The Gun is Always Loaded by Joel Mason
“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us Thomas.” Growled Mitch Townson, his left hand hovering over the 45 Colt revolver slung low on his hip.
The assembled crowd scattered leaving the dusty street empty, except for the interloper and the young man who a moment before had been telling the crowd how the new railroad would benefit everyone despite the opposition.
“Now listen here old man,” said Thomas, “it don’t have to be this way. I told you before, you just come on down to the town meeting this evening and you can speak your mind just like anybody else.”
“I recon you’d like that just fine,” replied Townson, “me corralled behind four walls and a roof so’s you can keep an eye on me while you hide behind yr fancy city lawyers. Naw, I recon we can settle our differences a might quicker and once and for all if we do it here and now, just you and me… or maybe I’ll give you one in the back when you turn tail.”
Tom stood still as Mitch’s words took their full affect. He quickly scanned the onlookers to be sure that everyone would be safe in what was to follow. Then he stepped into the middle of the street and pulled the sides of his long black coat behind the butts of the two pearl handled 38’s that his father had given him when he had gotten into this business.
“Now why do I get the feelin’ that this ain’t gonna be just you and me?”
Beads of sweat were now evident on Townson’s forehead. “I recon that’s because you’re a smart boy.”
“You never were one for playing by the rules were you?”
“Life ain’t fair boy and them that plays by the rules make ten times for their masters what they make for themselves.
“So you just make your own rules is that it?”
Mitch smiled and gave a small twitch of his head. “Go on boy, I’ll give you the first shot fer nothin’”, and with that Townson crossed his arms behind his back. “But if I were you I’d start shootin’ right… now.”
There was the unmistakable sound of a Winchester rifle cocking on the roof of Holgerson’s Dry Goods Store as Thomas spiraled to the right and drew his pistols. The air cracked with the simultaneous sound of gun fire as one man appeared from behind a gable and then another from around a horse trough. The shots continued as Thomas’ right leg buckled beneath him. Another shooter let out a cry as he clutched his chest and tumbled from the roof of the church disappearing into a thorny hedge. A horse and rider bore down on Thomas from the East end of town fanning his Remington Army revolver in quick succession. A well aimed shot and the rider rolled off his horse entangling his foot in the stirrup and was dragged past the crowd and out of sight.
As the dust cleared Thomas was still standing but only barely. Townson unfolded his arms and chuckled. “Boy, that’s some mighty fancy shootin’.”
Tom stood breathing hard and coughed from the dust in his throat. Townson continued, “Now by my reckoning you fired eleven shots, but maybe you weren’t countin’. My only question is this, which gun is the last bullet in, ‘coz I figure you’re just a little bit slower with your left?” Tom wiped his brow with the back of his arm, placed the pistols back into their holsters, cleared his throat, looked at Mitch and shrugged. Tom was very familiar with the speed that Townson could draw and fire. Many years ago Mitch had cut an inch and a half off the barrel of his 45 so it would clear the low cut holster that fraction of a second faster and since then he had practiced his quick draw like most folks practice breathing. Tom would draw both pistols and would be happy if he got off his one shot before Townson got off two or even three.
“You done talking old man or were you thinking on boring me to death?”
With that the street fell silent but for the cry of a baby in the arms of one of the onlookers. Suddenly two shots rang out in quick succession and both men’s bodies jerked in response. Thomas dropped to one knee with a violent thud as Townson spiraled to the ground slinging his Colt several feet away and clutching his left shoulder. The audience froze breathless as both men struggled to recover. Mitch began dragging himself toward his dislodged weapon as Thomas staggered forward emptying the spent casings from one pistol and pulling a single bullet from his cartridge belt. As the two men reached each other in the shadow of the church steeple Mitch grabbed his firearm in time to feel the weight of Tom’s boot crushing down on his wrist. The young man slid the round into the cylinder, snapped it shut and pointed at the old bear at his feet. Mitch looked up. “You know I ain’t letting go of this gun so unless you plan on standing there forever you’d best finish the job. Thomas Townson looked down at his father, cocked the hammer of his 38 and pulled the trigger. A gasp went up from the crowd and Tom staggered, swayed and then fell across the lifeless form of the man who had raised him. As the dust settled a crow landed on the hitching post beyond the two bodies and let out a single cry.
First one and then another of the onlookers began to clap and within three seconds the entire group was cheering and whistling as the two gunslingers slowly rose to their feet, their faces stretched in big grins as they dusted themselves off and walked toward the crowd.
“And that, folks” began Mitch, “is how it happened here in Chimney Rock on August 5th 1883.” The audience renewed their applause as the rest of the players swaggered in to take their bow, Mitch continued. “Now on behalf of myself and my five sons; Jacob, Jerry Lin, Randal, Sean and young gun Thomas, I’d like to remind all you future cow boys that fire arms are extremely dangerous and should never be handled without proper training and if you should ever, EVER find one unattended, assume that it is loaded and alert an adult. That’s the last show today, thanks for coming and be careful going home.” With that the Chimney Rock Six took a final bow and headed for the showers. Only Tom lingered behind for a few moments to chat with a pretty young blond who had been smiling at him most of the day.
When Tom did come in from the street he walked over to his father and shyly asked if he might have the use of the car that evening. His father thought for a moment, disappeared into the public toilet and returned with the keys in one hand and two packets containing condoms in the other, both of which he handed to Tom. His father smiled and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “The gun is always loaded Tom,” Mitch told the boy. “Make no mistake.”
The assembled crowd scattered leaving the dusty street empty, except for the interloper and the young man who a moment before had been telling the crowd how the new railroad would benefit everyone despite the opposition.
“Now listen here old man,” said Thomas, “it don’t have to be this way. I told you before, you just come on down to the town meeting this evening and you can speak your mind just like anybody else.”
“I recon you’d like that just fine,” replied Townson, “me corralled behind four walls and a roof so’s you can keep an eye on me while you hide behind yr fancy city lawyers. Naw, I recon we can settle our differences a might quicker and once and for all if we do it here and now, just you and me… or maybe I’ll give you one in the back when you turn tail.”
Tom stood still as Mitch’s words took their full affect. He quickly scanned the onlookers to be sure that everyone would be safe in what was to follow. Then he stepped into the middle of the street and pulled the sides of his long black coat behind the butts of the two pearl handled 38’s that his father had given him when he had gotten into this business.
“Now why do I get the feelin’ that this ain’t gonna be just you and me?”
Beads of sweat were now evident on Townson’s forehead. “I recon that’s because you’re a smart boy.”
“You never were one for playing by the rules were you?”
“Life ain’t fair boy and them that plays by the rules make ten times for their masters what they make for themselves.
“So you just make your own rules is that it?”
Mitch smiled and gave a small twitch of his head. “Go on boy, I’ll give you the first shot fer nothin’”, and with that Townson crossed his arms behind his back. “But if I were you I’d start shootin’ right… now.”
There was the unmistakable sound of a Winchester rifle cocking on the roof of Holgerson’s Dry Goods Store as Thomas spiraled to the right and drew his pistols. The air cracked with the simultaneous sound of gun fire as one man appeared from behind a gable and then another from around a horse trough. The shots continued as Thomas’ right leg buckled beneath him. Another shooter let out a cry as he clutched his chest and tumbled from the roof of the church disappearing into a thorny hedge. A horse and rider bore down on Thomas from the East end of town fanning his Remington Army revolver in quick succession. A well aimed shot and the rider rolled off his horse entangling his foot in the stirrup and was dragged past the crowd and out of sight.
As the dust cleared Thomas was still standing but only barely. Townson unfolded his arms and chuckled. “Boy, that’s some mighty fancy shootin’.”
Tom stood breathing hard and coughed from the dust in his throat. Townson continued, “Now by my reckoning you fired eleven shots, but maybe you weren’t countin’. My only question is this, which gun is the last bullet in, ‘coz I figure you’re just a little bit slower with your left?” Tom wiped his brow with the back of his arm, placed the pistols back into their holsters, cleared his throat, looked at Mitch and shrugged. Tom was very familiar with the speed that Townson could draw and fire. Many years ago Mitch had cut an inch and a half off the barrel of his 45 so it would clear the low cut holster that fraction of a second faster and since then he had practiced his quick draw like most folks practice breathing. Tom would draw both pistols and would be happy if he got off his one shot before Townson got off two or even three.
“You done talking old man or were you thinking on boring me to death?”
With that the street fell silent but for the cry of a baby in the arms of one of the onlookers. Suddenly two shots rang out in quick succession and both men’s bodies jerked in response. Thomas dropped to one knee with a violent thud as Townson spiraled to the ground slinging his Colt several feet away and clutching his left shoulder. The audience froze breathless as both men struggled to recover. Mitch began dragging himself toward his dislodged weapon as Thomas staggered forward emptying the spent casings from one pistol and pulling a single bullet from his cartridge belt. As the two men reached each other in the shadow of the church steeple Mitch grabbed his firearm in time to feel the weight of Tom’s boot crushing down on his wrist. The young man slid the round into the cylinder, snapped it shut and pointed at the old bear at his feet. Mitch looked up. “You know I ain’t letting go of this gun so unless you plan on standing there forever you’d best finish the job. Thomas Townson looked down at his father, cocked the hammer of his 38 and pulled the trigger. A gasp went up from the crowd and Tom staggered, swayed and then fell across the lifeless form of the man who had raised him. As the dust settled a crow landed on the hitching post beyond the two bodies and let out a single cry.
First one and then another of the onlookers began to clap and within three seconds the entire group was cheering and whistling as the two gunslingers slowly rose to their feet, their faces stretched in big grins as they dusted themselves off and walked toward the crowd.
“And that, folks” began Mitch, “is how it happened here in Chimney Rock on August 5th 1883.” The audience renewed their applause as the rest of the players swaggered in to take their bow, Mitch continued. “Now on behalf of myself and my five sons; Jacob, Jerry Lin, Randal, Sean and young gun Thomas, I’d like to remind all you future cow boys that fire arms are extremely dangerous and should never be handled without proper training and if you should ever, EVER find one unattended, assume that it is loaded and alert an adult. That’s the last show today, thanks for coming and be careful going home.” With that the Chimney Rock Six took a final bow and headed for the showers. Only Tom lingered behind for a few moments to chat with a pretty young blond who had been smiling at him most of the day.
When Tom did come in from the street he walked over to his father and shyly asked if he might have the use of the car that evening. His father thought for a moment, disappeared into the public toilet and returned with the keys in one hand and two packets containing condoms in the other, both of which he handed to Tom. His father smiled and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “The gun is always loaded Tom,” Mitch told the boy. “Make no mistake.”
To Fend for Myself by Joel Mason
Looking at me now you would never guess that I grew up in Charleston’s high society; dances, dresses and rich suitors; each one more boring than the one before. The only pleasure I took in those days was badgering the servants at home, or getting my hands dirty at Cormac’s wharf and dry goods. Papa and I could have had something in common if he’d have let me manage that place for him, he would have too if I’d been a boy. Instead, that’s where I met James Bonny, among Papa’s less reputable business associates… I never loved James. The sex was pretty good, but it would be with most any man so long as he did what I said. I only married him so Papa would have no legal means of dragging me back to the plantation. Lord knows I’d had enough of the stiff collared suitors the old man lined up for me. The marriage lasted about a year but that was long enough move to St. Croy where I meet Jack.
It was the first time I’d known a smart man that did’t want me to be a china doll; first time a man ever respected the fact that I had a brain in my head; first man that wasn’t intimidated. In fact Jack Rackham was the first man that I ever had to chase. If only he’d taken me on board as one of the men I wouldn’t have been running like I was now, chased by the Governor’s lackey’s and that damned fool husband of mine, but Jack wouldn’t even tell me where his ship was anchored.
I scrambled down the embankment at the edge of Selkirk’s hemp plantation and up the crags beyond, Nicholas Lawes’ blood hounds getting closer with every passing minute. I might have passed for a man dressed as I was in a pair of Jack’s old calico pantaloons but for those damn dogs. If I could make it to the head waters of Drake’s Bay I could perhaps throw the bitches off my sent, or if I could string them out far enough ahead of their handlers I could grab a rock and dash out there brains, so long as they didn’t all come at me at once.
The head waters of the bay were running deep and rushing like a torrent from the week’s tropical rains when I stepped from the relative safety of the bank. The barking grew louder as I reached the middle of the river. Suddenly I sank to my waist and the pantaloons ballooned with water like a submerged sail. I was off my feet in an instant and as the baying of the hounds faded into the distance I became aware of another sound; the roaring thunder of Drake’s Falls filled my ears, bugger all.
Sighting my course ahead I could see that a great mahogany had partially fallen on the opposite side of the bank just before the drop off and a branch of that reached within four feet from the water. I would have to swim hard to get to it and even then it was probably too high to reach. I slipped out of the pantaloons and rolled over to my back, kicking hard for the opposite side I quickly knotted the trousers at the ankle then whipped them over my head to create a float from which I intended to launch myself if I could swim near enough the tree. The prevailing wind was with me and pushed the inflated trousers just enough. Plunging the float beneath the water with one hand I was able to raise up just high enough to get a good grip on the branch with the other. It snapped, and over the falls I went. Falling with no sense of motion as all the water around me was travelling at the same speed; I felt a strange moment of peace before it all turned to tempest and turmoil. The crashing water twisted my body like the lash of a whip and just as I thought my lungs would burst it spat me out like a lubber spitting lunch on a rolling deck.
Exhausted I struggled up the bank of the lagoon, the sound of the dogs a distant memory. I paused on the brow of the hill and marveled at the vista that stretched out before me. There was the sea. And there was Jack’s ship.
It was the first time I’d known a smart man that did’t want me to be a china doll; first time a man ever respected the fact that I had a brain in my head; first man that wasn’t intimidated. In fact Jack Rackham was the first man that I ever had to chase. If only he’d taken me on board as one of the men I wouldn’t have been running like I was now, chased by the Governor’s lackey’s and that damned fool husband of mine, but Jack wouldn’t even tell me where his ship was anchored.
I scrambled down the embankment at the edge of Selkirk’s hemp plantation and up the crags beyond, Nicholas Lawes’ blood hounds getting closer with every passing minute. I might have passed for a man dressed as I was in a pair of Jack’s old calico pantaloons but for those damn dogs. If I could make it to the head waters of Drake’s Bay I could perhaps throw the bitches off my sent, or if I could string them out far enough ahead of their handlers I could grab a rock and dash out there brains, so long as they didn’t all come at me at once.
The head waters of the bay were running deep and rushing like a torrent from the week’s tropical rains when I stepped from the relative safety of the bank. The barking grew louder as I reached the middle of the river. Suddenly I sank to my waist and the pantaloons ballooned with water like a submerged sail. I was off my feet in an instant and as the baying of the hounds faded into the distance I became aware of another sound; the roaring thunder of Drake’s Falls filled my ears, bugger all.
Sighting my course ahead I could see that a great mahogany had partially fallen on the opposite side of the bank just before the drop off and a branch of that reached within four feet from the water. I would have to swim hard to get to it and even then it was probably too high to reach. I slipped out of the pantaloons and rolled over to my back, kicking hard for the opposite side I quickly knotted the trousers at the ankle then whipped them over my head to create a float from which I intended to launch myself if I could swim near enough the tree. The prevailing wind was with me and pushed the inflated trousers just enough. Plunging the float beneath the water with one hand I was able to raise up just high enough to get a good grip on the branch with the other. It snapped, and over the falls I went. Falling with no sense of motion as all the water around me was travelling at the same speed; I felt a strange moment of peace before it all turned to tempest and turmoil. The crashing water twisted my body like the lash of a whip and just as I thought my lungs would burst it spat me out like a lubber spitting lunch on a rolling deck.
Exhausted I struggled up the bank of the lagoon, the sound of the dogs a distant memory. I paused on the brow of the hill and marveled at the vista that stretched out before me. There was the sea. And there was Jack’s ship.
Silence by Joel Mason
John met Emily at university. She was an older student, older than John by 7 years but in the egalitarian and sexually charged atmosphere of a college campus that difference carried less consequence than one’s political tendencies or indeed what type of jeans you wore. John had seen Emily in his sociology class and they had found common ground in their mutual love of peace and quiet.
By their senior year Emily was pregnant and though they would have eventually married anyway John decided to do “the right thing”. They were wed in a small civil ceremony in November and moved off campus to an apartment where they started life as a family.
Joshua was born at 8am on a Sunday in May and two weeks later the three of them attended graduation together then John got a scholarship to do a Masters at a liberal arts college three hours away. It was in August that the problems with Joshua started. Because of a growing curvature in the spine Joshua was no longer comfortable lying on his back, and so he cried. Eventually it became too much for John and he started spending Thursday’s on a friends couch in order to make his Friday 8am class. When Emily developed Mastitis from breast feeding, things started to get ugly between the couple. With no family close by and no friends that hadn’t moved away after graduation Emily began to feel trapped. She begged John to quit school and take a job “just for now” to help with the baby, so she could have a break now and then from the crying, John was furious. “The doctor told you it’s only temporary. The brace will straighten everything out and then he’ll be fine,” he would lecture, “This scholarship is the best chance we have of my getting a good job. I’m not about to let my family down just because you can’t cope with a little crying!”
John could almost convince himself but he knew it was mostly an excuse, an excuse to have his privacy, an excuse to have his thoughts to himself for those hours away from home.
It was the middle of October when Emily called John on his mobile. “It’s six o’clock John, where the Hell are you? You should have been home three hours ago! I’ve slept half an hour in three fucking days! I’ve been trapped with your crying son since ten a.m. yesterday; I’ve got to get out!”
“Pull yourself together Emily, woman have been raising children since the beginning of mankind so you damn well start doing your job. Now I’m staying up here this weekend to give you time to think about it!” and with that John hung up on his wife.
Emily cried together with her son for an hour then she drew the curtains and smothered the child with a stuffed toy; and in the shuttered gloom of an apartment the distinct clock of a closing door penetrated the silence.
By their senior year Emily was pregnant and though they would have eventually married anyway John decided to do “the right thing”. They were wed in a small civil ceremony in November and moved off campus to an apartment where they started life as a family.
Joshua was born at 8am on a Sunday in May and two weeks later the three of them attended graduation together then John got a scholarship to do a Masters at a liberal arts college three hours away. It was in August that the problems with Joshua started. Because of a growing curvature in the spine Joshua was no longer comfortable lying on his back, and so he cried. Eventually it became too much for John and he started spending Thursday’s on a friends couch in order to make his Friday 8am class. When Emily developed Mastitis from breast feeding, things started to get ugly between the couple. With no family close by and no friends that hadn’t moved away after graduation Emily began to feel trapped. She begged John to quit school and take a job “just for now” to help with the baby, so she could have a break now and then from the crying, John was furious. “The doctor told you it’s only temporary. The brace will straighten everything out and then he’ll be fine,” he would lecture, “This scholarship is the best chance we have of my getting a good job. I’m not about to let my family down just because you can’t cope with a little crying!”
John could almost convince himself but he knew it was mostly an excuse, an excuse to have his privacy, an excuse to have his thoughts to himself for those hours away from home.
It was the middle of October when Emily called John on his mobile. “It’s six o’clock John, where the Hell are you? You should have been home three hours ago! I’ve slept half an hour in three fucking days! I’ve been trapped with your crying son since ten a.m. yesterday; I’ve got to get out!”
“Pull yourself together Emily, woman have been raising children since the beginning of mankind so you damn well start doing your job. Now I’m staying up here this weekend to give you time to think about it!” and with that John hung up on his wife.
Emily cried together with her son for an hour then she drew the curtains and smothered the child with a stuffed toy; and in the shuttered gloom of an apartment the distinct clock of a closing door penetrated the silence.
© 2011 Joel Mason all rights reserved