the youth (Wild West Story)

The Gun 5

Pigsy grinned at the youth with his unwashed teeth and his breath stinking of rot. He pressed the cold iron of the pistol to the youth’s temple and he felt the hammer click back. The youth looked about him in terror. He knew that Pigsy had once been as he was, a recruit under the captain, and that the captain had done this to him and worse. He wondered if Pigsy had relished it or if he had suffered as he did now.

He thought he was about to die when Pigsy jerked him by the scruff of his neck and flung him down before him.

“Now now, son,” he said. “Don’t go wetting yourself. We’re just having us a little sport, aint we?”

The youth got up, his legs shaking. Pigsy watched him with a curious eye. He had seen many a boy crumble or plead after such a trial, but this one had stood fast.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the range.”

The youth followed him, his heart still pounding. He had faced death before, but never so close and personal. They came to the range, which was no more than a line of poles with hogs lashed to them by ropes. The hogs hung with their bellies exposed and their feet dangling. They squealed and thrashed as they awaited their doom. Behind them was a shack where the soldiers could fetch their weapons of choice.

Pigsy took the pistol from the youth and looked it over.

“This here is a Mexican contraption,” he said. “You can tell by these fancy markings they put on it. I reckon you took it off some corpse. If you say no, we might have a problem.”

The youth nodded. He had indeed taken it off a corpse, but he didn’t know what difference it made.

Pigsy gave him another pistol, this one bright and new.

“Here, take this one. It’s new and good. Sometimes the new boys get some old piece that blows up in their hands and takes their fingers with it.”

He led him to the edge of the shack and showed him how to aim at one of the hogs.

“Listen here, you little shit, if you hold it like that you’ll miss your mark and hit one of your mates. You have to hold it straight and firm, not sideways like some damn fool. And don’t let the kick knock you off your feet.”

He slapped his hand and fixed his grip.

“Now try again,” he said.

The youth did as he was told and fired again. This time he hit the hog in the belly, making it squeal louder.

“Good,” Pigsy said. “Now put that away and catch this.”

He tossed him a rifle, which the youth barely caught.

“This here is a Springfield Model 1842,” he said. “It’s a muzzle-loading percussion rifle that fires a .69 caliber ball. It has an effective range of about 200 yards and can punch through most armor at close range. It’s also heavy as hell and slow to reload.”

He showed him how to load the rifle with powder, ball, and patch, how to ram them down with the ramrod, how to prime the nipple with a percussion cap, how to cock the hammer, and how to aim with the sights.

“Remember to keep your eye on your target and your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire,” he said. “And don’t forget to clean your rifle after every use or it’ll rust and jam.”

He pointed at one of the hogs that was farther away.

“See that one? Try to hit it in the head.”

The youth raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed carefully. He squeezed the trigger and felt a loud bang and a strong kickback. He saw smoke rise from the barrel and heard a thud from the hog.

He lowered the rifle and looked at Pigsy.

“Did I hit it?” he asked.

Pigsy nodded.

“You did,” he said. “Not bad for a beginner.”

He smiled at him, not unkindly.

“You might make a soldier yet.”

They quit the range and Pigsy spoke some words of wisdom to the youth.

“Listen well, boy,” he said. “Aim true and steady, and don’t let fear rule you. In a life and death matter, you have to be quick and sure, or you’ll be a dead man. And don’t waste your shots, for you might not have another chance to live. Remember this: every time you pull the trigger, you’re either killing or dying. There’s no middle ground, no mercy, no forgiveness. You have to be ruthless and cold, or you’ll be a corpse. And don’t think that killing is easy, or that it won’t haunt you. You’ll see their faces in your dreams, you’ll hear their screams in your ears, you’ll smell their blood in your nose. You’ll carry their souls with you, until the day you die. And then you’ll face judgment, for all the lives you’ve taken. So make sure that every shot counts, and that every kill is worth it. Because there’s no turning back, once you’ve crossed that line.”

He spoke these words with a grim smile, as if he took pleasure in imparting this dark wisdom to the boy. He had seen many a boy come and go in this bloody trade, but this one had shown some promise. He had stood his ground when the hogman had put the pistol to his temple, he had followed him to the range without complaint, he had learned to shoot with some skill.

The youth nodded, taking his words to heart. He thought Pigsy was not all bad, despite his savagery and malice. He had learned him something of value, something that might spare his life someday.

It was still midday and the boy wandered the camp and saw what else there was to see. He returned to the range from time to time to hone his skills with the pistol and the rifle, feeling more at ease with each shot. He also went to the kitchen and got a loaf of bread for Alice, thinking that if he showed her some kindness she might pay him more coin.

He thought about Alice as he made his way to the medbay, where she lay abed. He wondered what she was, what she had witnessed and done. He felt a queer attraction to her, but also a distrust. She was not like the other whores he had known, whores who whom he had seen on the streets in his travels, she was cold and hard and hidden.

He drew back the curtains and saw her sleeping on one of the beds. Her face was white and gaunt, her hair black and matted, her breathing faint and ragged. She looked weak and pitiful, but he knew that she anything but. He approached and sat down on the bed beside her, facing her. He thought to rouse her, but he held back.

She moved in her sleep and opened her eyes sudden, as if haunted by some vision. She sat up and looked at him with a keen eye. She was stiff and stern as ever, showing no sign of frailty or feeling. The boy started slightly at her sudden movements, there was something about the girl that made him uneasy.

"Well?" she said sharply.

“I been trained,” he said. “I got me a rifle and a pistol now. We’re leavin by three in the mornin so you best get some sleep.”

"Don't fucking parent me," she spat. "I know what to do."

The boy did not answer her words, he had heard them often enough. Instead he placed the half loaf of bread on the table by her bed.

"Yours," he said.

He rose and left her alone. He went to the bar to get a drink and ready himself for the night and the morning after.