'You?'
'Henderson, sir. C. D. Henderson, Tulsa, Oklahoma.'
'See, you're already a problem, Henderson. Our boss, his name is D. A. So we can't have too many initials or we'll get 'em all tangled up. What's the C stand for?'
'Carl.'
'Carl? Don't like that a bit.'
'Don't much like it myself, sir.'
'Hmmm. Tell you what. Let's tag an O on the end of it. But not an S. That would make you a Carlo. Not a Carlos, but a Carlo. Carlo Henderson. Do you like it?'
'Well, I?'
'Boys, say Hello to Carlo.'
'HELLO CARLO!'
In that way, he named them all, and acquired a Slim who was chunky, a Stretch who was short, a Nick who cut himself shaving, a Terry who read Terry and the Pirates> a smallish Bear, a largish Peanut, a phlegmatic Sparky. Running short on inspiration, he concluded the ceremony with a Jimmy to be called James and a Billy Bob to be called Bob Billy and finally a Jefferson to be called not Jeff but Eff.
'So everything you was, it don't exist no more. What exists is who you are now and what you have to do and how Mr. D. A. Parker himself, the heroic federal agent who shot it out with Baby Face Nelson and put the Barker Gang in the ground, will train you. You are very lucky to learn from a great man. There ain't many legends around no more and he is the authentic thing. You meet him tomorrow and you will grow from his wisdom. Any questions?'
There were probably lots of questions, but nobody had the guts to ask them.
For a legend, D. A. cut a strange figure when at last he revealed himself to the men, this time at one of the old post's far-flung shooting ranges. If they expected someone as taut and tough as jut-jawed, bull-necked, rumble-voiced Earl, what they got was a largish old man in a lumpy suit, beaten-to-hell boots and a fedora that looked as if it had been pulled by a tractor through the fields of Oklahoma, who seemed to do a lot of spitting.
It was after the morning run and the boys had changed back into the outfits they'd wear on the street?that is, into suits and ties, and damn the heat.
The old man didn't give any orders at all and didn't mean to command by force but by wisdom. His first move was to invite the boys to sit. Then he noted that it was hot, and since it was hot he suggested they take their coats off.
When the coats came off, he walked among them, and looked at their sidearms, mainly modern Smith or Colt revolvers in.38 Special, worn in shoulder holsters, as befits a plainclothesman. One of them even had an old Bisley in.44–40.
'That's a powerful piece of work, young man.'
'Yes sir. My grandfather wore it when he was sheriff of Chickasaw County before the Great War.'
'I see. Well, it loads a mite slow for our purposes. Don't get me wrong. A Colt single-action's a fine gun. So's a Smith double. But this here's 1946 and it's modern times. So we're going to learn how to get ready for modern times.'
'Yes sir,' said the boy. 'That is why I came here.'
'Good boy. Now, I suppose y'all are good shots. Why, I'd bet all of you shot expert on qualification. Let's see how many did. Hands up.'
Twelve hands came up, unwavering with the confidence of the young and sure.
'All of them. See that, Earl? They're all experts '
Earl, standing to one side with his arms folded and his face glowering in the best sergeant's stare, nodded.
'Yes sir. Been known to use a Smith myself,' D. A. said. He threw back his coat and revealed what it had not hidden that effectively: his own Smith.38/44 Heavy Duty, with white stag grips, worn on an elaborately carved Mexican holster off a second belt beneath his trousers belt.
'Yes sir, a fine gun. Now tell me, who can do this?'
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a silver dollar. He turned and lofted the coin into the air. It rose, seemed to pause, then fell. His hand a blur, the old man drew and fired in a motion so swift and sudden it seemed to have no place in time. The ping from the coin, and the speed with which it jerked out of its fall and sailed thirty feet further out signified a hit.
'You' he pointed to the youngest of the boys. 'Can you go get that for die old man?'
'Yes sir,' said the boy, the one Earl had nicknamed Frenchy yesterday.
Short retrieved the piece.
'Hold her up,' said D. A.
The young officer held up the coin, which was distended ever so slightly by the power of the.38 slug punching through its center. The Texas sunlight showed through it.
The boys murmured in appreciation.
'See,' said D. A., 'y'all think that was pretty neat, huh? Truth is, it's a miss. Because I hit dead center. Usually when I do that trick for the kids, I like to hit closer to the edge, so when they wear it on a thong around the neck, it'll hang straighter. How many of you could do such a thing?'
No hands came up.
'Mr. Earl, you think you could?' asked the old man.
Earl was a very good shot, but he knew that was beyond his skills.
'No sir,' he said.
'In fact,' said D. A., 'there ain't but four or five men in the world who could do that regularly. A Texas Ranger or two. An old buddy of mine named Ed McGivern, a trick shooter. Maybe a pistolero in Idaho named Elmer Keith. See, what I got, what them boys I named got, you don't got. That is, a special gift. A trick of the brain, that lets me solve deflection problems and coordinate the answer between my hand and eye in a split second. That's all. It's just a gift.'
He turned to them.
'I show it to you because I want you to see it, and forget about it. I'm a lucky man. I'm a very lucky man. You ain't. You're ordinary. You can't do that. Nobody in the FBI could do that. So what I mean to teach you is how an ordinary man can survive a gunfight, not how a man like me can. You've seen fast and fancy shooting; now forget it.
Fast and fancy don't get it done: sure and right gets it done. And take them revolvers back to your lockers and lock them up. You won't be using them no more and you won't be shooting with one hand and you won't be trusting your reflexes. This here is the tool of our trade.'
He took off his coat, and showed the.45 auto he had hanging under his left armpit in its elaborate leather harness.
'We use the.45 auto. We carry it cocked and locked. We draw with one hand, clasp the other hand to the gun and grip hard, we concentrate on the sights, we lock our elbows until we're nothing but triangles. We got a triangle of arms between ourself and the gun and a triangle of legs between ourself and the ground. The triangle is nature's only stable form. We're crouching a little because that's what our body wants to do when we get scared. We aren't relying on the ability of our mind to do fancy calculations under extreme pressure and we ain't counting on our fingers to do fancy maneuvers when all's they want to do is clutch up. Every goddamn thing we do is sure and simple and plain. Our motions are simple and pure. Most of all: front sight, front sight, front sight. That's the drill. If you see the front sight you'll win and survive, if you don't, you'll die.
'Did I hear a laugh? Do I hear snickers? Sure I do. A man shoots with one hand, you're telling me. All the bull's-eye and police shooting games are set up for one hand. Them old cowboys used one hand and in the movies the stars all use one hand. You don't want to use two hands, 'cause that's how a girl shoots. You're a big strong he-man. You don't need two hands.
'Well, that there's the kind of thinking that gets you killed.'
He withdrew another silver dollar from his pocket, turned and lofted it high. The automatic was a blur as it locked into a triangle at the end of both his arms and from the blur there sprang the flash-bang of report; the coin was hit and blasted three times as far back as the previous dollar. Again, Short retrieved it. He held it up. It was no
