The Last Plate

Fenn put his money on the table in a little leather purse. Jon put his down loose, so people could hear it.

It was the same entry fee. Merle, standing behind him, counted the coins with her eyes. He had promised that even if he lost, the show fee would pay their way to the next town. The prize would buy them time to stay here and let her knee settle.

She had heard that promise in six towns.

The judge took both fees and read the rules. Ten stationary clay plates for each man, one shot at each. A small plate scored two; a broad plate scored one. Before each round the shooter chose which plate went on his stand. Five counts after the judge’s signal to fire, or the shot was lost. Nobody chose the other man’s target.

Fenn listened with his hat off. Jon kept his on. The brim made the sunlight less difficult, and looking difficult wasn’t in the advertisement.

On the posters he was the man who never missed a button.

“You do the button afterwards?” Fenn asked.

“That’s what they’re paying to see.”

“I meant, is it part of this?”

“No.”

The younger man nodded. He had come to compete, not to be folded into Jon’s show. Merle liked him for that. Jon could tell by the care with which she didn’t say so.

The range stood beyond the last houses, facing an empty rise of earth. The judge kept spectators behind the shooting line. Jon had used it for two afternoons of demonstrations. He knew the dip beneath his right boot and the strip of light that struck the plate stands after three.

He had once been able to read a man’s expression at that distance. Now he could see expressions only when the men carrying the plates came back.

For the first round he chose a small plate. So did Fenn. Both broke them.

Jon heard the familiar applause and felt his shoulders loosen. A good shot could still persuade him that the last few bad ones belonged to somebody else.

They broke small plates again in the second round. In the third Fenn missed. A piece of loose earth jumped beside his target; the plate remained insultingly whole.

Jon waited while his own stand was reset. He could have chosen the broad plate and gone ahead by one. He chose small and broke it. Now he led by two. He looked towards Merle. She did not smile until he had lowered the rifle.

In the fourth round Jon missed. The sound of the shot ran out over the earth and came back without the small answering crack he wanted.

Fenn broke his. They were level.

At the break, a boy brought water. Jon drank standing up. If he sat on the bench, Merle would come and ask how he was. If he stayed standing, she came and asked anyway.

“The sun?”

“A gust.”

There had been no gust.

She looked at him, then down at her cup. “We’ve got the show money. Don’t throw that away too.”

“I’m not throwing anything.”

She returned to the bench, favouring her knee. Their wagon was beyond the spectators. In its box lay the clean shirt he wore for the button trick, and the waistcoat whose button he would fasten to the far stand. The button was larger than people remembered afterwards. It still wasn’t large enough today.

Fenn came to fill his cup.

“Could you see it?” Jon asked.

“My miss?”

“The plate.”

“Yes. I pulled the shot.”

He admitted it as if it cost no more than water. Jon found that irritating, then enviable. At his age a miss was still something you did, not a hole in who you were.

“You don’t travel with a show,” Jon said.

“I mend harness. I’ve a job here if I lose.”

“Then what do you need the prize for?”

Fenn pointed at the purse on the judge’s table. “To get my own bench and tools. I’d like not to be paid by the day forever.”

He wasn’t competing for the pleasure of replacing an old man. Jon had allowed himself to think that, because it made wanting to beat him simpler.

Rounds five through nine went to small plates. Some of Jon’s broke into two pieces instead of a cloud. They counted the same. He stayed level with Fenn, and the crowd, which had begun expecting a procession, became a crowd watching a contest.

Before the tenth round, the judge held up both sizes.

Fenn looked towards the small one. Jon saw the pause. A broad plate, if Jon missed, would win. If Jon broke his small plate, it would lose. Two broad plates would leave them tied, and the judge would set a further round under the same rules.

“Small,” Fenn said.

The judge turned to Jon.

For a moment the broad plate looked like an admission he could make without speaking. He chose it. Merle shifted on the bench.

Fenn fired first. His small plate broke. Two points.

Jon had already lost the prize. He could hit this plate and finish one point behind, or miss and finish two behind. He heard somebody ask why he’d chosen the broad one. A different voice answered for him, incorrectly.

The judge raised his hand.

Jon lifted the rifle. The broad pale circle stood against the dark earth. He could see its edges. For once he did not try to make himself see a smaller thing inside it.

At the signal he fired. The plate broke.

He lowered the rifle and heard applause that had lost its fever. Fenn came towards him with his hand out. Jon took it.

“Your third was good,” Fenn said.

“Your tenth was better.”

The judge paid the prize to Fenn. The show organiser approached Jon with the button waistcoat folded over his arm.

“Ready for the demonstration?”

“Not that one.”

“We advertised it.”

“I know. I’ll shoot the broad plates. Or give you half the fee back.”

Merle stood up so abruptly that Jon turned.

The organiser considered the crowd, the remaining plates, and the coins he might have to return to people. “Broad plates. Tell them yourself.”

Jon walked to the rope. He said he would give the demonstration at the size he’d just used. Somebody booed. Most people stayed. He did not tell them a story about the wind.

Afterwards, the organiser paid the agreed fee without a tip. Jon brought it to Merle.

“We can stay three nights,” he said.

“Five if we don’t buy your tobacco.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. She took the money and counted it, this time with her hands.

Fenn passed them carrying the plate stands for the judge. He asked whether Jon would be here next year.

“Not competing,” Jon said.

Fenn looked sorry for a moment. Then he nodded and went on with the stands. His own work was waiting.

Merle handed Jon the lighter end of their trunk. They carried it to the wagon together. She asked him to slow down, and he did.