Telegraph Days by Larry McMurtry Page A

Jackson told me, without directly addressing the cost of the knife and his new equipment.
    â€œThere could be other outlaws,” he reminded me. “Irish Roy could be there somewhere. It’s best to be equipped.”
    â€œIt’s best not to be getting a big head, Jackson Courtright,” I told him. “Irish Roy or some other outlaw may turn out to be a better shot than you.”
    That got my brother’s back up, as I knew it would.
    â€œI doubt there’s an outlaw in this part of the country that can shoot better than I do,” he said.
    Well, he was young—young men are prone to vanity.
    â€œPride goeth before a fall,” I reminded him, though I was not really expecting pride to fall as quickly as it did.
    â€œIt’s going to be supper time pretty soon,” he said. “What are we supposed to eat?”
    Before I could even mention the hamper from Mrs. Karoo we rode over a ridge and saw five or six big jackrabbits nibbling on a nice patch of grass. They were not more than twenty feet away, and so casual that they didn’t shy from the horses.
    â€œWe have a hen from Mrs. Karoo, but we might as well save it, since there’s a fat bunch of rabbits,” I said. “Shoot us a couple and we’ll have rabbit for dinner, Deputy.”
    â€œFair enough,” Jackson said. There was a good-sized rabbit right in front of him. Jackson took out his new pistol, took rapid aim, and fired.
    I don’t know where that bullet went but it didn’t go near the jackrabbit, who seemed quite undisturbed by the fact that he had just been shot at.
    â€œDamn it!” Jackson said. My brother did not usually swear.
    He leaned forward and fired twice, with the same result.
    â€œGoddamn him, he’s twitchy!” Jackson exclaimed. His face had begun to get red, as it always does when he’s thwarted.
    Jackson had two more shells in his pistol. He fired them both. The big jackrabbit hopped away a few feet and went back to nibbling grass.
    Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson Courtright had an empty gun, and no fat rabbit to show for it.
    â€œWell, it’s a good thing we’ve got that hen,” I said.

5
    I F THERE WERE contests for who could sulk the longest, Jackson Courtright would take the world championship. Of course, he came by this trait naturally—Father once sulked for a whole summer, so long that none of us could even remember what he was sulking about.
    After missing the big jackrabbit six times running with his new pistol my brother, Jackson, pulled a towering sulk. He refused to taste a bit of Mrs. Karoo’s hen, or her corn bread, or her tasty carrots, or the nice piece of mince pie she had wrapped up for us.
    I ignored his sulk as best I could and had a healthy sampling of hen, corn bread, carrots, and pie.
    When Jackson Courtright finished off the Yazee gang and went back into the jail to complete his nap, I don’t think he gave any particular thought to what he had just done. I was the one who proclaimed him a hero, but I was merely his big sister, so he didn’t pay much attention to me, either—at least not right away.
    But when he woke up from his nap and everyone in Rita Blanca began to bow and scrape, it didn’t take long for the praise to puff him up. Jackson had never been exactly modest, but he was a lot less modest now than he had been before the fight.
    â€œThere was something wrong with that jackrabbit,” he announced, while I was eating. “That wasn’t a normal jackrabbit.”
    â€œIt looked normal to me—don’t go blaming the rabbit because you couldn’t hit it,” I said.
    â€œIf it’s around tomorrow I guess we’ll see who can hit it,” he told me.
    â€œWe’ve got bacon, thanks to Mrs. Karoo,” I reminded him. “And Dodge City’s still a far piece. We need to be off at first light.”
    â€œLeave whenever you please,” Jackson told me.