Free Death Waits at Sundown by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

it
down.
    â€œLook,” ordered
Buster.
    And before he could be
stopped, he had fanned the hog leg into the side of the barn, completely
knocking out a knot some two inches in diameter. The kick of the gigantic
weapon had knocked off his small sombrero and now he picked it up and put it
back very solemnly.
    â€œUs gunfighters has
got to practice,” said Buster.
    â€œWho taught you that?”
inquired Big Bill, reloading and looking distrustfully at his former protégé.
    â€œWhy, Spick, o’
course. Say, he’s a swell shot. I bet he’s a better shot than even you. I tell
you, Bill,” added Buster with great gravity, “that guy is hell on wheels and no
brakes when it comes to shootin’.”
    Naturally, Big Bill
Bailey did not take very well to the statement. Silently he stared at Buster
and then shoved his gun back in its holster. He wanted very badly to tell
Buster a few pertinent facts but he felt very inadequate to the task.
    Miserably Big Bill
crawled his bronc and went away from there.
    â€œI’ll tell Sis you was
here!” shouted Buster after him. His little forehead wrinkled in a puzzled
frown. He looked around but could find no elders nearby. Accordingly he spat
into the dust and muttered, “Wonder what the hell’s wrong with him?”
    He turned then and was
so startled he put daylight between his boots and earth.
    Spick had slid around
the end of the barn, his face very calm, a .45 in his hand.
    â€œWhatcha want to scare
me for?” complained Buster.
    Spick looked around
and relaxed, shoving the .45 inside his shirt.
    â€œI didn’t know you
carried a gun like that, Spick.”
    â€œWhat was the shooting
about, kid?”
    â€œAw, I was just
showin’ Big Bill Bailey how handy I was with a shootin’ iron. And I showed him,
too! Look at the knot over there, partner.”
    Spick grinned as he
looked at the ’dobe-lumber side of the structure. The bullet group was very
good indeed, but there was something else causing Spick’s grin.
    He went back to the
door and looked in and there on the floor, very, very dead, lay a prize milk
cow. Buster’s slugs made a very fine pattern under her ear.
    â€œOh,” whispered
Buster, faintly. “I . . . I better be gettin’ out of here, Spick. I . . . I
don’t think Sis will like that.”
    And when the deed was
discovered several hours later, Susan was not at all pleased. Buster was
ordered to bed without any supper and, adding insult to it, was told he could
not leave said house for a week.
    When Susan came out of
the front room and into the dusk, she found Spick sitting on the top step
braiding a rope. He looked at her very disarmingly.
    â€œI wouldn’t be too
hard on him, Miss Price. It was my fault. Honest it was.”
    â€œYou’re trying to
cover him,” accused Susan.
    â€œWell, maybe. But just
the same, Miss Price, it was I that taught him how to shoot like that. And if I
say it myself, I was nine before I could make a group like that. Someday he’ll
maybe need that training to protect his own home, his own wife and children.
There’s been a lot of men who would be alive today if they had spent a little
more time with a target.”
    It was like Spick to
add such a happy, homely note to the affair. He could not now be censored and
told that he was practically inviting Buster to launch himself as a gun terror
in his teens.
    â€œIt makes no
difference,” said Susan. “I’ve talked to Father to try and make him forbid
Buster to touch guns, but it’s no use. If Mother were still here, she wouldn’t
stand for it. I . . . I won’t be hard on you about it, Spick. You know all
about such things and you put too high a value on them. But please don’t
encourage Buster. It’s not that I care anything about a cow, but what if it had
been a man?”
    This, naturally, made
very small impression on Spick Murphy. In