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Wrote this for a contest but have to wait till June 1st to submit it. It is sort of a cowboy story. Hope y'all like it.
Epiphany. A sudden understanding, or revelation.
In my life, never have I experienced such instant clarity of thought as one particular night in the summer of 1885.
You see, I had been burdened with a great wisdom from an early age. In fact, by the time I turned seventeen that June, I simply knew everything there was to know. Or more to the point, I knew everything that mattered to know. And if there WAS some parcel of intellect out there of which I was unaware, or not wise too, it simply didn't matter in the greater scheme of the universe.
One example of my great cleverness was evidenced in how I spent my afternoons and evenings.
Firstly, I should explain that I had grown up in a cowboy town. Now when I call this a cowboy town, I don't mean simply that folks had settled there who wore boots and spurs. No, this town had a history. In it's wilder, younger days, it was known as a place to hire quick guns to protect a herd, and even a place to find willing help to take someone else's property by force. The reputation of this place was such that the leading members decided to change the town's name to try to hide from it's well earned poor reputation.
Originally, we lived in Tater Hill Bluff (seriously, this was the name, even though there was little agriculture, so not a great deal of potatoes, there were few hills, and therefore, to my knowledge, there was no particular “bluff”.) But there was a very prominent family, and the darling of the patriarch's eye was young Acadia Smyth. So by popular vote, this town of cattle barons and farmers had been renamed Acadia, and the town's fences (and reputation hopefully, had been painted white.)
And as many of the poor kids did, I worked on the family farm in the morning, but looked for outside work to supplement the family, by way of efforts in the afternoon. And I had been very fortunate. There was one particular ranch that sat right on the outskirts of town, and the owner, Mr. Duane, (who happened to be my father's best friend), had taken to renting horses for pleasure rides to townies, or as he called them, “dudes”. And he had experienced such success with this novel idea that the dudes fairly flocked to his ranch, and lined the rails of his corral almost daily hoping to hire a mount, and go for an evening ride along the many various trails of his spread.
So although I could not afford a riding horse myself, I was able to spend quite a bit of time in the saddle by the simple expedient of working at the Iron Horse Ranch for a few hours each day. In exchange, I was paid a nominal sum, and allowed to take one of their horses out for exercise each evening. Now, I will confide, I actually did not like to ride horses at all. They were smelly, dirty, and altogether more trouble than they were worth. But, there was one powerful draw to the habit of riding, and herein lay my great act of intellect and wit. You see, the owner of the ranch had a sixteen year old daughter, and she appeared quite comely to me, and as it happened, She ALSO was extremely clever. She would strive to finish her OWN chores and go riding, completely coincidentally at the same pace as me. In another amazing twist of fate, the two of us often would find ourselves on the same trails, at approximately the same time.
It was a wonderful time for me, to revel in the attentions of a beautiful young lady, and to have money in my pocket, neither of which had actually happened to me before. I am not completely sure at this point which I preferred more, however I am strongly minded that the feel of the lass's hand in mine did seem to be of somewhat more import than the feel of coins in my purse. Either way, I had both, and therefore had everything. As I walked home each night, I would already be planning my escape the next day. I would meticulously work out exactly the order of chores on my own family's farm, hoping to shave a few seconds by creating an process or arrangement of responsibilities that was the most efficient and least time consuming. Each morning, though I had never been a great early riser before, I would spring from slumber ready to tackle the day. My own mother, in her ignorance of my ulterior motives, remarked that taking on employment had hastened my advance to manhood to such a degree that she wished I had started working at Iron Horse Ranch much sooner. I could only agree, and wished so myself that I had made these arrangements years before.
Now before I continue to the event of my great awakening, I must introduce another character to my tale, although, I sincerely believed him to be of no consequence at the time.
He was a small wiry man, old, (easily in his seventies), and hard as a railroad spike. His skin was like leather, and his eyes could strike dead a snake at twenty paces. Now he and I hardly ever interacted. When I would come in to the barn, if he were there, he might point at a bucket of feed, and I would know to take it to the stalls. Outside, often he would point at some tack, and I would haste to put it away. But of discourse, I honestly could not remember ever hearing his voice while working on the ranch.
I fancied that he had grown so old and decrepit that he was losing his speech. And so, if I did pay him attention, it would be to consider how sorry I felt for such an old timer, and how I was thrilled to be on the opposite end of the spectrum of life. The only person I had ever heard speak to the old man, my father, had called him simply “Cowboy”, as if that were his given name.
Blessed by my own guile, I continued to enjoy an income, and the hidden bonus of time spent with my co-conspirator for a couple of months. Things were blissful till one day in August, when my father asked me how things were going on the Mr. Duane's ranch. I explained to him that it was a great pleasure to be able to contribute to both our own family's finances, AND to be such a key player to my father's friends successful pleasure ranch. I even went so far as to admit that I oft felt a little guilty accepting pay at all, being that it gave me time with such lovely people. As I have tried to admit in this writing, I really felt that I had the world on a string, and no one was intelligent enough to catch on to my duplicity.
My father nodded wisely, and agreed, saying that my passion for labor had made a strong impression upon his friend. This was to such extent that I had been invited to go along on a family outing to the back country. I should probably have sensed the danger in the outing, but again, I will repeat, I considered myself to be operating on such a higher level of intellect and wit that it never occurred to me that anyone else might also have hidden agendas. I honestly could only think of crisp night air, distance between tents, and soft hands and cheeks in the moonlight.
I joyfully agreed to go, and my father also decided to come along. At his friend's suggestion we brought our only firearm, a 44 caliber Colt Army five shot revolver. It seems that we would be doing a little hunting, and a lot of target shooting, and in fact there would be several townies along paying for a chance to learn to shoot from actual cowboys from the ranch. (My father and I were both to pretend to hirelings ourselves in order to support the charade. For me of course this was true, but we were to add my father in as a ranch hand in order to help facilitate the experience for the paying customers.)
I realize that by foreshadowing, and the reader's own insight, many will think I should have faced this trip with trepidation, but in that moment, I simply was not thinking clearly.
The day of the adventure arrived, and my pater and I rose before the sun in order to prep our own holdings to function for a few days in our absence. My mother, ever the good sport had invited her sister for a visit, and was confident that between the two of them they could manage quite well, better in fact since they would have no men to coddle and step and fetch for. My father waited till we were on the road to admit that he considered this to be his most fortunate day in years since he was able to graciously allow his sister-in-law to visit, yet could manage to avoid actually spending any time with her. We both laughed at his jockularity in the moment, and the trip to Iron Horse ranch sped by.
We arrived amidst a bustle of activity. Women folk were both laughing and wailing, some were doing both at irregular intervals. Oddly, no where in sight was my night ride companion. Still, with so much chaos involved in loading the wagon, preparing the horses, and generally shuffling around, I hardly noticed anything amiss. I did spot the old timer, Cowboy. If ever I chance to oberve a mountain centered in the eye of a hurricane, I imagine it would look somewhat similar to this man camly setting his horse. He seemed to be allowing the cacophany to wash around him like a boulder in the middle of a rampant river, silent and unmoving.
As the morning light broke around us, in my mind's eye, I saw for a moment, a younger man, pistol tied to his leg, hat pulled down in the sun, and fire in his eye. And I thought “here could easily be one of the men who had made the reputation of this town for violence and gunplay.” But before I could carry the thought any further, I was swept up in the tumult, and found myself thrust apon a horse, and driven out through the open main gate.
We rode hard for miles, and though I hadn't known my father to ride, he seemed to be taking it well. My own evening excursions had enabled me to take the beating in stride also. My employer rode beside us for a bit, and in a conspirital whisper told us that we were only pushing hard for the morning in order to make an impression upon the paying clientele. When we stopped for “hardtack and jerky” (he winked as he said this), we would slow for the rest of the journey. And this we did. Hard biscuts and dried meat were passed out, and I was glad of both. However, the cool water from our skins seemed the star of my meal. It should be noted, I did not get to eat with the main group. Cowboy, my father, and I were sent to rub down the horses with dry grass, and to give them drink before we were allowed to partake ourselves. As we worked, not a word was spoken, and I was not surprised. My companion from the ranch's labor had hardly grunted a word to me before, so I didn't expect much discourse at this point. And my father would always grow quiet when there was work to be done. So we handled our chores, and sat to our own mid day meals, then it was time to rig the crew for riding again.
A few hours before nightfall we came to the river, and Mr. Duane called halt. As the group milled about, I took charge of setting a picket for the horses. Cowboy was a silent ghost flitting about, pointing out where to set tents and build the fire. Mr. Duane almost seemed to work for him at times as silent orders were given, and followed.
Father set about running the dudes from town, having some help cook, others assisted wherever they could, and very quickly supper was on, and all were fed.
Mr. Duane set up several targets, and some of us took a chance to show off our aim.
My father was something of a surprise to me. His aim was true. Although he seemed to move fairly slowly getting the pistol on target, when he did, he was able to make a hole in the white paper very consistently. I tried my best, and expected my young eyes and steady hand to serve me better, but I wasn't as lucky as he. I did chip the tree a few times, but didn't mark the paper round at all. Since night was falling quickly, we all set to finding wood and the fire was stocked a little higher. I helped do the dishes, answered silly questions from the townies. And eventually I clambered into my father's tent exhauseted. It finally occurred to me that I had not seen any women folk on the trip at all, and I felt a stab of disappointment realizing that my secret plans for the evenings were not meant to be.
The next day, I threw myself in to the chores of the camp. I helped cook, did dishes in the river, dug a cat hole for others to use, and even covered a couple over, (though I felt that this was a very personal chore best left to the man who had filled the hole.)
Again we began to target practice, though this time we were helping the dudes to try their luck. A few had a natural ability or had had some prior training, and did fairly well. A couple were a danger to themselves and anyone else in range. We teased one rotund fellow that the only safe place from his errant aim would be to hold the target in front of our chest. At least that way we would be guaranteed not to be shot, as his wild attempts had come nowhere near the actual target on the tree.
We assisted a few folks in taking a pleasure ride that afternoon, and prepared the evening meal without incident. Mr. Duane asked my father if he would walk with him, and since the customers were all frolicking by the river, I found myself alone in the camp as the last light of day was failing.
This was when things began to turn for me. Cowboy found me checking the hooves of my mount for stones, and to my shock, he spoke to me for the first clear time that I could remember.
“You know how to shoot in the dark boy?” he queried.
I almost answered smartly that the firearm would function the same with no need of light, but like a wolf with one foot poised above a steel trap, some inward sense warned me of danger. Instead I answered “I am not sure. How is it different than in the light?”
Instead of a direct answer the old man laughed, and barked an order “Come with me and bring that Colt Army.”
I did follow as instructed and the old man tottered over to the targets nailed to the tree. There he hung a lantern, and with a quick strike of a match, he lit the light. He paced back to where we had stood in the daylight, and told me to take a shot.
I stood with my feet apart like my father had taught me, raised the pistol, and tried to align the front and rear sights. I fired, and thought I saw a fleck of bark fly from above the white paper. The old man stared at me like I had shot myself in the face. He looked at me and asked “You trying to use the sights boy?”
“Yes sir,” I answered. “I don't know any other way.”
The old man nodded. “Honest answers will take you far, slim.”
He paused, then added “Can you point at the paper with your finger?”
“Yes sir” I answered.
“Do it.” He ordered.
So, I did.
Then old Cowboy told me “If you can point at it, you should be able to shoot at it at this distance. Shut your eyes and point where you remember it being.”
I did.
“Open your eyes.” he continued.
Again, I did as he said. And I found myself pointing perfectly at the center of the paper round.
“Now point that leg-iron at it.” He commanded.
So I did.
“Okay, without thinking about it, point it at the paper, and just shoot.” he said.
I followed his directions, and put one bullet into the outer edge of the round white paper.
Now, this was my first piece of lead to hit the target at all, so I was quite pleased.
The old man told me to keep practicing “instinctive shooting” as he called it.
I put a few more rounds down range, and within a couple tries was hitting closer and closer to the center of the page.
Though I was caught up in the joy of shooting, I remember distinctly when he asked me “You been spending a lot of time with my granddaughter, hain't you boy?”
The sounds of the river, voices from camp, grunts of the horses, all noises, abruptly ceased. I was in a perfect void. Nothing existed but me and this old gunslinger.
Again the special sense of self preservation guided me, and a flash of his quote “honest answers will take you far slim” came to me, and I answered truthfully.
“Yes sir. I am very fond of her.”
“As am I slim.” said the old man.
He continued, “That's the thing about instincts. You got to know when to follow them, and when to leave them alone.”
I would like to blame the dark for hiding the speed of his hand, but truthfully, he was simply a blur of amazing action. His gun flashed up and roared fire, as five shots rang out.
Five new holes were under the lamp light, dancing around the center of the paper target.
The old man stood there as smoke billowed out of the end of his firearm.
“How about next time you two go for a ride, you allow an old man to ride along? Might be nice to spend time with you both.” He asked.
I tried to swallow, but choked on rising bile. Still, I tried to answer on my now unsteady legs. I believe it was more squeak than language, but what I meant to say was “Yes sir.”
He acted like I answered clearly, and replied “You have a good night slim.”
The old man walked away.
Epiphany. A sudden understanding, or revelation.
Maybe I wasn't so incredibly clever at seventeen as I had thought.
Epiphany. A sudden understanding, or revelation.
In my life, never have I experienced such instant clarity of thought as one particular night in the summer of 1885.
You see, I had been burdened with a great wisdom from an early age. In fact, by the time I turned seventeen that June, I simply knew everything there was to know. Or more to the point, I knew everything that mattered to know. And if there WAS some parcel of intellect out there of which I was unaware, or not wise too, it simply didn't matter in the greater scheme of the universe.
One example of my great cleverness was evidenced in how I spent my afternoons and evenings.
Firstly, I should explain that I had grown up in a cowboy town. Now when I call this a cowboy town, I don't mean simply that folks had settled there who wore boots and spurs. No, this town had a history. In it's wilder, younger days, it was known as a place to hire quick guns to protect a herd, and even a place to find willing help to take someone else's property by force. The reputation of this place was such that the leading members decided to change the town's name to try to hide from it's well earned poor reputation.
Originally, we lived in Tater Hill Bluff (seriously, this was the name, even though there was little agriculture, so not a great deal of potatoes, there were few hills, and therefore, to my knowledge, there was no particular “bluff”.) But there was a very prominent family, and the darling of the patriarch's eye was young Acadia Smyth. So by popular vote, this town of cattle barons and farmers had been renamed Acadia, and the town's fences (and reputation hopefully, had been painted white.)
And as many of the poor kids did, I worked on the family farm in the morning, but looked for outside work to supplement the family, by way of efforts in the afternoon. And I had been very fortunate. There was one particular ranch that sat right on the outskirts of town, and the owner, Mr. Duane, (who happened to be my father's best friend), had taken to renting horses for pleasure rides to townies, or as he called them, “dudes”. And he had experienced such success with this novel idea that the dudes fairly flocked to his ranch, and lined the rails of his corral almost daily hoping to hire a mount, and go for an evening ride along the many various trails of his spread.
So although I could not afford a riding horse myself, I was able to spend quite a bit of time in the saddle by the simple expedient of working at the Iron Horse Ranch for a few hours each day. In exchange, I was paid a nominal sum, and allowed to take one of their horses out for exercise each evening. Now, I will confide, I actually did not like to ride horses at all. They were smelly, dirty, and altogether more trouble than they were worth. But, there was one powerful draw to the habit of riding, and herein lay my great act of intellect and wit. You see, the owner of the ranch had a sixteen year old daughter, and she appeared quite comely to me, and as it happened, She ALSO was extremely clever. She would strive to finish her OWN chores and go riding, completely coincidentally at the same pace as me. In another amazing twist of fate, the two of us often would find ourselves on the same trails, at approximately the same time.
It was a wonderful time for me, to revel in the attentions of a beautiful young lady, and to have money in my pocket, neither of which had actually happened to me before. I am not completely sure at this point which I preferred more, however I am strongly minded that the feel of the lass's hand in mine did seem to be of somewhat more import than the feel of coins in my purse. Either way, I had both, and therefore had everything. As I walked home each night, I would already be planning my escape the next day. I would meticulously work out exactly the order of chores on my own family's farm, hoping to shave a few seconds by creating an process or arrangement of responsibilities that was the most efficient and least time consuming. Each morning, though I had never been a great early riser before, I would spring from slumber ready to tackle the day. My own mother, in her ignorance of my ulterior motives, remarked that taking on employment had hastened my advance to manhood to such a degree that she wished I had started working at Iron Horse Ranch much sooner. I could only agree, and wished so myself that I had made these arrangements years before.
Now before I continue to the event of my great awakening, I must introduce another character to my tale, although, I sincerely believed him to be of no consequence at the time.
He was a small wiry man, old, (easily in his seventies), and hard as a railroad spike. His skin was like leather, and his eyes could strike dead a snake at twenty paces. Now he and I hardly ever interacted. When I would come in to the barn, if he were there, he might point at a bucket of feed, and I would know to take it to the stalls. Outside, often he would point at some tack, and I would haste to put it away. But of discourse, I honestly could not remember ever hearing his voice while working on the ranch.
I fancied that he had grown so old and decrepit that he was losing his speech. And so, if I did pay him attention, it would be to consider how sorry I felt for such an old timer, and how I was thrilled to be on the opposite end of the spectrum of life. The only person I had ever heard speak to the old man, my father, had called him simply “Cowboy”, as if that were his given name.
Blessed by my own guile, I continued to enjoy an income, and the hidden bonus of time spent with my co-conspirator for a couple of months. Things were blissful till one day in August, when my father asked me how things were going on the Mr. Duane's ranch. I explained to him that it was a great pleasure to be able to contribute to both our own family's finances, AND to be such a key player to my father's friends successful pleasure ranch. I even went so far as to admit that I oft felt a little guilty accepting pay at all, being that it gave me time with such lovely people. As I have tried to admit in this writing, I really felt that I had the world on a string, and no one was intelligent enough to catch on to my duplicity.
My father nodded wisely, and agreed, saying that my passion for labor had made a strong impression upon his friend. This was to such extent that I had been invited to go along on a family outing to the back country. I should probably have sensed the danger in the outing, but again, I will repeat, I considered myself to be operating on such a higher level of intellect and wit that it never occurred to me that anyone else might also have hidden agendas. I honestly could only think of crisp night air, distance between tents, and soft hands and cheeks in the moonlight.
I joyfully agreed to go, and my father also decided to come along. At his friend's suggestion we brought our only firearm, a 44 caliber Colt Army five shot revolver. It seems that we would be doing a little hunting, and a lot of target shooting, and in fact there would be several townies along paying for a chance to learn to shoot from actual cowboys from the ranch. (My father and I were both to pretend to hirelings ourselves in order to support the charade. For me of course this was true, but we were to add my father in as a ranch hand in order to help facilitate the experience for the paying customers.)
I realize that by foreshadowing, and the reader's own insight, many will think I should have faced this trip with trepidation, but in that moment, I simply was not thinking clearly.
The day of the adventure arrived, and my pater and I rose before the sun in order to prep our own holdings to function for a few days in our absence. My mother, ever the good sport had invited her sister for a visit, and was confident that between the two of them they could manage quite well, better in fact since they would have no men to coddle and step and fetch for. My father waited till we were on the road to admit that he considered this to be his most fortunate day in years since he was able to graciously allow his sister-in-law to visit, yet could manage to avoid actually spending any time with her. We both laughed at his jockularity in the moment, and the trip to Iron Horse ranch sped by.
We arrived amidst a bustle of activity. Women folk were both laughing and wailing, some were doing both at irregular intervals. Oddly, no where in sight was my night ride companion. Still, with so much chaos involved in loading the wagon, preparing the horses, and generally shuffling around, I hardly noticed anything amiss. I did spot the old timer, Cowboy. If ever I chance to oberve a mountain centered in the eye of a hurricane, I imagine it would look somewhat similar to this man camly setting his horse. He seemed to be allowing the cacophany to wash around him like a boulder in the middle of a rampant river, silent and unmoving.
As the morning light broke around us, in my mind's eye, I saw for a moment, a younger man, pistol tied to his leg, hat pulled down in the sun, and fire in his eye. And I thought “here could easily be one of the men who had made the reputation of this town for violence and gunplay.” But before I could carry the thought any further, I was swept up in the tumult, and found myself thrust apon a horse, and driven out through the open main gate.
We rode hard for miles, and though I hadn't known my father to ride, he seemed to be taking it well. My own evening excursions had enabled me to take the beating in stride also. My employer rode beside us for a bit, and in a conspirital whisper told us that we were only pushing hard for the morning in order to make an impression upon the paying clientele. When we stopped for “hardtack and jerky” (he winked as he said this), we would slow for the rest of the journey. And this we did. Hard biscuts and dried meat were passed out, and I was glad of both. However, the cool water from our skins seemed the star of my meal. It should be noted, I did not get to eat with the main group. Cowboy, my father, and I were sent to rub down the horses with dry grass, and to give them drink before we were allowed to partake ourselves. As we worked, not a word was spoken, and I was not surprised. My companion from the ranch's labor had hardly grunted a word to me before, so I didn't expect much discourse at this point. And my father would always grow quiet when there was work to be done. So we handled our chores, and sat to our own mid day meals, then it was time to rig the crew for riding again.
A few hours before nightfall we came to the river, and Mr. Duane called halt. As the group milled about, I took charge of setting a picket for the horses. Cowboy was a silent ghost flitting about, pointing out where to set tents and build the fire. Mr. Duane almost seemed to work for him at times as silent orders were given, and followed.
Father set about running the dudes from town, having some help cook, others assisted wherever they could, and very quickly supper was on, and all were fed.
Mr. Duane set up several targets, and some of us took a chance to show off our aim.
My father was something of a surprise to me. His aim was true. Although he seemed to move fairly slowly getting the pistol on target, when he did, he was able to make a hole in the white paper very consistently. I tried my best, and expected my young eyes and steady hand to serve me better, but I wasn't as lucky as he. I did chip the tree a few times, but didn't mark the paper round at all. Since night was falling quickly, we all set to finding wood and the fire was stocked a little higher. I helped do the dishes, answered silly questions from the townies. And eventually I clambered into my father's tent exhauseted. It finally occurred to me that I had not seen any women folk on the trip at all, and I felt a stab of disappointment realizing that my secret plans for the evenings were not meant to be.
The next day, I threw myself in to the chores of the camp. I helped cook, did dishes in the river, dug a cat hole for others to use, and even covered a couple over, (though I felt that this was a very personal chore best left to the man who had filled the hole.)
Again we began to target practice, though this time we were helping the dudes to try their luck. A few had a natural ability or had had some prior training, and did fairly well. A couple were a danger to themselves and anyone else in range. We teased one rotund fellow that the only safe place from his errant aim would be to hold the target in front of our chest. At least that way we would be guaranteed not to be shot, as his wild attempts had come nowhere near the actual target on the tree.
We assisted a few folks in taking a pleasure ride that afternoon, and prepared the evening meal without incident. Mr. Duane asked my father if he would walk with him, and since the customers were all frolicking by the river, I found myself alone in the camp as the last light of day was failing.
This was when things began to turn for me. Cowboy found me checking the hooves of my mount for stones, and to my shock, he spoke to me for the first clear time that I could remember.
“You know how to shoot in the dark boy?” he queried.
I almost answered smartly that the firearm would function the same with no need of light, but like a wolf with one foot poised above a steel trap, some inward sense warned me of danger. Instead I answered “I am not sure. How is it different than in the light?”
Instead of a direct answer the old man laughed, and barked an order “Come with me and bring that Colt Army.”
I did follow as instructed and the old man tottered over to the targets nailed to the tree. There he hung a lantern, and with a quick strike of a match, he lit the light. He paced back to where we had stood in the daylight, and told me to take a shot.
I stood with my feet apart like my father had taught me, raised the pistol, and tried to align the front and rear sights. I fired, and thought I saw a fleck of bark fly from above the white paper. The old man stared at me like I had shot myself in the face. He looked at me and asked “You trying to use the sights boy?”
“Yes sir,” I answered. “I don't know any other way.”
The old man nodded. “Honest answers will take you far, slim.”
He paused, then added “Can you point at the paper with your finger?”
“Yes sir” I answered.
“Do it.” He ordered.
So, I did.
Then old Cowboy told me “If you can point at it, you should be able to shoot at it at this distance. Shut your eyes and point where you remember it being.”
I did.
“Open your eyes.” he continued.
Again, I did as he said. And I found myself pointing perfectly at the center of the paper round.
“Now point that leg-iron at it.” He commanded.
So I did.
“Okay, without thinking about it, point it at the paper, and just shoot.” he said.
I followed his directions, and put one bullet into the outer edge of the round white paper.
Now, this was my first piece of lead to hit the target at all, so I was quite pleased.
The old man told me to keep practicing “instinctive shooting” as he called it.
I put a few more rounds down range, and within a couple tries was hitting closer and closer to the center of the page.
Though I was caught up in the joy of shooting, I remember distinctly when he asked me “You been spending a lot of time with my granddaughter, hain't you boy?”
The sounds of the river, voices from camp, grunts of the horses, all noises, abruptly ceased. I was in a perfect void. Nothing existed but me and this old gunslinger.
Again the special sense of self preservation guided me, and a flash of his quote “honest answers will take you far slim” came to me, and I answered truthfully.
“Yes sir. I am very fond of her.”
“As am I slim.” said the old man.
He continued, “That's the thing about instincts. You got to know when to follow them, and when to leave them alone.”
I would like to blame the dark for hiding the speed of his hand, but truthfully, he was simply a blur of amazing action. His gun flashed up and roared fire, as five shots rang out.
Five new holes were under the lamp light, dancing around the center of the paper target.
The old man stood there as smoke billowed out of the end of his firearm.
“How about next time you two go for a ride, you allow an old man to ride along? Might be nice to spend time with you both.” He asked.
I tried to swallow, but choked on rising bile. Still, I tried to answer on my now unsteady legs. I believe it was more squeak than language, but what I meant to say was “Yes sir.”
He acted like I answered clearly, and replied “You have a good night slim.”
The old man walked away.
Epiphany. A sudden understanding, or revelation.
Maybe I wasn't so incredibly clever at seventeen as I had thought.
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