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As the night progressed, one drink turned into several. The boy showed no desire to leave, and Mortimer certainly wasn’t going to kick him out. He was still analyzing his new partner, just as the younger man seemed to be studying him. They talked, verbally sparring—flirting, Mortimer was sure, at a few moments—and Mortimer finished cleaning his guns. There was a comfortable silence while he returned his guns to their case and hung it on the wall. When he turned again, Manco was once again holding Mortimer’s buntline.
“You favor big guns,” he observed, running a finger down the long barrel. “You never think you’ll need to draw fast?”
“I like to be prepared.”
“And you’re too good to be surprised.”
“Oh, I never said that.”
Manco’s light blue eyes flicked up to look at him over the barrel, catching the lamplight like broken glass.
“What do you do, then?” Manco asked.
Mortimer considered the derringer hidden in his coat pocket, but said nothing about it. He’d keep some secrets from his partner of a few hours.
“Depends on the surprise,” he said.
“You prefer accuracy to speed?”
Mortimer considered. “Generally, though both are important.”
Manco swung his leg up and pushed his pistol and holster towards Mortimer with his boot. “How fast do you think you can draw my gun?”
Mortimer smiled. “Well, let’s see. It’s been a while.”
He picked up the holster and buckled it on, noticing that he was a few belt holes out from the worn place in the leather that showed where Manco wore it. Manco was tall, and strong, but scrawny when he didn’t have that poncho on to give an illusion of bulk. Mortimer wondered if the poncho was an intentional attempt to make himself seem bigger, like a kitten arching its back and puffing up its fur, and suppressed an urge to smile. He patted the gun, getting used to where it sat, then backed up slightly from the table.
“You’ve got the belt too high,” Manco drawled, still with one leg kicked up onto the table. He was smirking, still balancing Mortimer’s gun between his fingers.
Mortimer examined the fit of the gun belt. He’d adjusted it to where his own belt sat, holding his gun close to his belly, but Manco wore his lower around his hips.
“Let me show you,” said Manco, getting up with a grunt and meandering over to him. He was quite drunk, Mortimer thought. Then again, so was Mortimer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself be impaired in this way. Usually he preferred to stop at one drink, stay alert. It was nice to relax a little, the alcohol putting a warm fuzz over all his nerves.
His thoughts stuttered to a surprised stop when Manco walked right up to him and adjusted the fit of the belt for him, knuckles butting into Mortimer’s stomach. He felt his breath faintly against his neck, and a faint flush of arousal at their closeness, which he did his best to ignore—he was determined to show off, and with the alcohol already slowing him, he couldn’t afford another distraction.
“There. This way, it’s right under your hand’s natural position,” said Manco, placing Mortimer’s hand against the gun and patting it.
“Well, that’s liable to make some people nervous,” said Mortimer. “Unless they can’t see your hand, I suppose.” Maybe that was the real reason for the poncho.
“That’s an inevitability, in our line of work,” said Manco, slouching back into his chair and kicking his feet up on the table again. He puffed on his cigarillo, then removed it from his mouth and gestured at Mortimer with it, airily, like a king gesturing for a play to resume. It would have been irritating if Mortimer was at all self-conscious, but instead he found it endearing.
Mortimer took a deep breath, steadied himself, and drew. It was perfect, lightning-fast. One moment Manco’s gun was in its holster, and the next it was pointed over his shoulder at the clock on the mantelpiece. Manco froze, his smug expression going blank.
“Ah, I haven’t forgotten,” Mortimer observed calmly, lowering the gun and hefting it in his hands. “Nice piece. And you’re taking care of it, too.” He slid the gun back into the holster, unbuckled it and placed it on the table.
He felt proud of himself—he hadn’t practiced this kind of thing in years, but had managed it perfectly, drunk as he was. It was puerile, showing off like this; but Manco had suggested it, and Mortimer was enjoying their back-and-forth.
Manco hadn’t moved an inch, but now relaxed slightly, puffing on his cigarillo and looking up at Mortimer.
“You’re full of surprises, old man.” He placed Mortimer’s buntline on the table.
“Isn’t it your turn to show off?” Mortimer asked.
Manco’s gaze jumped to him, and then back to the buntline, and he hesitated for a few moments. Mortimer wondered if he was unwilling to show himself inexpert at something. Then, Manco holstered the gun and stood, cleared his throat. “Guess so.” He fumbled with the buckle, unused to having to balance the weight of the gun in front of him when he put it on. “How does, uh..”
Mortimer buckled it for him, deliberately taking his time, then adjusted the angle of the holster. “You should be able to grab it with either hand like this,” he said, patting Manco’s stomach and stepping back. “Try it.”
Manco stared at him for a moment, then seemed intent on avoiding eye contact as he familiarized himself with the position of the gun. Something seemed to have rattled him. Mortimer thought of his own reaction to having Manco fuss with his gun and smiled. He wouldn’t mention it. Let the boy keep a few secrets.
“Huh,” said Manco, drawing with his left hand and flipped the gun over to place it back in the holster. “Definitely easier with the right.”
“That’s usually the hand I use. But I like having it somewhere I can reach it from either side, if needed.”
Manco drew and re-holstered the gun a few times, fumbling and chuckling at the long barrel. Finally he drew it fast, gave it a few flashy spins, holstered it and then flipped it out into his hand again. Reversed and spun it the other way, flipping it back into the holster.
“Careful. It is still loaded,” said Mortimer, watching.
“Of course it is,” said Manco, drawing it again and holding it up, frowning at it. “This thing’s nose heavy as all hell.”
“I generally use a shoulder stock,” said Mortimer, passing it to him.
Manco squinted at it and fumbled to attach it. Mortimer helped—he’d done this many times. Manco shouldered the gun and sighted down it at the wall behind Mortimer. Then he put it on the table.
“At that point, just use a rifle,” said Manco. He nodded at Mortimer’s collection. “It’s not like you don’t have enough.”
“This is faster.”
“After you attach the stock, I doubt it.”
“Well, no. But it’s usable without that. It’s a good mid-size option, easier than a rifle to carry around with you.”
Manco chuckled. “You just don’t like small guns, do you?”
Mortimer thought again of the derringer, and then considered defending his appreciation for euphemistic guns of all sizes. He decided to keep both thoughts to himself. “Oh, I never said that.”
“Hmm.” Manco considered their guns, lying on the table together. “Well, mine’s prettier, anyway.”
Mortimer laughed. “That it is. It’s a very nice gun. The rattlesnake fits you. Quick and dangerous.” He picked it up and ran his fingers over the grip. “But, you should try mine sometime. The added range is quite nice.”
When he looked up, Manco was studying him as if trying to decide exactly how he meant it. “Perhaps I will, old man,” he said finally.