Free Vengeance Road by Erin Bowman Page A

holstered Remingtons. “How fast?”
    A devilish smile flickers ’cross his face. “Gimme a target.”
    â€œThat flower,” I says, pointing to a yellow bloom atop a prickly pear ’bout twenty paces off.
    Before I even lower my arm, Jesse draws his pistol and fires.
    â€œCome at me!” Will shouts, sitting bolt upright outta a dream. “Where are ya?” He twists, frazzled, weapon in hand.
    Jesse laughs and I just stand there staring at the cactus, now flowerless as yellow petals float to its base.
    â€œYer turn,” Jesse says. “Should I pick something in similar distance?”
    â€œNo use,” I says. “I can’t do that with a pistol, not even close. But I’m thinking maybe I should let you teach me after all.”
    â€œWill,” Jesse calls over his shoulder. “I ain’t sure who this is, but I think Nate drowned in the pool overnight.”
    â€œGood. Nate was a grump.”
    â€œAnd becoming one again right now,” I says, raising my voice at Will.
    He rolls onto his side, muttering.
    â€œYou better be up in ten,” Jesse says. “We gotta move.” Then he turns to me. “First lesson’ll be quick. I don’t wanna stall in one place much longer.”
    â€œSuits me fine,” I says, ’cus I agree with him. That’s twice now.
    He points at the flower of another nearby cactus. “Picture shooting it.”
    â€œAll right,” I says, and glance back to him.
    â€œDone already?”
    â€œWell it weren’t exactly a hard task.”
    â€œFine, then. Tell me what you saw.”
    â€œI saw the flower, and then I imagined it blown to pieces.”
    He shakes his head. “No, see, yer approaching it all wrong. It ain’t ’bout the flower or the cactus. It’s ’bout
you.
The bullet ain’t happening to the flower.
Yer
happening to the flower. You gotta feel it all—yer stance and the weight of the pistol in yer hand. The wind on yer limbs and if it’s strong enough to tug the lead plum. Then you gotta picture every single movement, from reaching to drawing to aiming to squeezing. You gotta see yerself doing it before you do, and then when you act, you ain’t gotta think ’bout it. You just . . . flow. Let yer limbs catch up to yer mind.”
    â€œSo yer saying it’s in yer head?”
    â€œAin’t everything?”
    I suck my bottom lip. It don’t sound too different from how Pa taught me to fire my rifle. It’s just everything’s faster.
    â€œBut how’d you see it all so quick? You fired before I even finished pointing out the flower.”
    Jesse winks. “That’s lesson number two—the final lesson: practice.”
    â€œTwo lessons total?” I says. “And it’s mostly all practice? What do I need a teacher for, then?”
    â€œTo come down on you when yer slacking.”
    â€œI don’t slack.”
    â€œYou did with yer watch duties this morning.”
    â€œUgh, yer like a mesquite thorn, Jesse.”
    â€œPoisonous?” he says. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    â€œI meant a nuisance. It’s like yer trying to get me riled.”
    â€œI’m trying to motivate,” he says, pointing at the prickly pear. “Now picture it.”
    I sigh heavier than necessary but turn my sights to the flower. There’s the slightest breeze moving the petals from east to west, so my bullet might stray over a long distance, but prolly not one this close. Thinking ’bout the bullet moving through the air leads me to thinking ’bout pulling the trigger, which leads to the draw and the very weight of the Colt in my holster. I see it all in reverse, and in a flash I can imagine it happening. I got my weight pressed down through my left leg right now, and I change that, spreading it out even. I can see my hand going to the holster, drawing the gun, cocking the