In the days leading up to the Second Annual Sharpshooters Jamboree, the brothers spent most of the afternoons at the makeshift shooting range fine-tuning their rifles and their aim. Their confidence regarding marksmanship, however, did not lend itself to the challenge of transforming Kinsey Rose: Bewitching Belle of Melbourne into Ricochet Rose: Pistolero of the Outback. Duping Howie Aspinwall with a tall tale was relatively easy. God had blessed Howard with an inflated ego but failed to add a measure of common sense. Unfortunately, when it came to Kinsey, God saw fit to double dose her with a suspicious mind. Pulling the wool over the girl’s eye was going to take a detailed explanation which sounded completely reasonable.
“Honestly! This is what you want me to wear? In public?”
The little cousin held out in front of her an old vest, shirt, hat, and a bandana that had not seen a washboard recently.
“Well, darlin’, you can’t wear one of your bustles.”
Kinsey rolled her eyes. “I know that Johnny.”
Scott tried a different approach. “I suppose you could wear those overalls you have on but…”
“What? What’s wrong with my overalls?”
“They make you look twelve years old, Freckles. Someone might slap your hand, take away your rifle and give you a peppermint stick.”
The expression on his little cousin's face told Scott her current attire would not be attending the Jamboree.
Kinsey held up a blue shirt and eyeballed the older brother. “Yours?” The query was answered with a nod and dimpled grin.
Closely inspecting the leather vest, the young lady’s questioning look shifted to the left. “And this?”
“Nothin’ but the best for you, half-pint.”
Taking her thumb and index finger, the shootist from down under held out the bandana at arm’s length. “Do NOT tell me this belongs to Jelly.”
Silence.
Kinsey examined the black hat. “Train robbers wear these.”
Removing the hat from his cousin’s hands, Scott placed it on her head.
“No, they don’t.”
“How would you know?”
The gentlemen exchanged glances.
Deciding it would be best to continue their discussion in a more private setting, Scott escorted his protesting cousin to the barn as his younger brother followed behind serving as the lookout.
Placing his hand on Doubting Thomas’ shoulder, the reasonable explanation commenced in a patient, concerned, big brotherly fashion. “Kinsey, honey, Johnny and I have only your best interest in mind. You need to understand these competitions are ninety percent skill. It’s your other ten percent that has us worried.”
Kinsey’s frown signaled unease. “What is my other ten percent?”
Scott leaned down to be nose to nose with his cousin.
“Intimidation.”
The brothers let the word hang in the air as their protege mulled it over in her mind.
Scott resumed his tall stature while turning to his brother for an endorsement. “Johnny, am I right?”
“Right as rain, Boston. Intimidation.”
“And one way intimidation can be achieved is through appearance and how one is perceived by others. It's the edge you need and we are going to help you.” Steering Kinsey towards a stack of hay bales, her supportive cousin continued. “Try them on. This outfit is your ten percent.”
The brothers were gifted one suspicious glance over her shoulder before Ricochet Rose disappeared behind the bales. Scott was rather pleased there had been minimal protest from their unsuspecting accomplice, although, no sooner had the smiles of victory been traded between the brothers when the familiar phrase of defeat was heard.
“Bloody hell.”
‘Damn.’ Hoping to stop any objections from growing, Scott decided to try a more stern approach. “Watch your language, young lady, and come out here.”
What emerged from behind the hale bales was the exact opposite of the opinion expressed by one Johnny Valens Lancer.
“Perfect.”
Scott rolled his eyes at his brother’s comment while his cousin offered her insights. “Perfect? You call this perfect? This is not perfect, John. This is not intimidating. This is ridiculous.” Kinsey’s rant gained momentum while her arms flapped about in the long shirt sleeves like an exotic blue bird taking flight. “...and this kerchief should be burned!”
“Wait! Now, just wait a minute.” Scott held up his hand. “Calm down, little girl. All this outfit needs are a few adjustments.”
“Oh? And which of you gentlemen would be handling these alterations?”
Johnny cleared up any uncertainty concerning the degree of expertise in the room. “I’ve watched Teresa thread a needle and Scott stitch on a button.”
Silence.
“Okay, half-pint. How many buttons have you sewed on recently?”
Silence.
Scott rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! I think we’ve established there are three skilled tailors present so let’s get started. Johnny, go get Teresa’s sewing basket.”
Advice on conveying a formidable sharpshooting competitor continued while Kinsey’s Ten Percent was clipped, tucked, and hemmed.
“Never smile.”
“Talk as little as possible.”
“Don't giggle.”
“And above all, don't call out our names and wave.”
Kinsey raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Scott smiled. “You don't want to be shown favoritism because your Scott Lancer’s cousin, do you?”
Kinsey returned the smile. “When has that knowledge ever worked in my favor?”
Scott placed the altered items in his cousin’s hands. “Try these on smart britches.” A well-placed swat to the before mentioned smart britches directed the Aussie cousin to her dressing room. A few moments later, out stepped the brothers’ successful transformation of Ricochet Rose.
“Correct me if I’m wrong little brother, but I believe this is the best ten percent we have ever laid eyes on.”
“I have to agree, brother. The vision before us is impressive. Kinsey, darlin’, lookin‘ like you do why they’re going to just hand over the women’s first place ribbon. You won’t have to fire a shot.”
Kinsey beamed. “Wait until I show Murdoch!”
Two smiles disappeared. “Ah, Freckles, let’s not tell Murdoch. Let’s surprise him at Jamboree. In fact, let’s surprise Teresa and Jelly too. Our secret for now….agreed?”
Sitting on bales of hay, the young men sat quietly contemplating.
Murdoch.
How did they forget about Murdoch?
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