead ’fore you got the damn firearm out of the holster, for crissake,” Boyle said. “I could hit them all like you did, if I was as slow as you was.”

Virgil nodded and walked to the barrel. He set two new cans up beside the three that Boyle had missed. Then he walked back and stood beside Boyle.

“We’ll shoot together,” Virgil said. “I say I can knock all five cans down, ’fore you can get off a shot.”

“You’re crazy,” Boyle said.

“Everett?” Virgil said. “You wanna call it.”

I nodded.

“When I say ‘go,’ you shoot.”

Boyle went into his crouch, his hand curled, waiting near the gun butt. Virgil stood motionless, like he was waiting for a train. The troops were quiet. The wind was still. Somewhere I could hear the sound of a locust.

I said, “Go.”

With a leisurely movement, Virgil shot all five cans while Boyle was drawing. He opened the cylinder, took out the spent shells, put in the new ones, closed the cylinder, and slid the gun back into his holster. No one made a sound. It seemed as if in the intensity of the silence you could still hear the gunshots. Boyle stood holding his gun half-raised.

Boyle said, “You… you can’t do that again.”

“Sure I can,” Virgil said.

"You…”

“First thing you boys want to do,” I said to the troops, “is hit the target. Second thing is to do it quick. But quick don’t matter if you don’t hit what you’re quick at.”

“Can you do that?” Boyle said to me.

“Pretty close,” I said.

“But not as pretty,” Virgil said. “Think about it. Everett and me been doing this shooting thing for quite some time. And we’re both still here. Must mean something.”

“I… goddamn, I never seen anything like that.”

“Lotta things you maybe never seen,” Virgil said. “Don’t mean they can’t happen. You was shooting against me for real, you’d have five bullets in your chest now.”

“Fuck,” Boyle said. “It was only a bunch of cans. The real thing is different.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

Boyle holstered his piece and walked away.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s shoot. Take your time. Handgun, rifle, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

The new troops began firing. The ex-soldiers used Winchesters and had an easier time of it. The former deputy was pretty good with a Colt. And the Pinkerton guy. The shotgun messenger used a shotgun and had the easiest time of all. The two skinners couldn’t hit the barrel with handguns, let alone the cans.

“We’ll get you boys shotguns,” Virgil said.

When it was over, the former deputy from Lincoln County walked over to Virgil.

“That’s the best shooting I ever seen,” he said.

Virgil nodded and smiled at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”