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When the kiss ended, Lorna continued to press her cheek against the bristly roughness of his. Her eyes were closed in a holding on to of the moment of closeness.
“Sometimes I’m frightened by what’s happening,” she admitted in a whisper.
“Nothing can frighten you unless you allow it,” Benteen replied, and pulled back his head to look at her, bringing his hands up to push on her shoulders and force her feet onto the ground. The butt of the pistol grip dug into her flesh. “It’s time you learned how to shoot.”
Reluctantly she withdrew from his embrace and stared at the gun, before finally taking it. It was heavy. Benteen had handled it as if it weighed next to nothing.
“First see if there’s any bullets in it,” Benteen instructed.
“But you unloaded it.”
“Check for yourself,” he insisted. “Do you remember how to do it?”
“Yes, I think so.” Lorna turned the cylinder as she had seen him do and confirmed the gun was empty.
“Pull the hammer back a few times and squeeze the trigger so you can get the feel of it,” he told her. She had to use both hands to hold it. “And remember, never,” he emphasized, “point it at anyone, even when the gun is empty.”
The hammer and trigger were stiff. Coupled with the weight of the gun, they made her attempts feel very awkward. After she had done it a few times Benteen took the gun back and began returning the .45-caliber bullets to their chambers.
“I’ll load it with five bullets.” He stressed the number and suggested, “Why don’t you pick out a target?”
Lorna chose something big. “That tree trunk.” She pointed to a large oak not too far away.
He appeared to do no more than swing the gun toward it, holding it with only one hand. The sudden explosion and flash of blue fire from the pistol startled Lorna. She flinched and closed her eyes at the deafening noise.
“That’s what it’s going to sound like when you fire it,” he said, and smoothly shifted his grip on the revolver to hand it to her butt-first. “It will kick back against your hands, so hold on to it firmly. And don’t close your eyes.”
“Did you hit the tree?” she asked, feeling very nervous and not at all eager to go through with these lessons.
“Yes.” Crow tracks of amusement fanned out from the corners of his eyes. Using both hands, she lifted the gun straight out from her and closed one eye to squint down the barrel. Her heart was beating madly in her throat. “Don’t try to aim it.” Benteen lowered her arms and adjusted the grip of her right hand to lay a forefinger along the barrel. “Pretend you’re pointing your finger at the tree and squeeze the trigger.”
The instructions sounded very simple. She even thought she had done what he told her. When she squeezed the trigger, the gun exploded and seemed to almost jump right out of her hands. Instinctively she closed her eyes.
“You shot off a leaf on the top of the tree,” Benteen informed her. “Try it again, but this time look at the trunk and point your finger at the spot you’re looking at.”
“I don’t know why we’re doing this,” Lorna protested, wanting to end the lessons now. “I’m never going to shoot at anything.”
“I hope you never have to,” Benteen stated. “Try again.”
Lorna tried again—and yet again—with the same degree of failure. “How many bullets are left in the gun?” he asked.
She had to stop and count how many times she and Benteen had fired it. “One.”
“Always leave one bullet in the gun. Never fire that last one at anything.” His expression was so serious that it simply made Lorna more uneasy about this whole experience. “Save it for yourself.”
“So I won’t be taken alive by Indians.” Every female in the frontier had heard stories about women killing themselves rather than being captured by Indians. Lorna was no exception. She shuddered at the thought. With today’s meeting fresh in her mind, she tried to reason away her fear with the unlikelihood of it ever being necessary. “You don’t really believe that Spotted Elk or his band would attack us, do you?”
“I wasn’t thinking of these reservation Indians so much as I was the Sioux up in the Montana Territory.” Benteen slipped more bullets out of his cartridge belt. “Load it and try again.”
“Why don’t I practice another time?” Lorna felt shaky inside.
“No. We’re gonna stay here until you either hit the tree trunk or I run out of bullets.”
It was typically quiet around camp that evening. Most of the drovers lay exhausted, slumped against their saddles, rolled cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Yates was reshoeing one of the cow ponies over by the chuck wagon, the tap of his hammer out of rhythm with the song Woolie was playing on the harmonica. Joe Dollarhide was sitting next to two drovers, all ears as they traded tall tales.
Lorna was sitting with Mary. Ely had drawn first watch on night herd and Benteen was out making one last turn around the bedground to see that all was quiet. In the dimming light, the sewing needle made quick flashes of silver as it darted in and out to secure a button to one of Benteen’s shirts. Lorna had already related to Mary an account of her first shooting lesson that afternoon, and Benteen’s warning about saving a last bullet. That seemed to amuse Mary.
“Why are you smiling about something like that?” Lorna frowned.
