Trail Hand Read Free

like me. “A handgun is a serious tool, and a holster is only something for carryin’ and protectin’ it. Neither one is for showin’ off.”
    I could tell he was dead serious, but there was also a hint of family pride in his eyes. It was the same pride that showed in my uncle’s work. The leather belt had been carefully etched and sewn with elegant patterns to highlight the open top Slim Jim holster, designed to do justice to the pistol without being obvious.
    Pa was wearing a Remington.44 Army in a worn belted holster that day, one I’d never seen before. We were standing opposite a large tree out back, when Pa reached into his pocket and brought out a silver dollar which he subsequently placed on the top of his right hand. He stood there holding his gun hand, palm down, at waist level with the dollar on top. Before I knew what happened, he’d drawn and fired, all before the coin hit the ground! I was left speechless.
    “Don’t be fooled by this, Son…a lot of shootists can beat the coin. Some use a poker chip for effect and others can do it timed in less than a second. But I’m not gonna teach you circus tricks. A person has a given right to carry a gun for protection, but when you carry, you hold a grave responsibility, to yourself and others. Remember, speed is only a small part of using a gun and won’t impress those what count. They know italso takes a level head, accuracy, and no small amount of courage to face someone in a draw.”
    For the rest of the afternoon, and for many thereafter, Pa taught me the basics of handgunning. From what I now know about things, what was basic for Pa was downright sophisticated for most folks, and over the years I’d have more than one occasion to be grateful for all his teachings.
    That’s why I didn’t overreact to the hard stares the men gave me that day in the cantina .
    The vaqueros looked me over for a while before the taller one finally answered.
    “ Sí, señor , we speak your language. What can we do for you?”
    Don’t know why I was surprised that they spoke English so much better than I did Spanish, but it did make things easier, so I just pulled up a chair and relaxed into conversation as if we already knew each other a good while.
    I let on right off that if there was work to be had around cattle or horses, and involved leaving town for distant parts, I was available.
    The taller of the two vaqueros , Miguel, explained that they both worked for Don Enrique Hernandez de Allende, on a hacienda some distance to the south. They were planning to drive their horses north and then west to California, where apparently the don’s brother-in-law had another ranch. The other fellow, Francisco, told me they’d been sent to town for supplies and that they were preparing to return to the hacienda first thing in the morning.
    “If you’re interested in work, you will have to convince our caporal , the…ah…how you say it…ramrod? But, he realizes it will be a harddrive and we will have need of a scout who knows the country north of our border,” he added encouragingly.
    A few years back, not long after my seventeenth birthday, a flu epidemic took my ma, and shortly thereafter Pa died. There was no keeping me home after that, so I left the ranch to my sister Rebecca and her husband, and headed West on my own. Whatever the reason I gave at the time for leaving, the truth is I was aiming to duplicate what I imagined to be Pa’s mysterious and exciting past. I rode West that spring with his rifle, an old broke-in saddle, and the pick of the Morgans, a large sable bay stallion.
    That old saddle never did fit me well and was soon traded for a bigger one. Later that year, I also replaced the old rifle for a newer model Henry repeater at Freund’s gun smithery in Laramie. While there I picked up a spare cylinder for my Navy .36-caliber and had their gunsmiths, two brothers named Pruitt, modify its front. The job they did building up the sight almost tripled the