Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Page A

knew existed. But spotting the sharp angle of his shoulders, the waistcoat holding his frame with compact efficiency, he works his way around me like a bobcat up a tree.
    â€œLike yours.”
    â€œOkay, then,” Pete nodding, tugging the sleeves. I bring one knee up to my chest then switch to the other. “Trousers too tight?”
    He steps back to let me move and I drop to a squat. Rising, I remember Storm.
    â€œI need to be able to ride.”
    â€œA horse? Won’t be much call for that on the Santa Fe.”
    â€œI don’t put on clothes what I can’t ride in. Don’t care what I’m doing.”
    â€œI respect that,” Pete says, thoughtful. “A well-made suit should serve a man for any eventuality. I’ll see to it your trousers don’t rip should they find themself in a saddle. Anything else I should know?”
    â€œOne more thing.” I snatch up my denims from the floor and dig out the stubby thirty-two. “This stays with me. On the quiet.”
    Pete opens his hand for the pistol and I place it in his palm. He hefts it, shaking hands with the gun for what may very well be the first time. He shows some instinct for iron, but there is a touch of boyish fantasy behind his eyes as he aims and guns down an imaginary bandit against the far wall, adding a “pe-CHAW, pe-CHAW” with every overly pantomimed recoil.
    â€œYou every fire one of those?”
    â€œOnly at tin cans. I hit ’em, though. How ’bout you?”
    â€œUsually hit what I’m aiming at too.” Holding out my hand for the gun. Pete returns it.
    â€œSomething this small, I prefer a cross-draw,” I say, showing him the motion.
    â€œOkay,” Pete’s mind already at work on the puzzle. “What if you stuck it here?” He slips his hand into his own waistband just above the left hip. I tuck the pistol accordingly on my own trousers, the handle peeking out enough to grab clean, but plenty visible. “Don’t worry, a good waistcoat will cover that,” Pete shaking a finger as he returns to the cabinet, his brain plunking out the melody again, “but if we let it out just so,” now adjusting the rear buckle of the vest as he brings it toward me, a patterned velvet textured in deep scarlet and darkest brown, “you should find your draw unencumbered if things turn sour.” He helps me into the waistcoat as he talks, giving the back buckle the slightest tweak, but he’d pretty much eyeballed it dead-on. Rehearsing the draw again, my hand retrieves the pistol from its snug burrow every time without fail or fumble, my sense of awe—not just at the sheer invisibility of weapon, but how the stark addition of such a vibrant color choice enhances the earthiness of the rest of the creation—is audible.
    â€œAin’t that something.”
    â€œLittle splash of color,” Pete’s confidence never in doubt. When he plucks an umber necktie from his private cache and hands it to me, I fix to tying it without hesitation.
    â€œNow on the jacket . . . Don’t expect them to match the trousers exactly. You’re not a sofa. The idea is to complement. But if my eye is right,” his gaze lingering on me as he walks to the back of the store, “you’re a forty-two long, which means this is our lucky day.” Pete disappears in the stock room and comes back a moment later, a proud glint in his eye, holding in his hands a ditto coat, sharply peaked at the lapels, the outer color like that of a rusted nail. Without a word, I turn and extend an arm, the silk-lined sleeve gliding over my elbow, up my shoulder. And then the other arm. The jacket falls into place like it was born there. Rotating toward the mirror, our eyes take the sight in unison—how perfectly the shades and fabrics work as one. A completed picture. The melody found. Pete’s verdict is simple.
    â€œYes.”
    I tug on the sleeves, expecting an