Chapter 2

"That shoulder holster rig sounds interesting. Why did ya bring it up?"

The bartender grinned an' said, "'Cause I just happen ta have such a rig fer sale! A man came through here a month or so ago an' offered ta trade a spare rig he had fer a bottle of whiskey. I hate ta say it, but I cannot turn down what looks like a good deal. The holster rig ought ta be worth around $10, and he swapped it fer a $2.50 bottle of whiskey. I will sell it ta ya fer $3 an' call myself lucky. What do ya say? Ya cannot find such a rig anyplace else fer the price!"

I laughed an' said, "Sure, I will give it a try. I will pay ya $3 fer it ifen it fits me. Ya will have ta help me put it on, since I ain't never worn anythin' like that afore."

The bartender readily agreed, an' I walked ta the end of the bar where he could reach me. It took some foolin' around, but we finally got the rig ta fit. I dropped my spare Colt inta the holster an' drew it back out. "By damn, that is amazin'! I kin already tell that this is a big improvement over what I been usin'. Thanks, Mr. Bartender! I will go out on the prairie right now an' give it a try."

I had practiced with Pa's holster an' gun fer years when he was not lookin', so I was reasonably proficient with it, but I quickly found out that the shoulder holster rig was made for me, or the other way around. Fer my first few tries, I prudently unloaded my gun by removing the cylinder an' tried drawin' an' dry firin' it. After a dozen or so tries, I was certainly as fast with the new rig as I had been with Pa's. By 20 or so tries, I was faster!

I replaced the cylinder an' tried actually shootin' the revolver. I was kind of tentative the first couple of times fer fear of shootin' myself, but I quickly gained confidence an' was quite happy with the results by supper time. I couldn't help it, I just had to return to the saloon to brag on the results of my short trial. That was a mistake that I can only attribute to my youth; after all, I was only 13 years old—well, almost 14, at the time.

I waltzed back into the saloon an' up to the bar. I was greeted with, "Howdy, Mr. The Branson Kid?" followed by a laugh of genuine good humor.

I chuckled back an' said, "Well, Mr. Very Friendly Bartender, I am doin' quite well. This rig you sold me is everythin' ya said that it would be. It made a definite improvement in my drawin' speed!"

There was a yahoo leanin' against the bar, listenin' ta the conversation between me and the bartender. He said, "Well, Mr. Branson Kid, ifen that rig is that good, I sure would like a demonstration. Would ya be so kind as ta step out back with me ta show me what ya kin do?"

Bein' about as naïve as a boy could git, I agreed ta the little show. My new acquaintance shouted ta the other clients in the bar, "THIS HERE BRANSON KID IS GONNA PUT ON A QUICK-DRAW SHOW FER US! COME ON OUT AN' LET'S SEE IT!"

That was definitely not what I had in mind when I agreed ta show what I could do, but my pride would not let me back down now. I walked out the back door with about 15-20 of the saloon patroons an' we found a safe place ta shoot. "Whenever ya are ready Mr. Branson Kid, show us what ya kin do."

Well, needless to say, I was very nervous, but I drew and fired. Dammit, even I was impressed! Of course, just shooting with no particular target in mind is a long way from the kind of shooting the audience really wanted ta see. Somebody pointed that out an' produced an empty whiskey bottle to use for a target. Now, shooting at a whiskey bottle is not easy at any time, but when ya are tryin' ta impress a bunch of saloon patrons, it is really difficult.

I said, "Well, I will give it a try, but move the bottle ta about 25 feet away soz I will have a decent chance ta hit it." That produced some laughs, but the bottle was moved. This time, I took a couple of deep breaths ta steady my nerves before I drew. I said, "OK, here I go!"

I snapped my hand to the pistol grip an' pulled it from my holster. In that same motion, I cocked the hammer an' placed my finger on the trigger. At that range, I normally do not have to aim, so I pointed the gun where I felt it should be and squeezed the trigger. BANG! CRASH! As nearly one sound, the whiskey bottle flew into hundreds of pieces.

Cheering an' applause greeted my smile as I turned to face the audience. It was not that I had hit the whiskey bottle, since most competent shooters could have done that if they had taken the time ta aim. What was important was the speed at which I had done it.

We went back inside, an' everyone bought a fresh drink. The bartender stood me ta a cup of coffee when I refused a beer. I asked where I could get some supper, and the bartender said that there was no restaurant in town, but he could provide a ham sandwich. I thanked him an' ate the sandwich an' another cup of coffee for supper.

I was the toast of the saloon fer a couple of hours. When I began ta get sleepy, I asked the bartender if there was a hotel in town. Unfortunately, there was not, so he suggested that I spend the night on a pile of hay down at the livery stable with my hoss an' mule. That suggestion didn't sound half bad, so that was where I headed.

I got barely out the door when a bullet ripped through my shirt, but somehow managed to miss me. The second stroke of luck was that I saw the muzzle flash, soz I had some idea of where my assailant was hiding. He was in an alley across the street, but I had no idea how long he would stay there.

Hell, I was full of all of the piss and ginger of an early teen, so I wasn't gonna take such a cowardly shot at me lyin' down! I jumped back into the saloon an' ran out the back door. I ran to the alley separating the saloon from the next building. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't spot the asshole what had taken that shot at me. I guessed that he had run off when I ducked back into the saloon.

For lack of anythin' better ta do, I walked down ta the livery stable an' found me an available haystack. The next mornin', I chewed some jerky fer breakfast, but I did head back ta the saloon fer another cup of coffee. There was nothin' fer me in this here town, soz I headed south at the urgin' of the bartender.

A little after noon, I came ta a bigger town what had a restaurant, an' I was hungry from not having eaten my usual breakfast. Therefore, I went in an' chowed down on as much beef and beans as I could cram in. It cost me 35¢, which I thought was kind of steep, but I did eat as much as three normal men would. The coffee was pretty bad, but I had two cups just on the principle of the thin'.

I walked around the town fer a few minutes ta give my dinner a chance ta settle. Followin' that, I dropped in at a saloon ta hear the local gossip an' ta find out ifen there were any jobs available. I was talkin' ta the bartender an' just foolin' around when I saw in the mirror behind the bar my acquaintance from the previous town what had egged me on ta put on the shootin' demonstration.

Apparently, he saw me at the same time, an' he started ta draw his gun. Faster than ya would believe, the bartender whipped out a coach gun of his own an' shouted at the man ta hold his fire. That galoot was so surprised that he just froze in place with his gun barrel just clearin' the holster.

"Put yer gun back in the holster an' git yer ass out of my saloon! Ifen ya do not, I will blow yer guts inta next week!"

I was surprised by the galoot's attempt ta draw on me, but I figured right then that he was the one what had tried ta ambush me the night before. I followed him out of the saloon an' yelled to him, "HEY, YA WANT TA SHOOT ME? I DO NOT KNOW WHY, BUT HERE IS YER CHANCE! I AM HEADED FER THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET! MEET ME THERE IFEN YA HAVE THE GUTS FER A FACE-TA-FACE SHOOT OUT!"