Chapter 4 Four

Jack's eyes flitted from Grinder to Grimwood and back once more, searching in the shifting shadows for the meaning behind the charged atmosphere. Something was amiss, a disquiet in the air that defied the quiet rhythm of his life. For years, Old Joe Harrington had drilled into him the sacred code: to eschew conflict was the highest offense against God and man. That lesson_ that if one avoided crossing another's path, then no one would dare cross theirs_ had steadied his heart like the calm before a gathering storm.

He had navigated life's placid currents without ever encountering the turbulent rapids of wrath.

Yet, now, amid the mocking laughter of his companions_ a laughter that resonated with an edge of scorn akin to that directed at a fiery young colt struggling futilely against a lashing rope_ Jack felt exposed, misunderstood. The mirth around him was unsettling, a peculiar blend of ridicule and pity. Though the intent behind it was not overt malice, it left him unsure, prompting him to return a tentative smile to the throng, as if it could bridge the gap between his inner reserve and their boisterous derision.

Grinder, ever the boisterous soul and eager to dispel the tension, gave Jack a hearty slap on the shoulder_ a gesture meant to convey camaraderie and to buoy his spirits. But Jack recoiled as though stung by the touch of a serpent; his instincts, honed on years of solitude, shunned the invasive contact of another's body like a wild stallion avoids the noose of a flying rope.

"Steady up, pal," Grinder coaxed in his gruff but earnest tone. "The lads mean no harm. See that tall man over there? He's riled to the quick_ and he'll soon bet his very sombrero against you when it comes to shootin'."

Turning his attention to Grimwood, Grinder continued with a conspiratorial lilt, "Look here, partner, this is the man I said could nail the four dollars before they hit the dust. I figure you don't quite grasp how it's done, do you?"

Grimwood's gaze hardened, his voice dripping with disdain as he spat, "Him? Best send him back to his ma before someone gets a chance to proper mess him up! That whelp wouldn't know a gun if it bit him, for all the fight in him."

Grinder allowed a pregnant silence to stretch, letting the tension build before his next words broke through like the crack of a whip. "Stranger, I've still got somewhere around five hundred dollars in that cash drawer_ a hundred dollar bill for every cent of which screams that Jack can pull off what I promised."

Grimwood's eyes narrowed as he weighed the wager. Though his own moral code wavered in the face of profit, he could not ignore the sting of humiliation from the memory of that formidable rider who had dared to commandeer Bushy Fury. The memory stirred a Grimwood fury within him. Yet, the lure of five hundred dollars was potent_ a siren call too loud to ignore.

"Come on, hurry up," Grinder urged, his voice a mix of impatience and confident bravado. "I ain't got time to guess what you're thinkin', stranger. And let me tell you_ I don't listen to the clamor of talk as much as I listen to the ring of coin."

Before Grimwood could muster a retort, a rough voice rang out from the crowd, slicing through the murmurs like a blade through soft leather. "You're plumb loco if you think any man in this world can get away with a stunt like that! Pick four in the air!"

Grimwood's retort was sharp as he snapped, "Keep your jaw to yourself! If this feller wants to donate a little more to charity, let him. Grinder, I've got five hundred dollars here to back your bet."

Another voice, rough and full of challenge, interjected, "Make him give you proper odds, Grinder_ because_ "

But Grimwood's cutting glance silenced the suggestion, and soon the air was laden with a hush so deep that even the wind seemed to pause.

Grinder's white lips glistened with anticipation as he declared, "You can see I'm not packing any shootin' irons," referring to Jack's bare hands, "so who's got a suggestion?"

In that charged silence, every man present fanned out his own weapon_ a collection of well-worn revolvers and six-shooters that glimmered in the low light like relics of a bygone era. The very air thrummed with the potential for violence, yet there was an unspoken reverence for the miracle that was about to unfold. One by one, Jack took each gun into his capable hands. It was as if an unseen intelligence resided in his fingertips, guiding him to discern the subtle qualities in each weapon.

He held the first revolver, nodding in appraisal. "Nice gun," he murmured, "but that barrel's too heavy_ a whole ounce more than I can abide."

The cowpuncher, proud of his cherished piece, bristled, "What d'you mean? I've trusted this gun for near eight years!"

Jack offered a polite apology as he passed it along, "I'm sorry, but a top-heavy gun just doesn't work for me."

The process continued with a careful deliberation that bordered on the mystical. Another man's weapon was examined and swiftly returned. "Cylinder's too tight," Jack pronounced with decisive clarity, before moving on to another, "Bad handle. I don't like the feel of it."

When he finally paused over Cole Grimwood's collection of arms, Grimwood's scowl deepened under the weight of Jack's silent judgment. Jack met his gaze with gentle surprise and explained quietly, "You see, a gun must be handled like a living creature_ if you don't treat it right, it won't treat you right. Your weapon isn't clean, stranger, and a dirty gun loses its footing."

Grimwood's eyes flashed, and with a muttered curse he returned his arms to their holsters. "Ted," he grumbled to his friend Danny, who stood nearby, "what do you reckon he meant by that? You think he's got something up his sleeve? Acts just like a damned woman sometimes."

Danny, his tone solemn, replied, "I don't know. He seems queer_ different, in a way I can't place."

Meanwhile, Jack had finally found his pair_ a set of revolvers that seemed to whisper promises of precision and power. With both guns in hand, he began a graceful, almost balletic practice routine. He twirled the weapons, testing their actions, the sound of metal and the quiet click of the mechanisms a prelude to the impending challenge. In the dead silence that followed, one man stepped off to mark the twenty yards that lay between him and Jack's position.

With his back turned to the expectant crowd, Jack stood firm at the mark, his arms steady and his smile enigmatic, as if sharing a private secret with the guns that obeyed his touch. "How you feelin', Jack?" Grinder asked anxiously.

"Everything's fine," Jack replied, his voice as calm as a placid lake.

"Are you gettin' weak?" Grinder pressed, unable to hide his concern.

"No, I'm all right," came the measured reply.

"Steady up, partner," Grinder insisted, only to exclaim, "Look at my hand!" as he gestured toward the unyielding stillness of Jack's extended arm_ a silent testament to his focus.

At that moment, Grinder's gamble took shape. "Remember," he cautioned, "I've got nearly everything I own staked on you, and the stranger's fixin' to claim his four dollars."

Grimwood stepped forward, holding the coins_ a quartet of silver promises of fate and fortune_ until he called out, "Are you ready?"

"Let her go!" Jack commanded in a tone devoid of excitement, as if merely issuing an order to a well-trained beast. With that, Grimwood hurled the coins into the air. They spun in a rapid, dizzying danced_ a fleeting constellation of glinting orbs, each propelled high so that Jack might wait until they began their descent. The higher the coins flew, the faster they fell, perfecting their trajectory toward the mark.

A shout erupted as the coins arced through the air. In a blink, it seemed as if a revolver had exploded into action_ a burst of sound and motion so swift that the coins became mere specks of light in a tempest. Yet, fate was capricious: one coin failed to reach its zenith, a faint "cling!" marking its defiant spiral away from the others. Two more shots blended almost in unison, sending two dollars streaking away in a blur of brilliance. As a final coin dipped perilously close to the earth, a sixth-shooter barked once more, and the fourth coin was knocked sideways, destined for the dust. In less than a heartbeat, the four shots had been fired_ a moment of sublime precision and raw, unyielding nerve.

"That last dollar," Jack murmured softly, his voice emerging as the first sound after the explosive silence, "didn't ring true. Counterfeit, perhaps?"

No one seemed to catch his quiet remark, for the air erupted into a frenzy. The men scrambled like wild cattle for the scattered coins, their faces pale and determined as they dove into the dust. Each chipped coin, marked with neat, round holes, promised to settle the matter of truth_ a truth that might make a fool of the credulous or a king of the skeptical. One cowpuncher even offered ten dollars for a single relic, yet none were willing to relinquish their hard-won prize.

When the echo of the shots faded, Jack stepped back with quiet dignity. One by one, he returned the guns to their owners, his movements measured and reverent. One man grasped his weapon carelessly in his haste, still entangled in the fervor of his pursuit, while another received his armament with the solemnity of a man who revered the art of the gun.

"Thank you for the loan," Jack said in a soft murmur as he handed back each piece. "And may you always find fortune with your gun."

"Luck?" one replied with a hearty chuckle. "I'll oil her up and set her in a glass case at home. One day, when my grandchildren are old enough, I'll tell them how men once did things the old-fashioned way."

"No thanks," Jack replied, shaking his head with a wry smile, "I ain't drinkin' today."

Stepping back from the circle, Jack folded his arms as if to signal that he had stepped out of the fray entirely_ a silent observer now of the wild human danced unfolding before him. Suddenly, the air burst with a torrent of curses, exclamations, and shouts. Cole Grimwood and his three followers huddled together, their voices low and trembling with a mix of awe and fear.

"My God!" whispered Ted Danny, his voice tinged with horror. "It wasn't human! Did you see that? Did you see it?"

"Am I blind?" Jim Case retorted, incredulous. "Imagine me, stepping up to brace that killer like he was a mere child! That's the closest I've come to an undeserved grave, and I've had my share of close calls! 'That last dollar didn't ring true,' he said when he finished. I've never seen such nerve!"

"You're wrong as hell," Grimwood snapped, his tone ice-cold. "A woman might shoot at a target, but it takes a cold nerve to shoot at a man_ and this feller is yellow all over!"

"Is he now?" growled Will Durov. "I'd hate to catch him off guard, so he forgets himself. He handles a common six-gun as if it were a gatling. And that last dollar_ pure lead!"

"Alright, Danny," Grimwood interjected, "start whenever you're ready, and the rest of us will follow as I said. I'm leaving last_ I've got a little job to finish with the kid."

But Danny, ever vigilant, stared fixedly down the road. "I'm not leaving yet," he declared suddenly. "Look!"

He turned to one of the cowpunchers. "Who's the girl riding up the road, pardner?"

"That calico?" came the reply. "That's Ellie Harrington_ old Joe's gal."

"I like the name," Danny remarked appreciatively. "She rides the saddle like a man!"

Before anyone could react further, her pony spurred forward, darting off as if chasing an unseen specter in the middle of the road. In a graceful, almost balletic motion, she swayed with the sudden motion until her mount came to a abrupt halt_ the same abruptness that could break a lesser rider. Grinder lunged forward in a burst of concern, but even Ted Danny, quick as the wind, could not reach her in time.

"Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly as she dismounted, her eyes shining with a lively, untamed spirit. "Shall I tie your horse?" Danny offered, his tone both chivalrous and earnest.

Her face, still flushed from the ride, brightened with a warm smile that held a hint of mischief. As she shook her head in gentle refusal, her gaze lingered on Danny' handsome face_ a moment of silent, unspoken admiration that startled both of them. Though accustomed to overt displays of appreciation, this unselfconscious courtesy was a novel language to her.

Turning toward Grinder, she said with an edge of incredulity, "You told my father the boys wouldn't be wearin' guns today."

Grinder, taken aback, fumbled for words. "They seem to be wearin' them," he admitted weakly, his eyes darting nervously around the armed circle. His gaze fell on the imposing figures of Jim Case, Will Durov, and especially Cole Grimwood_ a towering presence whose slight sneer as he watched Trillin' Jack dominated the entire scene.

Grinder tried to regain control of the moment, "In fact, it'd take a ten-man job to confiscate all these shootin' irons. Just look around and see for yourself."

But the girl's eyes had already seen Jack's daring feat. "How did he come here?" she inquired softly, concern and admiration mingling in her tone.

"Oh, Jack?" Grinder replied with a half-hearted laugh, "he's all right. He just pulled one of the prettiest shootin' stunts I ever laid eyes on."

"But he promised my father..." Ellie began, only to pause and blush furiously at the reminder of his solemn word.

At that moment, with the tension thick as the desert dust, the day's true test loomed_ one that would reveal the wild, untamed nature of a man both haunted and defined by his own promises. Surrounded by men armed not just with guns but with the weight of their own convictions, Jack stood at the crossroads of fate. His destiny, intricately woven with honor, courage, and a subtle hint of defiance, was about to be sealed in that moment.

"Now, how about the guns, Mr. Grinder?" Ellie asked gently, shifting the focus back to the practical matter at hand.

"If you want them collected and put away for a while," offered Ted Danny with a determined glint in his cold blue eye, "I'll see what I can do to help."

Her smile in return sent a ripple of warmth through Danny, a spark that lingered too long on his face, coloring his usually stoic demeanor. "Miss Harrington," he introduced himself with a formal nod, "my name is Ted."

After a brief hesitation_ a clash between the refined manners of the Eastern school and the raw, instinctual spirit of the West_ she extended her hand. "I'm very glad to know you, Mr. Ted."

Grinder, who had been pacing restlessly as he estimated the likelihood of success in corralling the armed weapons, interjected, "Alright, stranger, if you're going to help me gather these shootin' irons, let's start the roundup."

The group moved as one, and soon the arms were collected, stowed away like relics of a bygone era.

When they reached Cole Grimwood, he stood apart, his eyes fixed on Danny with a cold, calculating stare. Slowly, as if in a ritual of trust and grudging respect, he drew his guns and presented them to Danny. His eyes then shifted, landing on Ellie, and in a tone as cold as winter steel he said, "Lady, I hope I ain't the last one to congratulate you."

Though Ellie could not decipher the full measure of his meaning, the comment left an indelible impression, and Danny' scowl deepened, betraying a rare moment of personal vexation. Meanwhile, Jack, ever the enigmatic figure, was swept into the welcoming chaos of the saloon by an influx of cowpunchers, leaving only Ted Danny outside with Ellie_ caught in a moment of silent connection that promised to linger long after the day's trials had ended.