Shooting For Justice, G. Tilman [best historical fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

Sarah felt a cold chill as she heard the term “stone cold”. She had described Pope with it several times during their relationship.

Neither the girls nor the father spoke. The story struck them hard. Pope had heard this story recounted more in the last few weeks than in the ten years preceding added together. He reckoned it was the legacy which made him Pope.

“Sarah and I both have had to fight Indians, even in the past year. There are good Indians and bad ones. Just like any group of people. I do not hate Indians at all. I respect them and particularly the way their religion revolves around nature and faith and trust. Overall, I might even like them more than my own people.

“Except for the ones sitting around the fire here, right now. Add Millie and you have the ones most special to me,” he said quietly in an admission so unlike the stoic, taciturn gunfighter.

Sarah had not thought she could love her husband more until then. The same was true for both young women drinking in the story and hearing his last admission.

They had fried chicken, cheese, fresh rolls and Millie’s wild berry pie for lunch. Sarah made strong, rich campfire coffee rivaling the coffee of her two favorite men sitting there.

After lunch, Pope found a driftwood log and lined it up along the bottom to the slope. He placed some empty peach cans he brought on it, spaced a foot apart.

Sarah placed her .38 S&W and the .44 Bulldog Martha had used to protect Rita Kane on the picnic blanket. Pope surprised her when he added his finely tuned Colt Frontier Model beside them after removing the cartridges. He sat a box of .44-40’s beside the .38 S&W cartridges and the .442 Webley ones.

“Now, we are going to have some basic marksmanship instruction. I had the honor of being the female shooting instructor for Pinkerton’s,” Sarah began.

“A couple of ground rules first. Always assume a gun is loaded when you pick it up. Don’t let the muzzle or end of the barrel cross anything you don’t want to shoot. Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to shoot. And make sure you know what your target is and what’s behind it if you miss or penetrate it. Makes sense?”

“It seems automatic to put your finger on the trigger when you pick up a gun, doesn’t it?” Mattie asked.

“It does, honey. You just have to overcome the tendency. Now, for aiming, line the front sight bead up even in the rear sight groove. Some people like to put the bead in the middle of the target. I always put it at a six o’clock position. I don’t like anything to hide my target.

The two smaller guns are double-action. Double-action means pressing the trigger both cocks and fires them. For more precise shots, you can manually cock each. The benefit is it reduces the pressure necessary to fire and the time during which your front sight can sway off the target. However, in a gunfight, unless the person is pretty far away, you generally don’t have time to do it. So, you press the trigger straight back until it goes ‘bang’.”

She taught the two how to check to see if each gun was loaded and got them to handle all three. Though Mattie gravitated towards the big Colt for less-than-subtle reasons, the smaller two fit their hands far better and were simpler to operate.

Sarah had Martha load the .38 first and fire five shots single action. She came close to each target but did not knock a can over.

Mattie went next. She hit two of the three cans.

Sarah offered Joe Lane the opportunity to shoot, but he was having too much fun watching his daughters. She coached each girl until both could knock over all the cans.

Sarah then graduated them to the British revolver Pope carried as a backup.

“Sarah, the barrel is so short. It won’t be as accurate will it?” Martha asked.

“You’ve made a very logical assumption, Martha. Let me answer it in two parts. One, a short barrel makes it harder to shoot, but no less accurate. Second, Webleys are known for being uncannily accurate. There’s just something about them. To our American eyes, they are kind of awkward looking. But, somehow, they shoot like a barn afire. Try and see.”

Martha, then Mattie, proved Sarah right. Both shot the larger caliber English gun slightly better than the .38.

They graduated to Pope’s single action. Sarah made them use both hands, due to the grip size and additional recoil. Both loved it, though neither shot it as well as the Webley.

“John and Sarah, won’t you all shoot?” Mattie asked.

Sarah picked up Pope’s .44 and fired five times as quickly as she could. She knew she was literally seconds behind what her husband could do.

“What a fantastic display, Sarah! How long have you been shooting?” Joe Lane asked.

“I started hunting food for the family in Illinois when I was about twelve or so. Revolvers were much later. Actually once I joined Pinkerton’s,” she added.

“John, how about you and Mr. Pope?” Martha asked.

“From my standpoint, it’s Sarah’s show, Martha. There’s nothing I could show you she hasn’t already.”

The group turned to Israel Pope. He whipped out his large Bowie knife and threw it from the same distance they were shooting. The blade penetrated the sixth can and pinned it against the dirt slope.

“Just remember, a gun is not your only option,” he said as he retrieved the Arkansas masterpiece and wiped the blade clean.

As Sarah repacked the lunch containers and put the food out for seagulls, Pope poured seawater in the fire pit and covered both pits with sand.

“Some folks say ‘leave nothing but footprints’,” Israel Pope cautioned the girls.

“I say, ‘don’t leave anything for somebody tracking you to find’!”

“John, can I be a deputy?” Martha asked. “A full-time deputy on the payroll,” she clarified.

“You and