Readers of my blog know I sometimes post fanciful pieces –
fiction, humor, poetry, dog stories, even. Anyhow, the following is of that
sort. My wife loaned me a book on creative writing. It gives you topics to write on, supposedly to fire up your creativity. This one was titled “It was Sunday
morning.”
Bobby stepped off the boardwalk and looked down the dusty street. He repositioned the stiff leather gun belt and holster on his thin
hips, and wished he’d had some time to
practice.
Black Bart suddenly emerged from the livery at the other end of town. Even at 50 yards away, he seemed huge. And getting bigger. He was
striding forward, his right hand hovering over his own holstered weapon. Bobby
took a tentative step to meet him.
He could feel his heart hammering in his narrow chest. At
fourteen he had handled guns on the farm, but mostly shooting varmints with his dad’s .22 rifle. The Colt .45 he now carried on his hip was more than unfamiliar. He had
never even held it till today. It was so heavy it pulled him off balance.
Thirty yards now separated him from his adversary. He licked
his lips and wondered how he got here. That morning Bart had
deliberately bumped into him in the dry goods store, nearly knocking Bobby to
the floor. Flustered, Bobby said, “Hey, watch it…”
Bart had eyed him up and down and snarled, “Who you calling
a coyote, boy?” “N-n-nobody, sir. I just said watch it,” Bobby stammered.
“I don’t take that from any man,” Bart said. “Meet me out front
in an hour, and we’ll settle this.” “Wait, I don’t have a …oh, okay,” Bobby
said.
So his dad had solemnly unbuckled his own gun and cinched the rig around Bobby’s skinny waist. “Tough break, Son," he said. I’ll
say goodbye to your ma and your little sister for you.”
All the while Bart was coming closer, and Bobby was more and
more afraid. He closed his eyes and said a little prayer. Finally when they were no more than ten yards apart, Bart stopped,
planted his feet, and yelled, “Slap leather, boy!”
Bobby tried to scoop the big gun out of his holster, realizing to his horror that he had failed to release the rawhide loop over the
hammer. He fumbled to undo the loop and free the revolver as Bart’s gun came up
smoothly and the muzzle leveled at Bobby’s chest.
Just as Bart’s finger began to squeeze the trigger, a giant fireball
about the size of a wagon hurtled from the sky and crushed Bart like a bug. He
collapsed into a sizzling grease fire, his hat and boots the last to combust.
He smelled like burnt dog hair.
Thank you, Jesus, said Bobby.
It was Sunday morning and one of his best days ever.
