ain’t nothing or she’d not be here.” She studies me a moment and then says, “She’s not? You’re not—training her?”
“She’s helping around camp. That’s all. I’m an old man.”
“A fool of an old man.” She spits the words and finally holsters her gun. “Anyway, I said what I came to say. This squares us.” Then she fixes me with her good eye and says, “You know what’s best for you, you’d get the hell out of here. Ride away and forget this old man. The rest of the world did ages ago.” She drops her cigarette and smashes it out with her boot. She swings onto her horse, gives it a kick, and she’s gone.
We listen to the sound of hooves receding into the morning and then I say, “Who was that?”
“Name’s Cass. An old friend.”
“Didn’t seem much like one.”
“S’pose not.” He walks past me in the direction of camp. I grab him by the arm as he passes.
“When you said I was noth—”
“A lie, Cub. And next time some fool like me says you’re nothing, you make sure he don’t get away with it.”
• • •
Back in camp, the bullet catcher doesn’t bother lighting the fire. He heads to his tent and I follow. He opens his pack on his bed and starts filling it with supplies.
“Where are we going?”
“We ain’t going nowhere,” he says. “I’m going to Los Cazadores. I’ll be gone two weeks. If I’m not back by then, I want you to take the rest of the supplies and get yourself far away from here.”
“Wait! Why? Tell me what’s going on!”
“If I’m not back by then it means he killed me and, most likely, he’s coming for you next.”
“Who?”
He takes a deep breath and fixes me with a stare. His eyes are shining. “Bullet,” he says. “His name’s Bullet. The man who killed your brother.”
Without thinking, I grab the front of his shirt. “If that’s so then I’m coming with you.”
A calm comes over him. He takes my hands in his and gently pushes them away. “You’re not ready, Cub. And I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I don’t care. It’s worth dying to kill this man.”
He stares deep into my eyes, looking for something. And maybe he finds it, because then he opens his trunk, pulls out the big silver gun that he uses to test me, loads a bullet, and points to the open tent flap and the clearing beyond. I stand slowly and make the long walk to the far end of the clearing. When I turn he’s standing on the far end, the gun in his hand. I don’t bother with first position. Screw it. I refuse to be afraid. My hatred for the man who killed my brother makes me numb and relaxes my muscles.
“Ready?” he calls across the clearing.
“Do it,” I shout. He raises the gun and fires. For a split second I think I see the bullet. But it’s less than a blur. Without thinking, I swat at it, like trying to swat gnats out of the air. Then everything goes white and all I feel is the air slamming from my lungs as I hit the ground.
The world spins into focus. I’m on my back. Above me, the tops of the trees are green teeth, the blue sky a gaping mouth. The sounds of the forest and my beating heart echo in my ears. The bullet catcher’s footsteps crunch over the pine needles, closing in on me. He kneels down beside me, blocking out the sun. His shadow is a cooling balm. I sit up, surprised to be breathing. He takes my hand in his and opens it. There, in a small pool of dark blood, is the bullet.
“I—I did it,” I stammer.
He’s still holding my hand in his. He studies the wound, the blood, the bullet, like a fortune-teller might the lines on a palm, reading the future, but what he sees he doesn’t say.
• • •
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