Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE DRAW
BY JEROME BIXBY
Illustrator: Wm. Ashman
Stories of the old West were filled with bad men who livedby the speed of their gun hand. Well, meet Buck Tarrant, whocould outdraw them all. His secret: he didn't even have toreach for his weapon....
oe Doolin's my name. Cowhand—work for old Farrel over at Lazy Fbeyond the Pass. Never had much of anything exciting happen tome—just punched cows and lit up on payday—until the day I happenedto ride through the Pass on my way to town and saw young BuckTarrant's draw.
Now, Buck'd always been a damn good shot. Once he got his gun in hishand he could put a bullet right where he wanted it up to twentypaces, and within an inch of his aim up to a hundred feet. But LordGod, he couldn't draw to save his life—I'd seen him a couple of timesbefore in the Pass, trying to. He'd face a tree and go into a crouch,and I'd know he was pretending the tree was Billy the Kid or somebody,and then he'd slap leather—and his clumsy hand would wallop hisgunbutt, he'd yank like hell, his old Peacemaker would come staggeringout of his holster like a bear in heat, and finally he'd line on histarget and plug it dead center. But the whole business took about asecond and a half, and by the time he'd ever finished his fumbling ina real fight, Billy the Kid or Sheriff Ben Randolph over in town oreven me, Joe Doolin, could have cut him in half.
So this time, when I was riding along through the Pass, I saw Buckupslope from me under the trees, and I just grinned and didn't pay toomuch attention.
He stood facing an old elm tree, and I could see he'd tacked a playingcard about four feet up the trunk, about where a man's heart wouldbe.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him go into his gunman's crouch. Hewas about sixty feet away from me, and, like I said, I wasn't payingmuch mind to him.
I heard the shot, flat down the rocky slope that separated us. Igrinned again, picturing that fumbly draw of his, the wild slap atleather, the gun coming out drunklike, maybe even him dropping it—I'dseen him do that once or twice.
It got me to thinking about him, as I rode closer.
He was a bad one. Nobody said any different than that. Just bad. Hewas a bony runt of about eighteen, with bulging eyes and a wide mouththat was always turned down at the corners. He got his nickname Buckbecause he had buck teeth, not because he was heap man. He was somehandy with his fists, and he liked to pick ruckuses with kids he wassure he could lick. But the tipoff on Buck is that he'd bleat like atwo-day calf to get out of mixing with somebody he was scaredof—which meant somebody his own size or bigger. He'd jaw his way outof it, or just turn and slink away with his tail along his belly. Hisdad had died a couple years before, and he lived with his ma on as