“If I miss, I’ll ride away with no further attempt to sell my services,” Silva said. He looked at Teasdale. “But if I hit it, you will hire me to kill Jensen. And my price is five thousand dollars.”
Teasdale was silent for a moment.
“Do I shoot or not?”
Teasdale held up his finger. “One shot,” he said. “No excuses if you miss.”
Silva nodded.
“Go put the dime up, Mr. Reed,” Teasdale said.
As Reed started toward the distant fence post, Silva walked back over to his horse. Reaching down into his saddlebag, he removed something long and black, then he returned. It wasn’t until then that Teasdale saw that it was a telescopic sight.
Teasdale put the scope on, made a few adjustments, then waited until Reed returned.
“I got it tied on,” Reed said. “Can you see it? It’s about six inches below the top of the post.”
“I can see it,” Teasdale said. “But barely.”
Silva loaded the huge bullet into the breach, then, cocking the rifle, he raised it to his shoulder, set one trigger, then bent his head down to look through the sight. He held it for about three seconds before he pulled the trigger.
The resultant boom of the heavy-caliber round rolled out over the yard, startling the horses in the stable and corral so that several of them whinnied while others began galloping around. The other ranch hands on the place, those who weren’t actually out on the range, began to appear from various locations, the cook shack, the machine shop, the barn, and the carpentry shop, drawn by the loud explosion.
“What happened?”
“What was that?”
“Mr. Teasdale, is ever’thing all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Teasdale called back with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Mr. Reed, go retrieve the dime,” he said.
“Oh, there won’t be any dime,” Silva said.
“If there is no dime, how will I know if you hit it?”
“You’ll know,” Silva said. “Mr. Reed,” he called. “Do you have a pocket knife?”
“I do.”
“You will need it to retrieve what is left of the dime,” Silva said.
By now the other hands, having figured out what was going on, came to stand near Teasdale and Silva. They watched with interest as Reed took out his knife and began digging around in the fence post. A moment later he returned, holding his right hand palm up, fist closed.
“Is that the dime?” Teasdale asked.
“Some of it,” Reed said. He opened his hand to show nothing but slivers of silver.
“Son of a bitch!” one of the hands said. “Are you telling me that he hit a dime on that post from here?”
“That’s what he done, all right,” Reed said.
“Very well, Mr. Silva, the job is yours, with one caveat,” Teasdale said. “You get nothing until the job is completed.”
Silva held out his hand. “A dime,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I would like you to replace the dime.”
Teasdale laughed. “All right,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket. When he pulled it out, he was holding a silver dollar. “I don’t have a dime, but it was worth a dollar to see the show.”
“Thank you,” Silva said, taking the dollar. He started toward his horse.
“Where are you going?” Reed called.
“To do the job I was hired to do,” Silva replied.
Chapter Nineteen
Matt was with a group of cowboys who had been rounding up cattle, and though he hadn’t been hired as a cowboy, he did lend a hand here and there when it was required. He awakened just before dawn, rolled out of his blankets, pulled on his boots, then sat staring into the fire. Although he was an early riser, he was not the first one up. Tibby Ware, the black cook, had been up for an hour, and now he stood in the light of his lantern at the lowered tailgate of his wagon, rolling out biscuits for breakfast. He had already made coffee, and the aroma permeated the encampment area.
Just beyond the bubble of light created by the cook’s lantern and the campfire, the cows that had already been rounded up stood in the quiet darkness, watched over by a single night rider. Matt walked over to the large blue coffeepot which was suspended over an open fire.
“Mr. Ware, may I have a cup of coffee?” he asked, knowing that the cook was supreme when it came to the allocation of food.
