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him one additional short shot!) thinking this mud show was a bad idea, but there wasn’t an escape that he could see.
Smoke placed the arrow in the bow and drew it back a bit, feeling the tension, thinking this ought to feel natural, and there was probably a prayer he should be saying to some being, but none came to mind. Clem quieted the crowd—it was time. Wendell got into place.
“Any last words?”
Wendell felt generous, drunk, and a little sentimental, and maybe it was best just to get it all over with. He’d had a pretty good run . . . and so he teared up just a bit as he said his final words, “Goodbye. God bless you folks. When the Good Lord calls a man home, there’s not much to be done.”
There were loud cheers as Smoke pointed the arrow toward the apple. There was no apple.
“Jesus Christ. . . .”
“Where’s the apple!”
“His head’s an apple.”
“Just shoot him, he’s pretty much dead already. . . .”
Someone suggested they use a bottle of beer or an empty can as a target, and then Lew said he had an apple in his store, just give him a couple of minutes and he’d open up and get one. While the crowd milled around waiting for the target to arrive, drinkers from other saloons spilled into the street, dropping money into Clem’s hat. It was inevitable that Jake would hear about the hoopla. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
“What’s going on here?”
Lew returned with an apple, rather small and bruised, and Wendell and Smoke agreed it would do the job, though they’d have to shorten the distance a couple of feet to compensate for the puny size.