Wanna-be Deputy Evan

Matthew Taylor was sitting at the poker table with his back to the wall. People who didn't know him well might have thought it was so he wouldn't get shot in the back, like Will Bill Hickok had five years earlier in Deadwood, up in the Dakota Territory.

Those who knew him, though, understood that Taylor simply liked to eye ball the Saloon Girl, Sally. She was young and fresh and -- while she didn't dress or act any different than the other two Girls whose primary reason for being here was to part their thighs upstairs for coin -- she was pure as snow. It didn't seem possible, but her father, the Saloon Keeper, had assured Taylor that the only reason she was in such a den of inequity was because he needed a draw to get the local cowboys and transient settlers to come inside and put down their money. He hadn't wanted his little girl to ever step foot out of the kitchen. But, he learned quickly as she entered her teens, she couldn't cook anymore than a mule could breed, so he brought her out front, kept a close eye on her, spread the word to the locals that she was untouchable, and went back to work trying to make a living.

Sally was a draw, too, likely the best looking woman Taylor had ever met. He'd had his own nasty little thoughts about her just seconds after entering the saloon that first time. He hadn't had a chance to act on them, of course; shoot outs and bullets through the thigh have a way of getting in the way of lust and romance.

He knew better today than to even consider untoward interaction with the beauty. And yet, while he knew he would never lay hands upon Sally, he couldn't help but want to lay eyes upon her, as he was now, peeking past the two cowboys and one ranch hand he was playing cards with.

It didn't help that she so often flashed that smile his way, letting him know that she, too, likely had interest in him ... and, too, knew it wasn't going to happen. Her father had plans for Sally, a rich banker on his way west to San Francisco who was taking a detour to Crossroads to deliver a bag of gold that the man had apparently inherited ... and, of course, to take a gander at what he'd been told was the most beautiful virgin in all of the West.

Taylor laid out his cards, saying with a proud voice, "Six high straight."

One after another, the other players mucked their hands, each growling as was their nature. Taylor pulled the stack of chips his way; it was a massive three dollar pot, a fun game's winnings that was more about bragging rights than getting rich. Taylor looked up, about to rib the man who'd been banking on his three tens taking the post, when he saw another fresh, young face step into the saloon.

Evan Williams didn't have to search much to find Taylor; besides a drover passed out at the bar -- more from exhaustion than from whiskey -- the bartender and card players were the only men in the establishment.

"Oh, not this again," Taylor mumbled. Then, looking around to the others he said, "Gonna have to break it up, gentlemen. Next time maybe luck'll be with you."

The men all made their own departure comments -- from the wife'll be waiting to gotta milk Bessy -- and headed in their various directions as Evan crossed to the table and waited for the others to step out of hearing range.

Before the boy could open his mouth, though, Taylor quickly said, "I don't need a deputy, Evan."

Crossroads was a relatively peaceful town. They'd only had a six killings in the five years Taylor had been here, and last weeks hanging had been the first in the history of the town. They didn't have a bank, per se -- although the arrival of the East Coast banker was rumored to be the first step toward changing that -- so they didn't get visits from bank robbers shooting up the town or setting off dynamite tied to the front of a safe.

But, things were going to change, too, and soon. There was reason that Barrowtown had been renamed; the traffic through Crossroads was increasing, and while most of those on foot, horseback, and wagon continued westward, some were deciding to stay as well. With more people came more trouble, and with more trouble came the need for more Law.

He's so god damn young, Taylor thought, eye balling Evan. Too young to be having a drunk cowboy pointing a .45 at him...

"Sheriff Taylor, please just hear me out. I'll be 18 soon, that means I will be a man." He might be facing the older lawman, but his eyes were glued on Sally. She sure was a beautiful girl. Though, anyone with a head on knew she wasn't to be touched... and that she seemed to have a fancy for the Sheriff.

"Crossroads is getting bigger every day." He had used this line all the time, but that still didn't stop him from using it. "And you cannot police everyone. Let me help you please. I want to learn how to be a lawman from the best."

There were a few chuckles from some of the departing poker players, and Evan felt his face heat up. But he just stood there, tall and firm, his eyes now looking to the Sheriff's.

Taylor heard the chuckles, too, and although he agreed with the departing men, he didn't show the same disrespect for the young man ... at least not as publicly.

Once the others were out the door and all who remained were back behind the bar working, Taylor said softly, "Evan ... I admire your desire and commitment, but..." Taylor tried to contain his smile but failed horribly. He wasn't trying to be mean or disrespectful; it was just, well ... he was a boy!

"Can you even shoot that big thing?" he said, looking to the gun Evan was packing. Taylor couldn't recall ever having seen Evan shoot the gun. Occasionally, some of the men around town had competitions out west of town, mostly for bragging rights but also to simply practice for the day when the use of a gun against another man might be necessary. And he could recall having seen Evan there. But he didn't remember ever seeing the boy shoot a round.

Maybe Evan had and Taylor just hadn't been there. For all he knew, the kid was a crack shot, a quick draw, a steady hand. On the other hand, he might not know how to load the cannon. Taylor stood, downing the last gulp of a Sarsaparilla that was his typical early afternoon fare, and pointed toward the saloon door. "Shooting range ... five minutes. You can show me what you got. Okay...?"

Taylor knew there was a lot more to being a Law Man than just being able to shoot. But, without the ability, there was no reason to even investigate all of the other requisites.

Evans smiled and practically ran out of the saloon towards the shooting range. It was high noon, and he had shot his shooter once... okay a few dozen times, but bullets weren't cheap. At least not for a failed farmer/miner's son.

He ran to the make-shift shooting range, and looked around to see if anyone was around. He pulled out his six shooter and rolled the 6 load cylinder chamber around.

He pointed the old gun out from him, his arm fully extended. He smiled. He was going to show you skills to the sheriff, and then he was going to be a deputy.

Taylor went to the bar to discuss tonight's meal with the Bartender. In lieu of a steady wage from the town, he received goods and services instead, and one of the greatest benefits he got was the dumpling pie that the owner of the Boarding House cooked up for serving at the Saloon twice a week. They'd chatted just a minute or two before the deep booms of Evan's target practice began echoing against the wooden wall of the building.

"Wanna-be Deputy," he said to Abe. He looked beyond the man to the cavalry telescope the Saloon Owner had gotten in a trade for a couple of bottles of cheap rot gut. "Gimme that."

He went out the business's back door and stood in the shade of the porch to watch Evan firing at the targets of broken boards and bottles and dirt clods sitting atop fence posts. He shook his head; the boy wasn't hitting nothing but air.

Taylor returned the eye piece and made his way out to Evan, smiling politely as the younger man turned to face him with a sheepish expression. As he'd neared Evan, Taylor had seen that the eager boy had what it took to be a good shot and even a fast draw; he simply needed some help.

"Like this," Taylor said, launching immediately into the lesson without comment about the previous waste of a dozen bullets. He moved about Evan, first standing by his side, to show him how to adjust his belt and thigh strap to better secure the weapon to his body; then standing behind him to show how his pull could be improved by stance and motion.

Finally, Taylor moved to Evan's left to give him a full view of how it's done. He pulled his .45 several times without firing, wanting his technique to be seen. Then, simply holding the pistol out before him, he explained, "All of this quick draw won't do you any good if you can't hit your target, though. So..."

Using his thumb to pull the single action Colt's hammer back, then firing, then repeating the action four more times -- cock, aim, fire, cock, aim, fire -- he put rounds of lead through three bottles, a board with a black paint dot on it, and the forehead of a prairie dog skull.

"...learn to hit your target," he said, turning to face Evan. "Then... worry about hitting it with speed. The only thing a quick draw artist with poor aim does is startle and amaze his opponent ... just before that opponent puts a bullet through his chest."

He lifted his pistol up, demonstrating it to Evan. "And never use your last shot when you're target practicing."

He considered telling Evan that story, but chose not to do so yet. It didn't breed much confidence in your future Deputy to tell him about the time you'd gotten stupid, emptied your gun of useful rounds, and then nearly gotten yourself killed by an angry man with a hatchet.

Evans was so eager to get started, he kept missing his shots left and right. He only hoped that Taylor hadn't seen how bad he was. He had been practicing his fast draw for some time, and he could hit things, but not in combination.

"Like this," Taylor had said, and began to show the young man things he hadn't even begun to realize about gun fighting. Where the gun rested on his belt, the strap to hold it in place but allow for a quick draw, even how he stood. Evan had never expected gun fighting to be so hard. The nickel novels he read always made it seem so easy for the lawman to just pull his gun out and shoot. But then again, he did come to Sheriff Taylor to learn as much as to show the experienced lawman what he knew.

He was curious about the fact of not wasting your last bullet in target practice. He didn't see why, but then again Sheriff Taylor sure did have some interesting run-ins with bandits and the like. He would love to hear those stories some day.

"Thanks Sheriff Taylor." Evans said in awe as he watched him pull with ease and practice on his own gun. He practiced a few times just aiming, hitting most of the targets. He then decided to practice his quick draw, only slower.

He pulled the gun from his holster slowly, mimicking the stance and pull, and even the way he cocked his gun as he took aim and firing. He hit it. He smiled wide as he turned to the old man proud of his work. He went though a few more, working on pulling and cocking the gun faster ever time. He wasn't near as quick as Taylor was, but if he just practiced at it, maybe someday he could be.

He had finished four of the last five targets, missing the one by an inch, before turning back to him. He had saved his last bullet like the lawman had said.

"So what do you think Sheriff?"

Taylor had reloaded his .45, using the ejector to kick the still smoking cartridges out into his shirt pocket, eliminating the need for picking them up. They were warm -- almost hot -- through the cloth against his chest and reeked of gun powder, but it was still better than leaning over when his thigh was aching the way it was now.

He didn't understand why the simple act of shooting his Colt so often brought back that painful day when he was shot by his own weapon. The man coming at him with the ax had caught him off guard. He hadn't recognized the man at first; the only thing he'd recognized was the gleaming edge of the blade held above the shoulder, ready to swing downward as soon as the range was closed.

Taylor's first reaction had been to quickly begin ejecting spent shells from his weapon, but he'd only filled one chamber by the time he had to dodge the descending hatchet. He lost his balance on the rough ground and fell and -- to his dismay -- lost his weapon. He found himself dodging the crazed man as profanities and accusations were spat at him.

Some time during the melee, Taylor came to realize who the man was. Taylor had defended an accused rapist and gotten him acquitted two days earlier; this man was the father of the victim! Taylor tried to calm the man, but for the most part all he could do was bob and weave to keep from getting gutting like a pig or beheaded like a stew chicken.

Suddenly, he was falling backward again ... and when he rose, he was looking at his own weapon. The man had the Cold leveled at Taylor's skull as he pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger as he growled, "It's your fault, too. People like you."

The gun clicked harmlessly. The man's face lit up with a surprised expression as he stared at the Colt. He pulled the hammer back again and -- as Taylor rushed quickly -- pulled the trigger once more ... and then repeated again, the gun beginning to waver in his hand as he panicked.

The fourth click was accompanied with an explosion of powder, sending the lead slug through Taylor's thigh and dropping him to the ground. The future Sheriff doesn't remember much of what happened next, except for the part where he repeated again and again that he himself had fired the gun, not the despondent father. No one believed him at the time of course, but in the end the man took his own life with a shot gun blast below his chin so it didn't really matter anyway.

Taylor decided then that defending people -- whether guilty or not -- wasn't the part of the law he wanted to be a part of. He spent a little time as a Prosecutor, and then, of course, found bounty hunting and ultimately the job of Sheriff. He was happy with what he did now, even if every day brought the possibility of getting shot, or hacked up.

"So what do you think Sheriff?" Evan asked after putting the slugs of five of his last shots through his targets.

It was quite an improvement. Taylor had known the boy had what it took -- the desire, the physical ability, the concentration -- and that all he had needed was a bit of corrective instruction.

"I'm impressed, Evan," Taylor said, holstering his weapon and beginning to move in between the target range and the man he already knew he was going to give a shot at Deputy to. "You show great aptitude with your weapon, that's important ... but there's something even more important than knowing how to use your own weapon."

With speed that made most men, including the young Williams, open their eyes and mouths wide with amazement, Taylor pulled his Colt, swung it toward the fence and, fanning the hammer back with the palm of his left hand in between shots, sent four rounds into the fence post atop which the last unbroken bottle sat; and then, as the bottle teetered and fell off toward the ground, he sent the fifth shot through the brown glass, shattering and sending it all about.

And before the last of the glass had reached the ground, Taylor spun around quickly, leveling the pistol directly at Evan's forehead, close enough to him that the smoke leaving the barrel wafted up under the brim of the young man's hat.

Taylor held the threatening position for just a moment, then pulled the weapon back, pointing the barrel toward the midday sun. He raised an eyebrow with a serious expression and said finished his comment about importance by saying, "And that would be understanding that there is always someone out there who knows how to use his better and often ... they don't like Sheriffs ... or their Deputies."

He dropped the hammer back down to a safe position and lowered the weapon to his side. Now, he smiled broadly, asking, "How about lunch...?"

And he turned and headed for the saloon, leaving Evan to think about what had just happened.