12
Clem handed the apple to Wendell and directed the crowd far from Smoke’s aim, figuring he was more likely to hit a farm hand than a piece of fruit. Smoke took a deep breath and set the arrow once again to the string. He pulled it back until the tension felt about right, and he pointed the arrow in the direction of the apple. At least my eyes, he thought, are damn sharp. I’ve got that going . . ..
Smoke let the arrow go, and it whipped through the air. On the other side of the street Wendell fell. The crowd scrambled and closed in on the old man, and Smoke dropped the bow and ran.
“Get the Doctor!” Someone shouted.
“It’s just a scratch!” someone else yelled, but the words didn’t register right away. Smoke kept running until he ran into the railing on the boardwalk.
“He’s drunk as hell,” he heard someone yell from across the street, and Smoke wondered if they meant Wendell or himself. He waited until he saw several men haul Wendell to his feet before making his way warily back across the street to collect his winnings.
Someone slapped him on the back and he spun around. “You shoot that thing like a white man!” said a yellow-toothed drunk.
When he reached Wendell, the old man had a towel wrapped around his head and it was soaked with blood. Wendell grinned and reached his hand toward the dirt and his ass followed with a plop. Back on the ground, he sat, patting his head and chuckling.
“Goddamn if you weren’t trying to scalp me.”
“If I were trying to scalp you, you wouldn’t have a scalp,” Smoke said, feeling done with the whole charade.
"I thought you could hit a rabbit from a moving wagon.”
“With a moving wagon. I hit him with a wagon."