Chapter Three

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The name painted on the board outside the gunsmith's shop was Lukas Zimmermann. He wasn't the man Johnny knew.

"That would be my brother, Frederick. He's in Colorado Territory now." Zimmermann looked at Johnny over a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He spoke real good American with the accent that reminded Johnny of the gunsmith back in Laramie, only maybe not as thick. "I know that he did some work for you, Mister Madrid. He was very proud of it. You were his first famous customer."

"He told you that he converted a gun for me?"

"I haven't seen Frederick for more than eight years, but he's my brother and we're still close. We stay in touch. He writes often. An Army Colt, wasn't it?" Zimmermann gestured towards Johnny's gun. "May I?"

Johnny's fingers tap-tap-tapped on his holster. That old bruja at the mission would have had something to say about that, bringing her switch lashing across his sinful hand. He stared at Zimmermann and kept tapping.

Zimmermann waited, still looking over the top of those spectacles. He went to the main shop door and turned the key. No one would be able to walk in on them. "Professional interest, Mister Madrid. It's the family trade, you see, and I'd like to see Fred's work."

Johnny drew his gun slowly, reversed it and let Zimmermann take it from him. "It has a hair trigger."

Scott leaned over to watch as Zimmermann handled the gun. "Well, this is the closest I've seen your gun, Johnny. That barrel's cut short. It must be a good inch or so short."

"Yeah. It's my working gun. It has to clear the holster real fast."

"I see that you've cut the holster down, too."

Johnny watched everything Zimmermann did, not taking his eyes off him. Scott should stop talking. Johnny needed to watch the gunsmith and listen out for anyone trying to get into the shop. "It was made that way. Means there's not as much holster to clear. It's all about having an edge, Boston."

"No sights." Zimmermann raised the gun and sighted down the barrel.

"There's no time to use sights when you're called out to a dance." Johnny paused, glanced at Scott. Keep it all on the low-down, that was the trick. Hell, but that's why he hated people like King Fisher or Jim Courtright, always shooting off their mouths and boasting. "There's no time to worry about it. You just have to hit what you aim at, first time."

Zimmermann gestured to his tools. "May I?"

Johnny hesitated. Beside him, Scott took off his gun belt and coiled it around the holster. He set it on the counter, the butt of the gun towards Johnny.

Johnny's mouth was dry. How did Boston know? How in hell could he know?

He glanced at Scott, but Scott wasn't looking at him. He was watching Zimmermann, who sat with his tools poised, waiting for Johnny. Maybe it meant nothing. Boston couldn't know, not really, so maybe it was just chance. Johnny rested his right hand on the counter near the butt of Scott's gun, his left hand curved ready to slam down over the holster to hold it in place if he needed to draw the gun fast.

He nodded. "Okay."

"Zwei minuten. Two minutes." Zimmermann broke the gun apart and looked at it for a few minutes. He pushed the spectacles to the top of his head and used a jeweller's eyepiece, peering down into the gun's innards. He looked very happy.

Johnny rolled his shoulders, watching what the man did.

"Schön. Sehr schön. Fred worked on the rachet housing. See? So precise and perfect. He handmade the spring on the locking bolt to give you the hair trigger—I'd know Fred's work anywhere. And that isn't a standard trigger and bolt pivot. It's one of his, too." Zimmermann sighed. "This is a very fine gun, Mister Madrid. A lovely piece of work. No wonder Fred was so proud of it."

"Yeah. Put it back together."

Zimmermann looked startled, but he did as he was told. Johnny watched every move and when the gunsmith had reassembled his gun and reloaded it, Johnny took it back and checked it over himself. It looked all right. It felt all right. He let it drop into the holster and rested his hand on it, curling his fingers over the butt. It was cool and smooth, fitting his hand just right.

"And this is what we've come to replace." Scott pushed his gun belt across the counter. "This is a borrowed gun, and I want one of my own."

Zimmermann unholstered Murdoch's spare gun for a second or two and glanced at it. He unlocked a cupboard and spread over the counter a dozen or so handguns, each wrapped in a square of oiled canvas. Johnny watched him unwrap them. Slowly, he let his shoulders relax. His back ached and he had to stretch to ease it. Musta been standing too long.

"You'll find this one interesting, Mister Madrid." Zimmermann unwrapped the last gun and held it out.

Johnny took it. It looked ordinary enough at first look: ivory grips, a bit of fancy engraving on the frame, cylinder a bit fatter… well, damn. No ordinary gun had two hammers and two triggers. Hadn't seen one of these for a long time. He didn't like the flat sided barrel much but this was still an interesting gun, a curiosity. "A Walch." He hefted it in his hand and nodded. "Nice piece."

"I've worked on it." Zimmermann looked pleased. "Improved it."

"What is it?" Scott leaned over to take a look.

"A Walch twelve shot pistol. There's a few of them around. Not many." Johnny hefted it again. A nice weight and the barrel was a good length. "Takes point-thirty-sixes. I like a heavier bullet myself." He looked at Zimmermann and nodded. "Maybe later, okay? We need to pick out a gun for Boston here, first." He looked over the handguns that Zimmermann set out. "Did you carry a pistol during the war, Boston?"

"The Cavalry wasn't all sabre work, you know. I started out with a Remington Navy pistol, but I lost that in a raid and had to find myself another. I bought a Colt Army from my sergeant, one he'd taken from a Rebel soldier. And it's Scott."

Johnny touched the grips of his own Army Colt. He'd have to test it, to be sure that Zimmermann had put it back together properly. "I'll remember."

"See that you do."

Johnny grinned. "So where's the Colt?"

"I lost that one, too, sadly."

"Pretty damn careless of you, losin' your guns like that."

"There were circumstances beyond my control, Johnny, especially regarding the Colt. I… I lost a lot, that day. I did buy a replacement when I got back to Boston after the war. Another Remington. I should kick myself the length of Main Street for not bringing it with me. I think it's in a trunk in the attic at ho— back in Boston, at my grandfather's." Scott laughed. "I remember saying to him when I was planning the journey, that maybe I ought to bring it. But I don't think I really believed the stories about what it was like out here, where every man carries a gun."

"Don't they in Boston?" Johnny picked up a long-barrelled Navy Colt with walnut grips and held it at arm's length, sighting down the barrel. This was one fancy gun—the brass frame and flat-sided silver steel barrel, and even the ejection rod, were engraved with scrolls and flowers. It was fancier than a brothel parlour. Not his style.

"No." Scott grinned at him. "You'd be the odd man out there, Johnny. You'd be the greenhorn in Boston."

Johnny shrugged.

"Good gun, that. I did some work on it for a customer, but he never came back to pick it up. Never will now." Zimmermann smiled at Scott. "I heard that you shot him, Mister Lancer."

"Wha—?"

Johnny laughed. "Day always did like fancy guns."

"Pardee?" Scott looked from Johnny to Zimmerman. "This was Day Pardee's gun?"

Zimmermann shrugged. "It was going to be. He never used it."

"It was a damn good shot you made, Boston, that morning." Johnny put down the Navy Colt. He eased his shoulders again against the twinge in his back. "This is too heavy for my hand and the barrel's too long. Feels off balance." He picked up an Army Colt with smooth walnut grips, just like his own gun, and hefted the weight of it. "This one's better."

He went back to looking through the pistols. That Walch was pulling at him, but Boston hadn't shown much interest in it and it was no use pushing it at him. Besides, Scott wouldn't get on with the double hammer and trigger, most likely. He hesitated over a neat .44 Smith and Wesson he hadn't seen before—a new model, called the Russian, said Zimmermann—but put the other Smith and Wesson pistols and the Remingtons to one side. The Le Mat wasn't worth looking at. Colts were his favourite gun. They were sturdier, didn't jam as often.

"This is a very decorative gun." Scott picked up the Navy Colt. "The engraving's very fine."

Johnny didn't bother looking at it again. "A man doesn't need anything that fancy.."

Scott chuckled "So says the man with the fanciest shirts I've ever seen."

"That's different." Johnny smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. This one was almost plain, anyway, with nothing but a bit of embroidery on the front. Teresa hadn't let him wear his pink shirt. Not fancy enough for a lawyer's office, she said, making him wear one of the new white shirts Cipriano's wife had embroidered for him. "A gun's a tool, not a toy, It doesn't need to be fancy. 'Sides, like I said, I like a heavier bullet and I don't like those flat sided barrels."

"The bore inside the octagon's still round. Er – an octagon is a shape with eight sides, Johnny."

Johnny looked at Scott for a minute before picking up another of the Army Colts. He sighted along the barrel at Scott, and grinned. "You know the Spanish for eight, Scott?"

"No." Scott looked wary.

"Didn't think so." Johnny twirled the heavy Colt on his trigger finger and put it down. "Well, I'd say one of the Colts myself, brother, or that new Smith and Wesson. Your choice though."

"I'll take your advice. Which one would you have?"

"Well, that's not really the point, now is it? I don't like Day's pretty Navy Colt, but if it feels good in your hand we'll give it a try." Johnny sighted down the barrels of the other Colts, before laying two Army Colts and the Russian down beside the gun Scott liked. "These, for me. But what feels good and balanced in my hand, might not be right for you, Scott. Feel them for fit before we try them."

Scott obeyed. He held out one of the Army Colts with both hands, squinting down the sights. "What is the Spanish for eight?"

"Ocho," said Johnny. He grinned at the look on Scott's face.

Scott sighed and shook his head. "Of course it is. From the Latin. Remind me not to underestimate you, little brother." He smiled. "I expect you know Latin, too, just to confound me."

"Church Latin, anyway. Enough to say my prayers when I was a kid. Can't remember much now. Your range out back, Mister Zimmermann?"

"In the barn. I have paper targets set up on straw bales. There should be some tin cans, too."

"Okay. How do those other Colts feel, Scott?"

"Fine. Do we try them all?"

"Might as well." Johnny took the boxes of bullets that Zimmermann offered and watched as the gunsmith went to hang a red flag outside the shop and lock the door again from the inside.

Scott looked the question at Johnny.

It was easy enough to explain. "The flag lets folks know that he's out back and the shooting's coming from his range, not some bandito robbing the bank."

"That makes sense."

Johnny laughed. "This is going to surprise you, big brother, but I usually do make sense."

Scott grinned back. "That would surprise me."

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They spent a long time in the barn's shooting range.

Zimmermann had a real good set up there, maybe the best Johnny had come across. Even better than his brother's up in Laramie. A lot of small town gunsmiths just set up a few bottles and cans on a corral fence, but not Zimmerman. He'd built something better. The bale-shaped targets were canvas, very tightly packed with straw, stacked up against a double row of thick railway sleepers set close together on end. The targets had round papers pinned to them, marked off in rings and the sleepers were pockmarked with bullet holes. A long bench at the firing point made a place for loading the guns.

Yeah, a real good set-up. Neat.

While Zimmermann hung more red flags around the barn and Scott loaded the pistols, Johnny took a few practice shots himself to try out his gun. After reloading, he drew his black leather glove onto his left hand and fired again, real fast this time, fanning the hammer. He knew a lot of pistoleros whose claims to be fast guns rested on hip-shooting and fanning to recock the gun faster, making up for shitty aim by spitting out bullets faster. He didn't rely on that. Fanning made the gun jerk around in the hand, and a man had to work hard to hit the target. Instead, Johnny relied on hitting what he aimed at, first time. But still, it never hurt to practice all the possible moves he might need.

His gun felt smooth in his hand. It was perfect. Beautiful, just like Zimmermann said. He reloaded immediately and dropped the gun into the holster, rubbing his fingers over the smooth walnut of the butt. He loved this gun. Best one he'd ever had.

He took a look at the targets. He hadn't missed, of course, but he needed to get back to his usual routine, to loosen up some. He'd been out of it too long already. More'n three weeks, now. He'd be slowing up.

Scott tried all four of the guns they'd brought out to the barn. He was good, better than Johnny had expected. He'd known Scott was more than fair with a rifle, pretty damn good in fact. Scott had a good eye with a handgun too, and he hit what he was aiming at. But he took too long setting up each shot, sighting carefully down the barrel before pulling the trigger. Whatever speed he'd had when he was in that war of his, he'd lost in the years since, when he stopped needing to be sudden to stay alive and lived in a place where a man could go unarmed. He needed to be faster than that, out here. Johnny chewed on his hat's stampede straps. How loud would Murdoch yell if Johnny offered Scott some lessons?

Scott decided on the Smith and Wesson Russian in the end, although he kept looking at the fancy Navy Colt like a man yearning after a long-legged saloon girl.

"Buy that one if you like it better."

"What? No, this one feels right." Scott picked up his new pistol. "It's just a bit plain."

"Fancy Dan." And Johnny laughed, real soft, dodging the cuff Scott aimed at his head.

"Here." Zimmermann handed Johnny the Walch. "I've loaded it. Give it a try."

Some folks'd do anything for a sale. Johnny twirled the gun once or twice, feeling how it balanced as it moved. It felt fine in the hand, the barrel maybe a little too long to suit him, but the balance was good. The butt slapped into his palm and wouldn't need too much work to be moulded into the right shape; shorten the barrel a half-inch and it'd be nigh on perfect.

The third time he twirled it, he started firing the instant the butt slapped into place, not going for speed and pulling back the double hammers with his thumb, not fanning it with his left hand. The Walch settled into his hand like it had always been there. He gave it one more twirl and nodded.

"It's a fine gun."

"Ja. It needs more work, but I thought it would interest you."

"Show-off," murmured Scott.

Johnny just grinned and handed the gun back to Zimmermann. Probably didn't have enough on him right now for the Walch and he'd have to decide if he really wanted it. It'd make a good second gun and the extra shots would give him one helluva edge. And hell, a .36 in the gut stopped a man as dead as a .44 or .45.

They followed the gunsmith back into his shop, where Scott agreed the price. Thirty dollars wasn't bad for a brand new model; not here, anyway, where a man always paid more for new stuff brought out from the East. Johnny and Zimmermann between them broke down Scott's new gun. Johnny went over every part as if the gun were his.

Scott watched them work. "I appreciate the trouble you're taking, Johnny."

Johnny grinned. "Don't want you in Boot Hill neither, brother."

That got him a smile and a nod. "I can strip a gun and clean it, of course, but I've never attempted to take one completely to pieces before."

"You have to know what you're doing." It was a good gun. The loading lever needed some work to smooth it, and Zimmermann agreed to lighten the hammer action and the trigger a mite. Otherwise, a good gun. Johnny let the gunsmith gather up the parts.

Zimmermann rewrapped Day's fancy Navy Colt to put it away. "The Walch, Mister Madrid?".

"Put it on one side for me, while I think about it, okay? I could do with a second gun. If I do buy it, you'll need to make it over to suit me."

"I'd be honoured. I'll do a deal on the price for you, too." The gunsmith snickered. "I'd like to tell Fred I kept it in the family."

Johnny grinned. Zimmermann was a good man, good as his brother. He turned to Scott. "You'd best pick out a gun belt and holster while Mister Zimmermann works on your gun."

"Can't I just use the gun belt Murdoch lent me?"

"No. Well, you can. I wouldn't." Johnny touched the belt that Echevarría had made him. It had cost him a damn fortune and he'd been damned lucky to get it back after the trouble in Sonora. He wasn't going to be poking his nose into other people's revolutions, ever again. "Scott, the belt's almost as important as the gun. You need one that's the right weight, and the leather needs to be supple so it hangs just right on you, moulds itself to you. Sure, you ain't going to be standing out there in the street facing up to no gunhawk, but this is like any other tool. You get the best you can."

Zimmermann was nodding as he set out the gun parts on his workbench behind the counter. "Ja, that's right. Yes, I mean." He waved a hand at the belts hanging on a rack on a side wall. "All I have is there."

Scott looked at the rack and then at Johnny's belt. "Where did you get yours?"

"Manuel Echevarría hand made it for me. He's the best leatherworker in Mexico. He learned his trade in Córdoba, back in Spain."

"A famous place for leather working."

"That's what Echevarría said. Took me three months to earn enough to pay for it, and I'm an expensive gun to hire."

"You were an expensive gun. You're a rancher now." Scott's mouth twitched the way Murdoch's did when he was trying not to grin. "A respectable rancher."

"Sure." Johnny turned away and studied the rack.

Zimmermann had the belts ranked by price. Johnny went straight to the expensive end and spent a few minutes checking them out. He chose two, flexing them in his hands to make sure the leather was supple enough. He made Scott try them both before shaking his head and returning to the rack. The third belt was better: supple, but not so supple that the holster sagged on it, and the perfect width for the holster's loops. He'd want to work on it for himself, but Scott wasn't a professional, after all. The belt was well made from the best leather, the stitching was strong and even, and the leather would soon mould itself to Scott. There were holes enough to get it on tight. It was a good belt. He made Scott wear it a little lower than he'd worn the borrowed one, although not as low as he wore his own.

"This one. It's the best one."

Scott looked at the little label tied onto it with string. His eyebrow went up. Amazing how much the man could say just by moving his eyebrows. Maybe there was a long word for that as well. "At this price it ought to be."

"That was about the cost of my holster, Boston."

"Just the holster? Good Lord. Then you're right, I don't think I could afford your gun belt."

"You don't need to."

"And it's Scott, remember."

"Sure, Boston. I remember." Johnny picked up the new belt while Scott huffed. He sounded a lot like Murdoch when he did that. "This is a good rig."

Zimmermann kept leather tools as well. He handed Johnny a soft, rolled pouch. "I don't do much leather tooling myself but it's easier to have the means handy to adjust a gun belt than send you over to the saddler's."

Yeah. Some folks really liked to make a sale. "Keeps all the profit here, too."

"Oh, ja!" Zimmermann just grinned and nodded, and went back to his workbench. He looked real pleased with himself..

Johnny used an awl to make two small holes in the back of the stiff leather holster, near the bottom. Threading a long rawhide string through the holes was a tricky job. "¡Mierda!"

"Something wrong?" Scott was grinning when Johnny looked up. "I've not learned a lot of Spanish yet, Johnny-my-boy, but the hands were very good at teaching me how to swear. They definitely have their priorities right."

"Maldiciones." Johnny spoke clearly, for Scott's benefit. He pushed his fingers into the holster to catch the end of rawhide to feed it back out through the second hole, until he had two long tails hung from the holster. "It's just fiddly."

"Rather you than me, then."

Johnny knotted each tail so the string couldn't slip loose. He slid the holster frog back onto the gun belt, fixed it into place, and handed it to Scott. "The thong's so you can tie it around your leg. It keeps the holster in place where you need it to be instead of it flapping about like a saloon gal's tongue."

Scott laughed.

"I'm serious about this, Scott. I saw that you didn't tie the holster on that belt you borrowed from Murdoch. Didn't it move around when you walked?"

"Sorry. Yes, it did, a bit."

"Yeah, well that's not good. If it's moving and you need to draw your gun, you could be a dead man 'fore you can get your gun clear." Johnny glanced over to where Zimmermann was reassembling Scott's new gun. "Look, you're a good shot. You need to take less time setting up a shot, though. I need to start practisin' again. Cipriano told me about a small box canyon a couple of miles from the house that he figured I could use. Ride out with me tomorrow and I'll—" He stopped. Scott might not want lessons from a gunhawk. 'Specially a gunhawk he wasn't sure of.

And Scott wasn't sure, not yet. Johnny got that considering look again, a long minute before Scott nodded.

"Thank you, Johnny. I appreciate that."

"Just make sure you do, Boston, cause Murdoch's gonna yell so loud they'll hear him in Stockton."

"Scott. Not Boston. Scott."

"Oh, pay for your gun, big brother, and stop worrying about what folks call you. It's just a name. You can buy me a box of bullets while you're at it. Call it my fee for today."

"I thought you said you were an expensive gun to hire. What's one box of bullets? Family rate?"

Johnny turned away. "Make the most of it. I'm not always this generous."

"Johnny—"

Dios, would Scott never stop talking? Johnny spun on his heel, grinning. "Whoo-ee, Scott! We've got you a gun and you almost ain't a tenderfoot no more. Wonder if Teresa talked the Old Man into buying her a hat?"

Scott looked kinda disappointed. "Sure, Johnny. Let's go and see."

Damn it.

And he still hadn't got his beer.