Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [33]
Removing his Winchester from its scabbard, Luke dropped several cartridges in his pocket and ambled toward the group, wondering if any of them were members of Comer’s gang. Of the two dozen gathered, he was the only one in overalls and the only one who did physical labor for a living. He hoped his presence would be accepted. Gun clubs were for the affluent. Typical farmers—and telephone repairmen—couldn’t afford the premium prices target rifles claimed, though his .30-40 Krag wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
Doc von Hardenberg caught sight of him and headed his way. As was the fashion, he’d fastened the first button of his jacket, leaving the rest to gape open over a well-fed belly. His salt-and-pepper mustache was so full it encroached upon his lower lip, giving him a walrus-like appearance when he smiled. Luke rubbed his own upper lip, missing the mustache he’d worn for years. At least these last couple of weeks climbing poles had added color to the virgin skin.
He grasped the doc’s hand. They’d met earlier in the week while Luke had been stringing wire and the doc had been heading home after a call.
“Fancy seeing you, Palmer.” Doc eyed Luke’s rifle. “Didn’t know you shot.”
“Oh, I don’t have much time for targets, but I enjoy hunting when I can.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Coons and birds are my favorite, but not with my .30-40, of course.”
Doc raised his brows. “Does Georgie know you hunt birds?”
“No, sir. Don’t reckon it’s ever come up.”
“You’d be smart to keep it that way. She’s awful funny about birds.”
“So I’ve heard.” He hadn’t returned to Georgie’s place since she’d removed his splinters. Instead, he’d had Bettina return the tweezers, he’d worked six days a week stringing line, and he’d stayed away from Georgie at church. He wouldn’t be able to put off seeing her much longer, though. The new wire was close to being done and the ledgers needed attention.
Doc introduced him to several members whom he’d seen at church but had never actually met.
“And this here’s our sheriff,” Doc said. “Franz, have you met our new troubleman?”
Franz Nussbaum looked more like a college professor than a sheriff. Pretty face. No sideburns. Pomaded hair. Oval glasses. And a trim brown mustache. According to Luke’s Ranger report, Comer had plenty of influentials in his back pocket. Luke wondered if Nussbaum was one of them. At least the sheriff had a decent weapon.
“You a shooter, Palmer?” the sheriff asked, offering a limp handshake.
Luke hated that. “I can bring down a bird or two.”
The sheriff smirked. “Well, we’ll see how you do with a target at two hundred.”
Luke smiled and looked at the silver plate on the other side of the racetrack. He could hit it square on, but he wouldn’t. He’d nick it a few times to gain the respect of the men. Then he’d miss it a few times to keep from being a threat.
Doc clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Go get you a beer, son. We’re about to start.”
The men lined up watching as the judge stretched prone on the ground and fired, hitting the target dead to rights with a loud ping. The steel disc swung back and forth.
A murmur of admiration rippled through the group. Those closest to the judge pulled him to his feet. The man grinned, his natty goatee reaching clear down to the vee in his waistcoat.
The milliner stepped up next, a hard, wiry man with a pitch-black mustache. He loaded his Krag with factory ammunition. The members exchanged knowing looks. Factory cartridges were usually four or five grains off. That might be fine for sporting, but not for precision shooting where every little variance made a difference.
Luke had carefully measured his powder and packed his cartridges before arriving. That way, the only variance he had was the wind, the outside temperature, and himself.
“You aimin’ for the plate there, Ottfried?” the banker asked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Well, pull down on it just a little; it’s about two or three—”
Bang. He completely overshot the target.
Cocking the