Love in Romance Arkansas (9 page)

In preparation for the match, Jenny shot four rounds every day, rain or shine. “Why are we shooting in the rain? It isn’t much fun getting all wet and having a wet gun to dry.”

“Sanctioned matches are fired regardless of the weather unless it is really bad. No one likes to shoot in the rain, but those who can will usually win a rain match. Doug talked of shooting in a blizzard once in the Wyoming State Shoot. A crippled little man who could ignore the cold, wind and snow won that match going away. So we shoot in the rain so we can if necessary.”

The elderly man registering shooters took one look at Jenney’s shotgun and exclaimed, “Where did you get that shotgun? There is only one like it, and it belonged to Missy Jones. Are you related to her?”

“Yes sir, she was my grandmother. I inherited the ranch and live there now. I learned the history of this shotgun and have enjoyed shooting it.”

“Welcome to our little game. Doug was one of the best I ever shot with. Missy was good also, though she wasn’t into it like Doug. What happened to his collection? He had some of the very best, and his stock work was world class. The only problem is he would never sell me any of his guns and I couldn’t afford to pay for his stock work,” the old chap added with a twinkle in his eye. “He did one for free for me, and that is the centerpiece of my collection.” With a friendly wink he added, “If you shoot that little gun like Missy did, some people are in for a surprise.”

“His collection is still intact. I don’t see the need to sell anything. It gives me a link to them I wouldn’t have otherwise. I never knew either of them, though I wish I had. I’ve learned so much about them. I think they were really nice people.”

During a practice round, one of the know-it-all types began to harass her about her shotgun. “What are you doing trying to shoot that little gun here? Nothing but twelve gauge has a chance. You might as well take your popgun home now.” The tirade went on and on until she was sick of it. Calling on her lawyer training she finally replied, “Sir, I don’t care what you shoot and I don’t care how good you are, but I’m going to have a good time shooting my grandmother’s shotgun.”

Jenny was teamed with three older shooters and the loud mouth who had so ridiculed her shotgun. “Why do I have to shoot with him?” she asked John. “He’s so unpleasant and so arrogant. He’s the last person I would chose to shoot with. Hope I beat him so badly he’ll just slink away and never speak to me again. The idea of saying my shotgun was a popgun and not fit to be on the same field with him and his fancy gun.”

“Hold on a bit. You aren’t trying to beat him—don’t let his bragging get to you. Just break as many birds as you can and the results will speak for themselves. Within reason, it doesn’t matter what someone is shooting. The shooter is the key, but for what it’s worth, every gun in your rack is better mechanically and aesthetically than what he is shooting. So don’t let him bother you.”

“Thanks, I needed that.” She dumped a box of shells into her bag, adjusted her shooting glasses and donned her ear muffs. “Well, here goes.”

As leadoff shooter, she was on station one. Her first target was a hard left angle which she didn’t catch up with—miss. The other four shooters broke their first target. Another hard left—another miss.

Mouth, as she silently call the know-it-all, also missed on the second target.
At least I’m not the only one who misses.
Shot number three was a clean break. Shots four and five were misses.
What is going on here? I’m already down four targets just on station one. At this rate I will break a grand total of five for the whole round.
Station two yielded four breaks and one miss.
I can live with this, but I would like to do better
—
I know I can.
Station three was five breaks.
Now this is more like it.
Station four caught her with all hard right targets, three breaks and two misses. Station five was a killer—five misses!
I might as well quit right now and not embarrass myself any more. Thirteen out of twenty five. It’s been a long time since I did that badly. This is going to be a long day.

John was waiting for her with a bottle of cold water. “That was a good first round for a novice shooter in their first big match. I’ve seen, and done, much worse.”

“What was so good about it? I missed nearly half the targets. Good thing this isn’t a money match or shooting for food. We might go broke or hungry, the way I’m shooting. This is so frustrating—I know I can do better. What am I doing wrong?”

“Were you nervous?”

“Yes, really nervous. I couldn’t maintain my concentration from shot to shot. It all fell apart. I’m so embarrassed. I know I can do better.”

The three older shooters approached. The same elderly man who had registered her spoke for the group. “Young lady, you did well for someone shooting in their first big match. Doug and Missy would be proud of you. Relax and regroup a while and we will see you on field five in about an hour.”

“That was nice of those men to encourage me that way. They didn’t have to say anything at all. I see what you mean about nice people. I like to be around this group of people. Almost everyone has been pleasant and encouraging.”

Just then Mouth strutted by. “Told you, you might as well stay at home. That popgun just won’t cut it here. Might be ok wherever you practice, but not here. Or maybe you just aren’t good enough.”

“Don’t let him get to you, and by the way, he only broke seventeen. I don’t think I would ask him anything about shooting. Back to being nervous. Look at it this way, were you nervous before your first big jury trial case?”

“As nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs!”

“How did it go for you?”

“I won that case everyone had turned down as unwinnable. It took some digging and lots of foot work to find the key, but when I did, it all came together for a win. After that, I felt confident and sure of my abilities.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “That first round was the digging and foot work. You know how to do this and you can do it. Now put the first round out of your mind and grind the rest of them into dust.”

She was much more comfortable and relaxed at the start of round two. She started with a miss, then twenty three breaks with a miss on the last shot for a twenty-three. “I enjoyed that round—it was just like practicing back at home,” she said when she got back to the club house.

John said, “Let’s grab a bite of lunch and rest before the shooting starts in the afternoon. You are doing fine—that last round was excellent. You and your popgun are attracting a bit of attention. Several shooters commented on how well you were doing. The sound of four twelve gauges booming and then the light bang of your twenty does attract attention.”

In round three, she broke the first twenty-four targets, only to miss the last for a twenty-four. “Darn, missed the last one again. What am I doing wrong? I’ve broken that target a hundred times in practice.”

John thought a minute then said, “I think you were thinking about the next round and didn’t concentrate on the shot at hand. The only important shot is the one you are about to take. The last shot is history recorded on your score card and the next one isn’t here yet. You have to break each target as it is thrown to break twenty-five. Don’t dwell on the last shot, hit or miss, and don’t think ahead to the next shot. Just because you’ve broken the first twenty-four doesn’t mean the last one will automatically break for you. There have been many matches and shoots lost on the last shot because the shooter didn’t maintain their concentration to the end. The one you call for is the only one you have to break.”

Jenny was rested and ready for round four. As she stepped to the line, a sense of calm and unity seemed to surround her. Her world narrowed to the target, the shotgun and herself with only a fraction of awareness to the other squad members and to calling for the bird and changing stations. Everything seemed to go into slow motion—targets seemed to just hang in the air. She had plenty of time to align correctly and could almost see individual shot as targets were smoked. She maintained this zone until the twenty-fifth target. When she reached for the last shell in her bag, it wasn’t there! A brief flare of panic shot through her mind, then a quirky little training routine John had insisted upon took over. She automatically plucked one of the spare shells out of her vest, dropped it into the chamber, took a deep breath and called for the bird.

A hard right target, the most difficult shot for a right handed shooter from station five, screamed out of the trap house, only this time it looked like a balloon on a string and it seemed her gun barrel reached to the target. She waited for what seemed like an eternity for the bird to break, fear that she had missed growing in her mind. Finally the bird disintegrated into a cloud of dust. Her first twenty-five in competition!

The entire squad congratulated her. Even Mouth admitted maybe her popgun was OK after all.

“I knew you could do it,” John said with pride and joy in his voice. “No longer than you have been shooting, with practice, you will be a force in the Arkansas trap shooting scene. If you don’t mind the travel, there are shoots all over the country.”

At the awards ceremony, Jenny was the toast of the evening. Though her eighty-four was far out of the running for the AA class, won by a perfect 100x100, her fine effort at her first big shoot was recognized as an extraordinary achievement. Several people who had known and shot with her grandparents engaged her in conversation and encouraged her to continue shooting. She invited her new found friends to the ranch for informal matches and found several of them had private ranges as well. A sort of traveling trap shoot was arranged that allowed shooting under different light and wind conditions.

Jenny took over the care and feeding of the horses. She asked about horse blood lines and breeding. “John, what do I have to do to develop an excellent herd of quarter horses?”

“Well, you will have to study bloodlines just like with cows and decide what features you want. The first thing to do is join the American Quarter Horse Association. Missy was a member and all the horses on this ranch are registered. You will be able to select a stallion with the characteristics you need. Buying a good stallion can be the foundation of an excellent herd just like a bull can anchor a cattle herd. If he is good enough, he can bring in a pretty good chunk of change for stud fees.”

“Some people put color as a priority, after conformation and performance of course. There is one exceptional herd of all grays in Texas—if it isn’t gray, they don’t keep it. They sometimes sell outstanding stock because it isn’t gray. I’m not really a horse person, that was Missy’s forte, but I do know some of the best breeders in the business. Let me hook you up with some of them. That way, you can get solid information and find stallions for sale.”

She soon established a network of contacts. She studied breed history and bloodlines to determine where to start. Several trips to see herds in person gave her valuable insight into the possibilities. The Texas grays were beautiful, but one herd in Wyoming attracted her attention over all others. These horses were working stock, not show horses, but they had nearly perfect conformation and all were black, or black with a white blaze. She negotiated to buy a stallion.

Her new stallion, which she named Oscar for some unknown reason, was a beautiful, coal black horse with a temperament to match. He had perfect conformation and moved like the wind, but he had the heart of a devil. Evil tempered and vicious to other horses, he had to be kept in a separate paddock. Supposedly he had never been saddled, much less ridden. He ran the paddock fence constantly.

Jenny fed and watered him and left him alone at first. Finally, she hung a jacket on the door of his stall near his feed box. For a couple of days, he didn’t approach the box. Then he pulled the jacket off the peg and stomped it into the ground. This process was repeated for almost two weeks before he ignored the jacket. Next Jenny tossed the now dirty and tattered jacket into the feed box on top of his feed. Finally he got to the point of waiting for Jenny to feed and groom him without trying to bite or kick.

Jenny took her time to gentle the horse. She saddled him and let him get used to the saddle and being handled. The horse was still a potential disaster waiting to happen. He accepted the bit and bridle with some amount of reluctance. Jenny walked beside him, putting a little more weight on him as they walked around and around his paddock.

When she finally slipped into the saddle, the horse tensed as if he was about to explode. She slipped off again and continued to walk, reassuring the horse. This on and off routine continued for days until he paid no attention to her being on his back.

* * * *

John watched her take the first ride outside the paddock.
I would’ve never thought anyone could ever manage to ride that horse without a battle royal. He was bad news when she got him. She did it by being gentle—she has a way with horses. She also looks darned good sitting a horse!
He looked up to see Jenny galloping toward the house.
Man that horse moves like the wind, beauty in motion and beauty aboard.

He knew Jenny had formed a bond with her stallion. As long as she was around, he was calm as could be. However, he would come unglued if approached by anyone else. She even rode him in some of the rodeos at the ranch. Everyone and other horses gave him plenty of room, so there were no problems.

The extent of that bond was dramatically demonstrated during a Saturday afternoon rodeo. They were running the barrels when he stumbled. She went over his head to hit the ground with a thud and lay without moving. He nudged her shoulder like a dog and tried to pick her up by the back of her jacket. When the other riders approached, he faced them with backed ears and bared teeth. John shouted, “Back off, he might step on her, or hurt someone else.”