Billy's Forty-Four
Billy was more than mad when he turned old Lampasas off the dusty road to cross the pasture. He had blood on his mind, along with the whiskey. It wasn't the first time the big chestnut had known a determined rein. When he trotted up to the saloon in Lincoln County, Billy's hand had been heavy, just before the shooting started. And when Billy shot the pistol from that rustler's hand outside San Saba, then chased him down and shot him twice, he had felt the whip.
Billy remembered, too, and more, but through a cloud. "I'm too old for this ****," he thought, "but this will end the whole business."
Just when Billy crossed through the little patch of mesquite, Pink came out on the porch, saw the end of the old gunfighter's lariat come down hard, and let one fly from his Winchester. By that time, Billy was already dismounting on the opposite side and pulling his rifle. Pink's shot went right over the empty saddle. Billy crouched under the tall horse's belly and fired. Lampasas bolted, leaving Billy without cover, so he dove to his left, levered another round, and came up shooting.
Pink's second shot hit the ground in front of Billy's face, spattering his eyes with sand. When Billy stood up to get a better shot, Pink's third went through his left arm and caught him in the chest, hard, sending him backward to the ground. Billy rolled over to his stomach. "I'll just lie here and when Pink walks up to see if I'm dead, I'll pull the big Smith and we'll be even. It's worked before."
Only thing was, Pink never came, and my great uncle, J.W. "Little Bill" Standifer, died alone under the Texas sun on the Spur Ranch in 1902 while Pink waited for the sheriff. They buried him on the spot. It was the end of a long business, but that's another story.
A few years ago, on a winter night, I decided to see if I could find out anything about the old Smith and Wesson .44 Russian that passed to my great grandfather after Billy died, then to my grandmother, to my father, and to me. Dad and I shot it a few times back in the '60s when I was a kid. I found out a lot about Billy, the forty-four, and Smith and Wesson. Now, I have a dozen fine examples of American craftsmanship of my own and still looking. While I hope none of my guns ever get used again for a violent purpose, I am honored to own a piece of history and enjoy shooting and admiring what I hope will become heirlooms in turn. There may be a few more stories about Billy along the way, too.
(Most of the above is true, best I can tell, and what isn't true, might have happened.)
Billy was more than mad when he turned old Lampasas off the dusty road to cross the pasture. He had blood on his mind, along with the whiskey. It wasn't the first time the big chestnut had known a determined rein. When he trotted up to the saloon in Lincoln County, Billy's hand had been heavy, just before the shooting started. And when Billy shot the pistol from that rustler's hand outside San Saba, then chased him down and shot him twice, he had felt the whip.
Billy remembered, too, and more, but through a cloud. "I'm too old for this ****," he thought, "but this will end the whole business."
Just when Billy crossed through the little patch of mesquite, Pink came out on the porch, saw the end of the old gunfighter's lariat come down hard, and let one fly from his Winchester. By that time, Billy was already dismounting on the opposite side and pulling his rifle. Pink's shot went right over the empty saddle. Billy crouched under the tall horse's belly and fired. Lampasas bolted, leaving Billy without cover, so he dove to his left, levered another round, and came up shooting.
Pink's second shot hit the ground in front of Billy's face, spattering his eyes with sand. When Billy stood up to get a better shot, Pink's third went through his left arm and caught him in the chest, hard, sending him backward to the ground. Billy rolled over to his stomach. "I'll just lie here and when Pink walks up to see if I'm dead, I'll pull the big Smith and we'll be even. It's worked before."
Only thing was, Pink never came, and my great uncle, J.W. "Little Bill" Standifer, died alone under the Texas sun on the Spur Ranch in 1902 while Pink waited for the sheriff. They buried him on the spot. It was the end of a long business, but that's another story.
A few years ago, on a winter night, I decided to see if I could find out anything about the old Smith and Wesson .44 Russian that passed to my great grandfather after Billy died, then to my grandmother, to my father, and to me. Dad and I shot it a few times back in the '60s when I was a kid. I found out a lot about Billy, the forty-four, and Smith and Wesson. Now, I have a dozen fine examples of American craftsmanship of my own and still looking. While I hope none of my guns ever get used again for a violent purpose, I am honored to own a piece of history and enjoy shooting and admiring what I hope will become heirlooms in turn. There may be a few more stories about Billy along the way, too.
(Most of the above is true, best I can tell, and what isn't true, might have happened.)
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