Read Online The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham - Free Book Online

eye in a shooting accident last year. Can’t match-shoot at all now.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œA shell blew up in the chamber, he said. Burned his face a little, blinded one eye. So we’ll never know whether you coulda took him.”
    Henry winked at Allie. “Sit tight, Arthur—I’m going to show you something. Then you can kind of draw your own conclusion—”
    He loosened his shoulders, shot his cuffs, sat straight up in the chair like a clairvoyant, and fished Allie’s Mexican pesos from his pocket. He selected one without milling, with a good sharp edge, pulled the vinegar cruet to his place, and examined it. The cut-glass stopper had a perfectly flat top about the size of a nickel. Henry made sure the stopper was tight and level, then raised the cruet in his right hand and with care set the fat silver coin edgewise upon the stopper. The coin balanced there as though he had cast a spell on it.
    â€œMerciful heaven!” whispered Miss Leisure. Henry rose and backed a couple of paces toward the window. The silver peso gleamed on the cruet. Allie chortled.
    â€œHenry! Are you a stage magician?”
    Henry said, “It’s just a gift, like juggling. So it would be foolish to brag about it.”
    Then everyone started as a chiming crash like that of a bullet striking a church bell came from the porch. Miss Leisure’s teacup clashed into her saucer, Arthur hissed a mild oath, and Allie, Henry was sure, gasped,
    â€œJesus!”
    They all looked at Henry, who stood perfectly still with the peso still balanced on the vinegar cruet. He grinned, flipped the coin, and caught it.
    â€œI reckon somebody hit your triangle a wallop with a gas pipe, Allie,” he said. But then, through the vibrating echoes, he heard a small popping sound, familiar to anyone who knew guns.
    Some prankster had hit the triangle with a .22 rifle slug.
    As Allie moved to rise, he chuckled, then said, “Keep your seat, Allie. I imagine that’s for me”
    Wiping his lips, he went to the window and moved a curtain to peer out into the dusk. On the high ground across the road, silhouetted against a whiskey-colored sky, four men armed with rifles stood in a vacant lot. All appeared to be wearing the same style of black hat, and they were watching the house intently.
    â€œYes, ma’am—it’s for me,” he said. “I’ll just pin notes to these boys’ shirts and send them home to their wives.”
    â€œAren’t you going to take a gun?” Arthur asked.
    â€œWhy, I don’t think I’ll have to kill anybody, Arthur. We’ll see.”
    As he stepped onto the porch, one of the men on the low cliff bawled, “Bang! You’re dead, gunman!” Then they all began yelling, “Bang! Bang! Bang!” “Make yer play, gunman!” “God’s gift, hey?” and other nonsense.
    Way out West, Henry thought, chuckling.
    He walked into the rutted street and waited there while the men picked their way down the bank, laughing and hooting. One of them was Budge Gorman, the hound-faced man from the stable, still shirtless, his arms hairy as a tarantula’s legs. The men lined up like rookies, guns pointed this way and that. The breeze brought Henry a light fragrance of spirits.
    â€œMake your play, gunman!” the stableman said, pretending to make a hip-shot with his huge-bored rifle. All of the men wore black Grand Army hats with gold braid and the G. A. R. insignia on the front. Sears, Roebuck sold them for a dollar-ninety or so, Henry thought. Evidently they belonged to a shooting club.
    â€œTook you long enough to get here, men,” Henry said. “Still, the word in Kansas City is that Nogales men can’t shoot for sour owl shit.”
    Budge Gorman bawled: “That’s a goddamn lie!”
    â€œAs you were, Budge,” Henry said firmly.
    â€œDetail— attention ! Inspection— arms