the Iron Marshall (1979) Read Online Free PDF Page A

considered, but still there were towns out west. And if he went to one of them, knowing what he knew, he could become a big man, as big as Morrissey or bigger. He had fiddled around with the idea and decided he liked it. What was that place out west? San Francisco? He'd heard of it ... There was gold out there, they said.
    Maybe ... he'd give it some thought.
    Two days later he approached Morrissey. "Mr. Morrissey? Have you got some kind of a job for me? A permanent job?"
    Morrissey rolled the cigar in his teeth, then spat into the spittoon, "That I have, lad." He paused. "Did you ever do any shooting?" "Shooting? With a gun?" Shanaghy shook his head. "No, I haven't." "You can learn. I've got a shooting gallery. Man who handled it for me turned into a drunk. You learn to shoot, you get one-fifth of the take." He paused. "You try knocking down on me, bye, an' I'll have your hide off."
    "I never stole anything from anybody," Shanaghy protested. "That I know, bye. That I know. I've had my eye on you, boy. Honest men are hard to find. Not many of them amongst my lot."
    Morrissey took a slip of paper from his pocket. "Take this. You go along down to this address and give them this. I'll send a man along who will teach you to shoot. Practice all you like, and when you're good enough we'll let you win some money for us, shooting with customers."
    The shooting gallery was on the Bowery amid dozens of other such establishments, pawnbrokers' shops, third-class hotels, dance houses, saloons, cheap clothing stores. Up near Prince Street was Tony Pastor's Opera House, and further down the street the Old Bowery Theater. In between was all manner of vice, trickery, and swindling, a scattering of beggars and pickpockets alert for the unwary. At five cents a shot, there were prizes to be won-twenty dollars to anyone who could hit a bull's-eye three times in succession, and knives to be given to anyone who could hit a bull's-eye once. There was a trumpeter who, if struck in the heart, gave vent to a frightening blast on his trumpet. Shanaghy liked the noise and confusion. Many of the sharpers he knew by sight or by name, and the same with the girls who paraded themselves along the street. On the third morning an old man walked up to the shooting gallery. He was a lean, wiry old man with white hair and cool gray eyes. "How much for a shot?" "Five cents ... Twenty dollars if you hit the bull's-eye three times."
    The old man smiled. "And how many times can I win the twenty?" Shanaghy started to say, "As many times as you ... " Suddenly he hesitated, warned by the amused look in the old man's eyes. "Once," he said. "If you hit it three times."
    "Down the street," the old man said, "they let me win three times."
    "Nine bull's-eyes?" Shanaghy grinned. "You're puttin' me on."
    The old man took up a pistol and placed three five-cent pieces on the counter. "I'm good for business, young fellow." He placed another fifteen cents on the counter. "Six shots in here?" he asked mildly, and before he finished the words he fired. His first shot hit the trumpeter who let go with a piercing blast. People stopped and stared. Instantly, he fired again, another blast.
    "Now," he said, "I'll win my breakfast money."
    Without even seeming to look or to care, he fired three bullets dead center into the main target. "There ... I'll take your twenty." Shanaghy paid it out while people crowded around. "You got easy targets, boy. Never picked up an easier twenty in my life!" He half turned toward those gathered around. "I don't see how he can afford to operate. That's the easiest twenty I ever picked up!"
    The man turned away, winking at Shanaghy. "I'll be back, son, when I need more money."
    Men crowded to the counter, eager for a chance. For over an hour he was busy loading guns and handing them to customers. Once the trumpet sounded and a street-boy won a knife. It was good business, but Shanaghy kept thinking back to the old man ... He had never seen anybody shoot like