The Last Shootist Read Online Free Page B

for his thin blond hair and pale skin only a shade darker than an albino’s, this teenager’s delicate skin forced him to wear a felt cowboy hat always, even in cloudy weather like today, just in case of sunshine.
    â€œMissed an arithmetic test today, Gillom. It was a wooly booger!”
    Swallowing a first snort, Mr. Rogers breathed through his mouth, exhaling alcohol fumes. “Had more important things to do. Like buy a holster for these beauties.” Proudly he pulled his holstered specials from the burlap.
    His three mates were dumbstuck, mouths opened.
    â€œJ. B. Books’s guns?” gaped Ivory.
    â€œMatched Remington .44’s. Told you he left ’em to me. Books had ’em sweetened. Filed down the notch on the hammer, loosened the spring on the trigger so they’ll fire quicker.” He passed both pistols gingerly to the young men. “Careful. You breathe on ’em hard, they’ll go off.”
    The blacksmith’s son filled his hand. “No front sight.”
    â€œFaster pull. Mister Books did his killing close in. He had sharp eyes, good reflexes, but he told me careful aim wasn’t as important as a close distance to your man.”
    â€œ Gol-lee fishhooks.…” Bee Dunn petted one pistol like you’d stroke a cat.
    Johnny Kneebone, Jr. closed an eye, extended his gun hand. “Let’s try ’em.”
    â€œShots echo off this water. Somebody’s sure to come down here, see what’s going on,” said their most pragmatic pal, young Mr. Dunn.
    â€œBee’s right, Johnny. Don’t.” Ivory was the mortician’s son, well acquainted with the tragic results of gun trouble.
    Gillom stuck out his hands. He took both pistols and slid them carefully back into leather sheaths. “Bought saddle soap and oil, to shine up this old leather. I’ll get a new holster someday.”
    â€œWas that Books’s, too?” Bee asked.
    â€œNo. Just bought it at Jim Dandy’s. Books left me some of his savings.”
    Ivory yelped. “Christmas in April !”
    Gillom turned to young Kneebone. “Get your own pistol, Johnny, you wanna become a dead shot.”
    â€œI wanna practice with the shootist’s smoke wagon. See what made him so good.”
    Bee snorted. “So good ? He got killed, remember?”
    Gillom shook his head. “Not a chance of usin’ these guns here.”
    â€œBuy one from yah.” Kneebone appraised his thinner pal. “Thirty dollars.”
    Gillom shook his head again. “This matched pair’s worth hundreds. To collectors.”
    Johnny cat-eyed his compadre. Gillom returned his stare. He and Johnny were friendly rivals among a group of senior boys, but since Gillom had recently dropped out of high school and then had the luck to get involved in Books’s big shoot-out, his esteem had grown in the other boys’ eyes, his reputation for toughness burnished. Now the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head.
    â€œBet you. Remington for my Barlow knife. Mumblety-peg.”
    Gillom scowled. “That’s no fair bet, knife for a fine pistol.”
    â€œPlus thirty dollars.”
    Gillom chuckled nervously, looked round at his classmates. “You don’t have that kind of money.”
    â€œI win, I’ll scrape it up. You keep Books’s revolver till I do.”
    Gillom was reluctant, but he saw the eager faces about him. A dare !
    Bee, his closest friend among the bunch, was the first to compromise him. “C’mon, Gillie. You need a good knife to go with those pistolas .”
    â€œYou’ll still have one, if you lose,” chimed Ivory.
    The gauntlet had been tossed. Reluctantly, Gillom Rogers nodded.
    Kneebone pulled out his three-bladed clasp knife and wiped its four-inch steel blade clean on his corduroy trousers. “Yank yer boots off.”
    â€œYeah!” yipped young Mr. Dunn. “Bare feet makes it