Confessions of a Gunfighter (2 page)

Chapter two

I didn’t figure on hitting anybody. All I had wanted was just to make some noise to break up the fight.

I fired four times, and folks dove for cover.

Finally, I couldn’t make the gunfire no more, and then somebody ran up and knocked the gun away from my grasp.  

By now, Jake was nowhere to be seen. But Elliot was thrashing around on the ground, yelling and grabbing at his foot. 

As for the other shots fired, two of them were buried deep in our buckboard, and the other one knocked out a pane in the general store’s window.

Pa had to pay for that window, and later on Pa made me pay for it back home behind the woodshed. It was the worst whipping I ever received from Pa, and thinking back on it now I can see how I deserved it. 

Pa had a long talk with me that night, and he told me how bad I’d been. Pa was scared, and he told me sternly if I didn’t learn to control my temper that I would wind up on the wrong side of the law someday.           

I was real low after that, especially when I realized that I could have very easily killed Elliot or someone else. At first Elliot was plenty mad, but after a while he warmed back up to me, saying he realized I was only trying to help, but that I just went about it the wrong way.  

After that, I got the reputation as being no good. Whenever I was in town folks would frown and shake their heads, and none of the youngsters my age would have anything to do with me. But I didn’t care, because I liked being left alone.

Pa came and fetched me a few days after I shot Elliot in the foot.

“Judging by your shooting spread, I reckon I’d better show you how to work a gun proper like, or else you’re liable to blow your own head off,” Pa told me.

Pa was trying hard to look stern, but he couldn’t help but reveal a small, amused smile.

Pa grabbed his Henry rifle and took me out deep into the woods. He sat me down on a log, and then he showed me his Henry repeating rifle. Next, he showed me how to load it, and Pa made me load it in front of him while he watched carefully.

“Now then,” Pa said as he stepped back. “Take aim at that branch over yonder.”

I looked to where Pa was pointing, and the distance had to be at least seventy-five yards. 

I took a-hold of the rifle, and then I squatted down behind the log and rested the barrel where I had just been sitting. I took a long, careful aim. Then, I let out my breath and squeezed the trigger.

The gun boomed loudly in my hands, and the branch exploded at the end.

Pa looked at me with a surprised look.

“Well now! That’s pretty good shooting, son! Why, I think that’s even better than I could do!” 

I beamed with pleasure while Pa scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Tell you what; you take some time everyday and practice, and then you and me will go out hunting. How does that sound?”

That sounded good, and I said so. Pa was true to his word, and a week later I killed a deer with Pa’s Henry rifle. 

Me and Pa went out a few more times, and then he started letting me do all the hunting by myself. I was good at it, and I hardly ever wasted any ammunition.

Pa bragged often that he had never seen a youngster be as good a shot as I was. Pa was proud, but he also made sure that I understood that handling a gun was a very serious thing.  

“Rifle is a tool like anything else,” Pa told me sternly. “Sometimes you have to defend yourself with one, and that’s not a bad thing. Just make sure you use a gun for the right reasons, and not the wrong ones. You kill the wrong man and it will haunt you for the rest of your life.”     

“Yes, Pa,” I said.

Things went back to normal after the incident with Jake Bellows passed. Growing up on a farm would give any youngster plenty of excitement, and I treasured every minute of it. 

I had no idea that it would someday all end. To a youngster things go on forever, but you find out real quick as you grow up that things change quickly.

I was ten years old. The year was 1861, and the Civil War broke out. Men from all over rushed off to war, and Pa was one of the first to go.

There’s been some foolish talk that I avoided fighting in the war. Truth was, I wanted to go real bad.

My Pa was the youngest of three brothers by nine years, so I had a lot of older cousins that went and fought in the war. I reckon them going and me staying sort of made me look bad, but they were old enough and I wasn’t, plain and simple.

Pa made Elliot stay behind too, for he said I was too young to stay by myself. Elliot was aggravated, but he finally gave in to Pa’s wishes.

Pa instructed us to watch the place while he was gone, and we did just that. I helped Elliot with the farming, and when I needed help breaking one of the colts Elliot helped me. We both worked extremely hard, and when Pa came back the place looked even better than when he had left.   

Pa came back home in 1863. Me and Elliot were surprised, because the war was still on and we had received no word from Pa. 

Pa told us that he had been shot and captured. Pa was then going to be sent up north to prison, but luckily he bumped into an older Yankee cousin of mine.

Turns out, it was Yancy.

Yancy helped Pa and a few others escape. After that Pa hurried on back home. 

Pa had been shot in the hip, and he never did make a full recovery. He was still in good shape and could whatever he wanted, but he had to deal with a slight limp for the rest of his life.  

Pa hadn’t been back home much more than a week when I got the biggest surprise of my life. It was late in the day, and me and Pa were out behind the woodshed chopping up fire wood when he asked me how old I was.

I stopped working while I silently added up the years. 

“I reckon I’d be twelve, Pa,” I finally replied.

“Well now, I figure that’s old enough,” Pa declared.

“Old enough for what?” I asked curiously.

“Stay here,” Pa told me. 

Pa sunk his ax blade into a log, and then he limped down to the house. Pa came back shortly, and he was carrying a fancy looking Colt six-shooter.

Chapter three

“I took this off a dead Union officer,” Pa explained. “And, seeing how you have a way with guns, I thought you might like to have it.”

I was real excited as I reached out and carefully took the six-shooter from Pa.

I don’t know how, but as soon as my palm wrapped around the handle I knew I was going to be a natural. The six-shooter fit perfectly in my hand, and holding it was one of the most natural feelings I had ever felt before.

I gave the six-shooter a good going over.

The handle was made out of white ivory, and the short barrel was dark and polished. It had been well taken care of; there wasn’t a scratch on it.   

“I’ve never seen a gun any fancier than this,” I said excitedly. 

“Don’t think I have neither,” Pa agreed. “It’s a well-built pistol, and I expect you to take real good care of it. It should last you a lifetime.”

“I’ll take good care of it, Pa,” I quickly reassured him. “I surely will!”

From that moment on, me and that Colt became inseparable. It didn’t matter what I was doing; I always wore it, and I practiced with it every chance I had.  

But spare time was hard to come by. Running a farm was hard work. There was always something to be done, and it seemed like there was never enough daylight.       

Hard life as it was, to me it was still a mighty good life, and I never wanted it to end. But, as usual, things changed. 

Two years later, the war finally came to an end. 

Pa thought things would get better, but he was wrong. Reconstruction people from the North started moving in, and they took away property and gave everybody that fought for the South fits. 

We all stayed away from town during that time, and Pa kept his rifle handy. But then came the night that they came out to the farm.

We had just finished supper when we heard them. I looked out the window and saw them.

There was a buggy in front, and in it was an important looking businessman. Behind the buggy trailed about twenty Yankee soldiers riding a-horseback.

Pa’s face got hard and dark, and he told us sternly to stay inside. Pa grabbed his rifle, and then he opened the door and walked out to meet them. 

The man in the buggy pulled up in front of Pa. They talked in low, sharp tones while me and Elliot pressed up against our window and watched. 

They didn’t talk for long.

Pa turned away abruptly. He walked back towards the house while the buggy and the soldiers turned and left.

Pa walked back inside, shut the door, and sat down heavily at the table while me and Elliot looked at him curiously. Pa stared blankly at the floor, but then he finally turned and looked up at us.

“Well, boys,” Pa told us, “Them Reconstructionalists say we owe ’em a lot of money in back taxes, and if we don’t pay it they’ll confiscate the farm.”

“What does ‘confiscate’ mean, Pa?” I asked, confused.

“It means they’ll take our farm away from us,” Pa explained. “It isn’t right, but there’s nothing we can do about it. The law’s on their side, not ours.”

“I know something we can do!” Elliot blurted angrily. “We’ve got guns, ain’t we?”

“Son, there’s no use fighting it,” Pa said with a weak smile. “If we did they’d just send more of them Yankee soldiers, and we can’t fight ’em all.”

“Can’t we come up with enough money?” I asked hopefully.

Pa shook his head.

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Then what’ll we do?” I wanted to know.

“I had a feeling this would happen, and I’ve been giving it some thought for some time now,” Pa said with a touch of hope in his voice. “With things the way they are now we can’t go north, and if we stayed here in the south we would just be pestered more by them Northerners. And I don’t think I could stand too much more pestering.”

“So what
can
we do?” I asked, confused.

“We’ll go west,” Pa declared.

Chapter four

“I met this old cattleman named J.T. Tussle during the war,” Pa explained. “We were both prisoners, and to pass the time we talked some. I told him about our little farm, and Tussle told me all about his big cow operation he has out in West Texas near a little cow-town called Midway. 

“We got to know each other pretty good, and before we got split up he offered me a job if’n I wanted one. But I told him no, ’cause I had to get back here. He understood, but he said if things didn’t work out to look him up, and the job would still be there. So, I figure that’s what we’ll do, boys. We’ll get ourselves an outfit put together and head west.”

That was good news as far as I was concerned. Going west was what I had always dreamed about, and I was eager to get started.

Them Reconstructionist folks must have been just as eager, because Pa said we needed to be gone within a week.

We started getting ready to leave the next morning.

The first thing we did was to help Pa load up some of the farming equipment into the back of our buckboard. Then, Pa went over to the corrals and cut out all but three of our riding horses to be sold. 

I wasn’t very happy about that, but Pa said we had no choice. We needed a wagon, and those horses would bring a good price.

Pa left me and Elliot a long list of chores, and then he took off to town in the buckboard, leading behind him the long string of horses. 

Me and Elliot worked hard all day, and Pa didn’t make it back home until almost dark. 

Pa was riding in a brand new Conestoga wagon. He also had a brand new team of horses pulling it. 

As soon as we saw Pa, we dropped what we were doing and ran over to have a look.

The wagon was sparkling clean and had a crisp, white canvas tarp on top. It was sixteen feet long and also had a false bottom to hide valuables in. 

Me and Elliot climbed all over that new wagon. Then, I had a good look at the new team of horses. 

They were a fine-looking team. They were young, big boned, stout looking, and were real gentle too. 

We also still had the three horses that Pa had decided to keep. But they were for riding purposes only, and unless one of the team got crippled or hurt they wouldn’t be used to pull the wagon. 

Pa had already explained that me and Elliot were going to ride a-horseback most of the time to save the team from pulling the extra weight, and that suited me just fine. I would rather be a-horseback any day than have to ride in a wagon, new or not.

***

We left early one morning. Pa’s face was hard and stern when he woke us, and we were in somber moods as we got dressed.

After breakfast, me and Elliot helped Pa hitch up the wagon. Then, while Pa checked over everything, me and Elliot saddled our horses.

I rode a little sorrel horse named Slim that was considered mine.

“You boys ready?” Pa asked us as he climbed up onto the wagon seat. 

We nodded, so Pa clucked at the horses. 

It was hard riding away for the last time.

I reckon it was the hardest on Pa, and I’m sure he felt like he was leaving part of himself behind.

As for me, I had a big lump in my throat, and I didn’t dare look at Pa or Elliot for fear that I would break out and cry.

We walked our horses towards the end of the lane.

When we got there I pulled up Slim and looked back, but I was the only one.

Pa and Elliot kept going forward steadily, so I turned back towards them and kicked up Slim, and we put the farm behind us for good.