A New Beginning

Millesani Claim

"Watch it! Yer gonna blow a hole through some poor feller's head!"

Arthur's jibe and complementary gesture leave no allusion that a mere week and a day ago he came unnervingly close to drawing his last breath for the second time in less than a year. To the untrained eye, and to those who do not know him well, he is all vigor and health but to you, and to Marston you presume, a slight but discernible reduction of body mass, faint pallor of complexion, and want of a certain briskness are all testimonies and perpetual reminders of his recent malaise.

"Ha! – I may be new at moving targets," you holler back, "but I ain't that much in want of control."

Arthur sniggers the way he only does when reminded of something amusing, event or exchange, immediately after which he lobs yet another can high in the air. You spin around, spot a gleam, aim, bam-bam-bam, forgetting about empty lungs, forgetting not to snatch the trigger, – aaand it's a three times miss. Clunk, tap, tap, says the can as it hits and bounces off the ground.

"I doubt that crow would agree," he deadpans with affected matter-of-fact-ness not for want of the lilt of jest, an interpolation and not-so-subtle allusion to your very first shooting practice when, supervening an accidental discharge by thee, in one fell swoop the mangled corpse of an erstwhile blissfully unsuspecting crow plumped by your feet as one swell goop – an anecdote already as much of a favorite of his as Marston's fiendish tête-à-tête with canine maxillary teeth.

"Har har," you return, winded from bouncing and leaping about. You throw out your arms. "Have I not improved since then?"

Arthur's response is a conspicuous glare at five cans haphazardly scattered about, unscathed by bullets. "I mean, in general," you dissent. "Unmoving targets I can hit no problem, as long as the distance is within reason, and I've surely been hunting my share of rabbit by now, have I not?"

Arthur empties the coffee pot, whilst Marston extinguishes the campfire. You holster the revolver. Break's over. "Yeees, you have. But you still got ways to go." Trappings and arms securely strapped onto or tucked inside saddlebags, Arthur and Marston make sure everything is properly secured. Ensuing the wonted pat and complementary sweet-talk, the former grants you his full attention. "Neither folk nor game stand still waitin' to be shot. Most of'em, anyhow."

You cock a brow. You don't say.

"I mean it. If you can't hit amovin' target, you'll end up killed by the first lunatic with a gun. All'em hours shootin' cans or rabbit won't save ya." After one too many heartbeats of silence, he resumes. "We should change before we leave – 's gonna get cold real soon."

Ensuing a hasty canter through Cumberland Forest, you, Arthur, Marston, and mounts had reached Valentine well past eventide last night to stock up on ammunition, canned goods, warm clothes, a meal and a few hour of rest, demonstrating astute husbandry of folk, steed, funds, and resources. At last, a proper bed but alas, there was no time for anything else, warm bath included, although, as the town barber had set up shop inside the saloon, the equestrians had allowed time for a shave while waiting for their meal and Arthur's locks was sacrificed for a more becoming length.

Supper was superseded by a few hours of almost-sleep and breakfast at an hour that could be called late or early interchangeably, depending on pursuit or activity, after which, with the first light of the nascent day, the dusty livestock town soon disappeared behind cantering hooves, succeeding two hours surplus on a straight course, whereupon the horses veered right, across Dakota River, out of the verdurous Heartlands of New Hanover and into the mountainous hinterland of Grizzlies West.

You and your party of two had followed Dakota River southwest, a humpy-dumpty ride along a perilous ridge until arriving at this overlook trapped between two worlds, on which it was agreed a break was due, ensuing water and carrot for steeds, coffee, crackers, and impromptu shooting practice for the fellers and thee, resuming the shooting practice which had begun a few days past at the hill house but discontinued due to shortage of ammunition.