At Button Creek, where nothing grew
except the cost of hay,
we paid to hear what Lightning Lou
had shot at yesterday.
He’d shot the buckle off a thief
and left the trousers tied;
he’d parted lightning from its cloud
and hung the bolt outside.
He’d shot a hornet through its hat,
a flea clean through its shoe.
“I’ve seen these things,” said Tanner Pat.
He always drank with Lou.
I swept the floor behind the bar.
I knew what Pat had seen:
the bottoms of our cheapest jars,
and very little between.
Lou wore a pistol, ivory-white,
in polished purple hide.
He never took it out at night.
“Too quick,” he said. “I’ve tried.”
He claimed he’d drawn it once at dawn
and made the daylight late.
The mayor, who’d slept till half past one,
confirmed the altered date.
Then Berta Quill arrived by cart
with posters rolled in twine.
A shooting star adorned each chart.
LOU’S WILD FRONTIER, read the sign.
Below, in letters twice as tall:
QUILL’S FAMOUS TRICK-SHOT SHOW.
Below that: ONE NIGHT ONLY, FOLKS.
The date was long ago.
“I’m here for Lou,” said Berta Quill.
Pat pointed with his beer.
She laid an old unpaid bill
beside his elbow. “Here.”
Lou read it once. His ears grew red.
He held it very still.
“You never finished,” Lou began.
“The roof fell in,” said Quill.
“You sold the tickets all the same.
I worked before it fell.
You owe me for my part of them.
You know the sum quite well.”
He tried to smile. “An argument?
I never settle those.”
She tapped the pistol on his hip.
“Then let us try a pose.”
“Come to the square tomorrow noon.
We’ll see who’s quick,” she said.
“Bring that.” She pointed at his gun.
Lou nodded with his head.
By morning we had sold the news
to everybody near.
Pat took a stack of bets on Lou
and bought himself more beer.
The mayor moved the washing lines.
The smith shut up his shed.
Somebody chalked two little signs:
STAND HERE, each of them said.
Lou stopped beside the nearer mark,
his face the shade of chalk.
His purple holster looked quite smart.
He’d lost his easy talk.
Berta arrived with painted tins,
a folding wooden stand,
and one round target, canvas-skinned,
which she held in her hand.
“Behind the rope,” she told us all.
“This isn’t what you think.
I shoot at targets, not at fools.
Lou, you’ve gone very pink.”
She put her stand against the hill
where nothing stood beyond.
She checked the ground. The square went still.
Then Quill chose to respond.
“That gun,” she said. “Let’s see it, Lou.”
He glanced at Tanner Pat.
“The crowd deserves a proper view.
I made it. Show them that.”
He drew it slowly from its case.
It made no metal sound.
A splinter showed along its base.
Its barrel was not round.
She took it, rapped it on the stand.
It knocked like any chair.
“Carved pine,” she said. “By my own hand.
There’s not a bullet there.”
Pat started backing toward the bar.
I stood across his way.
“Return the stakes. There’s no duel here.
You’ve got to stay and pay.”
“We had an act,” said Berta Quill.
“I’d shoot. He’d take the cheers.
The tales grew quicker every night.
I didn’t change for years.”
“You shot quite well,” said Lou at once.
“You hit a falling dime.”
She watched him with her arms held crossed.
“Well, yes. Most of the time.”
He told us how the falling dime
had bounced beneath the boards;
how he’d been crawling through the grime
while she received applause;
how he’d returned without his boots,
one trouser knee gone through,
and Berta, in her sequined suit,
had tried to lend him two.
“Two boots,” he said. “Both left ones, though.
That’s all her trunk could spare.
I did the next three towns like so.”
He limped around the square.
The mayor laughed. The smith bent down
and shook his lowered head.
Berta’s mouth began to turn.
“You stole my boots,” she said.
“Borrowed.” “Then where are they now?”
Lou stopped beside his mark.
“The mule wore one. I can’t say how.
The dressing tent was dark.”
And that was when he drew the crowd:
no pistol, just his hands.
He showed the mule, indignant, proud,
refusing all commands.
He showed the roof come falling in,
the mayor in his hat,
the showman saving all his cash—
then paused. “Well. I was that.”
He looked at Berta. “Kept your share.
The cart repairs came due.
I meant to send it. That’s not fair.
I’ve done quite well on you.”
The square grew quiet. Berta took
her bill and held it out.
Lou counted coins. She checked her book.
Then struck the figures out.
Then Berta put the tins in place
and did the act she’d billed.
We cheered the skill we’d come to see.
The falling dime stayed still.
She left it lying on the stand.
“Not that one. Wind,” she said.
And nobody said she couldn’t shoot.
We watched the tins instead.
Lou passed his hat when she was done.
“A story costs a dime.
It isn’t true. It might be fun.
I’ll say that every time.”
At half past twelve she packed her gear.
He helped her tie the load.
She didn’t ask him back to tour.
He watched her take the road.
That evening Pat came to the bar
with nothing left to bet.
Lou told the tale of Berta Quill.
His tallest story yet.
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