Gunslinger

  This book is dedicated to my son Jacob and my wife Dana for their unswerving loyalty and the many hours of assistance in refining my work. They kept me going when I got discouraged and restarted me when I stopped. I wrote this book in 2013, began to rewrite and do re-edits in November of 2017 and didn’t get it done until November 2018. It’s been a long road to haul and it wouldn’t have gotten done without them.

  I also would be remiss if I didn’t mention that my Editor Al, working professionally under the pseudonym of Pepere, just makes me look good! Thank you for your help.

  This book is a work of fiction, set in an alternate universe that looks amazingly like our own. Names, characters, businesses, persons, events, locations, livestock, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No animals were harmed in any way during the production of this novella. Printed on recycled bitmaps. Vector Illustration and Graphics courtesy www.vecteezy.com

  Copyright ©2013-2018 by Robert H. Faber

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording or other mechanical or electronic methods or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author or subsequent publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  He settled with his toe on the edge. At six foot two inches, the twenty-seven-year-old was the tallest contestant in the group. Hand poised at his hip, expectantly waiting for the buzzer, he was in a void. Everything eased into the background. The random timer activated. He moved. The smell of the powder, the cool touch of the metal, and the squeak of the leather brought a oneness to him. He looked at the machine in disbelief. He stood proud as Champion of the Kansas State Fair Cowboy Fast Draw Competition.

  A little thin for his height, Momma maintained her baby boy should be five foot, ten inches. He'd been trying to gain weight for years, but he burned whatever he ate. Although he hovered right at one eighty, his lanky frame might stand to be two hundred pounds. Fine-tuned as almost all muscle, he carried himself well. As an ex-collegiate runner, Clint leg-pressed damn near five hundred pounds, but don't ask about his bench pressing. He developed his obvious well-muscled upper body strength for speed with the six-gun.

  Clint presented himself as a good-looking guy with chestnut hair and piercing, dark chocolate eyes. His stare drilled through a person and he used it to excel in selling the product. Even the most reticent client bowed to his will despite the slight stutter. Still, his marketing genius went unrecognized by his bosses and the lack of appreciation weighed heavy on his self-image.

  Clint felt stifled at his dead-end job in the real world. At a salary of forty-seven thousand a year, he didn't have much property, as expenses continued to be way too high. His only vice turned out to be the quick draw challenge. He'd load up his '67 Chevy Impala with his gear every weekend, and head out of the city. There often were competitions within one hundred miles of home, and using the fifty something year old clunker equated to you pouring gas into the drain. The compulsion became a driving force, keeping him from going insane.

  He hoped he could see Jane 'Janie' Gibson, one of the female contestants known for being fast at the draw, not to mention easy on the eyes. Clint often was flustered and tongue-tied around good-looking women, but not with Janie. She lit a fire in him; most often when she drew her Taylor reproduction 32-20 Colt and blasted the balloon faster than any at the match.

  A typical strawberry-blonde, people considered Janie tall at a couple inches less than 6 foot. Her long silky hair cascaded across her back reaching to her buttocks, and Clint loved how it glistened in the sunlight. Her eyes shown in an unusual stunning blue which called attention to her face. They could capture a man's soul. Clint did not realize Janie held her heart for him. She made a routine of calling event organizers to see if he pre-registered for their competition so she that could be there. He was unaware that she was chasing him; he believed that he didn't have a chance with her.

  Someone could make a mistake in calling her figure hourglass. Her body is built to accommodate a gun rig. The belt ran smooth around her hips, gently grazing the top of her firm buttocks as it encircled her body. Leather ties at the bottom of the holster lovingly caressed her thigh. People noticed the slight gap between her exquisite legs as Janie stood in her usual stance at the firing line. Her waist dipped inward above the crest of her pelvis, but not too much, just enough to give the viewer the impression that she had a waist.

  Janie's shoulders were strong, and she held herself proud and erect as she walked. They needed the strength for they were the mainstay of her skill. She trained her muscles for the quick draw ... if only her breasts stayed out of the way. By necessity, two high-tension sport bras kept them under control. Her lacy, under wire reinforced bra stressed the cleavage beneath it when she dressed up to dance. A connoisseur of the female form once said that she measured either a large C or a D, but she refused to confirm his opinion. They appeared perfect on her tall, broad frame, and did not look the slightest bit out of place.

  While these attributes stirred Clint's attention, her smile got to him the most. Her sparkling white teeth, thanks to years of pain with braces and the thousands of dollars of cost to her parents, intrigued him. Clint longed to run his hot tongue over her pearlescent teeth as he kissed her. He hoped to fulfill his fantasy sometime soon.

  Clint's smooth-shaven face appeared striking in its own way. No scars marred his look, and his nose never broken in the fights with his brother. He was much more handsome than the cowboys pictured in old daguerreotype photos of the period. Little children didn’t run crying for their mothers when they saw him. Other men took him seriously when he spoke. It was the piercing, deep-set eyes. They burned clear through to Janie’s heart.

  Janie thought that they were dreamy, and she spent much of her time daydreaming of Clint. It caused her to wonder how to win her man's heart, mind, and body. She dreamed of him taking her up in those strong arms. The vibrant female fantasized that she pressed herself against him while being swept off her feet. That humdrum life as executive assistant to Mark Caldwell, CPA, left her unfulfilled. He paid well, and didn't make too many passes at her, especially when his wife turned up at the office or when she stood up and towered over him. Think Danny DeVito. She had a good ten inches on him!

  This weekend’s match was being held along with the town’s sesquicentennial celebration. They had everything: re-enactments of famous battles, a campsite, and an Indian village with dancers and more. It appeared to be a Renaissance Faire for the Old West. Clint always dressed the part, looking similar to James Arness who played the part of Matt Dillon on the TV series ‘Gunsmoke’. Clint had watched most of the shows on ‘Nick at Night’ and listened to every one of the radio shows with William Conrad playing the part of Matt, too. He looked the part with his low riding fast draw rig. He wore his weapon in the traditional style, not as most of the other contestants did with the holster high on their hip.

  Janie wore an outfit which looked authentic to most contestants. The dress gave the people a peek into the way the real Jane appeared in the Wild West Shows produced by Buffalo Bill Cody.

  She could shoot better than the real Calamity Jane, and Janie was a hell of a lot easier on the eyes. Janie's tailor-made outfit looked like the ones Doris Day wore in the movie.

  The celebration was in full swing when Clint arrived in the encampment. The campground was mostly filled several days ago, and places to pitch a camp were getting scarce. He stood at the r
egistration table, inking in the paperwork for the shootout events, when he heard the dulcet tones of a voice he recognized that had imprinted on his brain the first day he'd met her.

  “Hello, Stranger, can I buy you a drink?” The crystal-clear soprano voice startled him.

  Clint trembled a moment, his hand shook while proceeding to write without glancing up at her.

  He adopted the Rhett Butler voicing from ‘Gone With the Wind’ much like the way the other participants did. Clint responded with a slow Southern drawl. “I believe the question is a little forward for a lady. I’m assuming that you are very much a lady even if you be the infamous Calamity Jane.”

  He concluded his writing and standing tall, turned towards the sound of the voice. His heart skipped a beat as he looked into her face. Her smile shone. There she stood, six-gun on her exquisite, well-formed hip, and a rifle held like a baby in her arms. His pants grew somewhat tighter as he responded to her closeness.

  “I have a counteroffer,” he suggested, “How's about I buy you a refreshment? A real drink ... iff'n it won't offend y'all's sensibilities, that is?”

  He had already stepped into his weekend persona as a western warrior. He wore it well, and it allowed him to interact with those of the opposite sex without the usual stutter.

  ‘Oh, God, he so handsome. I wish, I wish that he would take me seriously!’ Her mind screamed as she stood there with a beaming smile. She blushed when she inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne and noticed how he looked at her like he could hear her thoughts, and the thought just turned her burner up another notch.

  She turned her most fetching smile on, her hair over one shoulder as she noticed that he favored, and she'd even put on the perfume that she thought he appreciated. She overheard him remark on it, once: Charles Revson's Ciara, his favorite fragrance. He presented his arm. She accepted it, just as a lady of the West did, with her heart throbbing. They approached the refreshment trailers.

  Clint took the lead. Oblivious to the surroundings, he let Janie direct them. He was entranced by her beauty. She veered to the other side of the midway as they made their way through the crowd. Janie spied the bar tent and her eyes glazed over as she digressed into a past that she'd never wanted to go to again.

  Janie's true father died just after she turned seven years old. Her momma, Carol, grieved for her childhood sweetheart whom she met in elementary school. She had mourned for five years before being 'rescued' by Justin Trimble, a tall and dark man with a chiseled jaw and a dimple in the center of his chin. Carol thought that she was in heaven. Everything seemed perfect.

  Trimble surprised Carol with a proposal to marry them. Janie agreed to let Justin marry Carol. It proved to be a huge mistake in less than a year. It was small things in the beginning, like a paycheck being short although he came home late due to overtime at work. Conditions worsened until Justin lost his job. He blamed it on the jealousy that his office manager held for him. In reality, the manager fired Justin for missing deadlines and his now obvious drinking problem. Home life turned almost unbearable. He became unemployable, and the drinking increased. He took out his frustration on Carol, just with words at first, but it all too soon escalated to physical abuse.

  Everything came to a head when he came home from ‘job searching’ late one night smelling of Jack Daniels, and Carol confronted him. They fought, and Carol locked the drunk out of their bedroom. Enraged, Clint beat on the sturdy oak door to no avail. The old house they lived in was a well-built older home with a craftsmanship unseen in many years. Angry and frustrated, Justin spun around in the hallway searching for something to use on the door. There was nothing nearby. The door at the end of the hall caught his attention as he looked, and he noticed that it stood somewhat ajar.

  He staggered down the hall and pushed on the door with quiet intent. It swung open without making a sound as he spied Janie on her bed. Having kicked off the covers in her sleep, the light cotton print nightgown concealed little of her now developing body. She had blossomed early and now exhibited attributes many women yearned to have. Justin crept into the bedroom and shut the door.

  A shrill scream pierced the night. Carol, in horror, knew the reason. She reached under the mattress and pulled out the Springfield XD 9mm handgun that her daddy bought her after her first husband died. He trained her to be an expert marksman with it. He even bought her the favorite T-shirt which read, “I have a beautiful daughter, a gun, a shovel, and an alibi”. Now she would have to test her resolve.

  She raced to the portal and found it locked. Knowing if she tried forcing the door, it would be useless, she faced it at an angle away from the corner of the room where Janie's bed stood. Carol pointed the gun downward, and she fired at the locked doorknob. The door splintered open...

  “Would it be a sarsaparilla for you today, my dear?” Clint asked. His words brought her back into the present.

  Clint was the 2nd son, the middle child, the one who could do no right. His older brother, Curt, gloated over the fact that his father liked him best and received preferential treatment as the first-born son.

  Siblings Curt, Clint, and Candace (Candi) lived in a modest 4 bedroom, 3 bath home in suburbia. Curt could do no wrong while Clint fell short every time. He tried hard to gain a small favor of recognition with his fast draw. Clint religiously practiced his sport. As a youth shooter, one of his parents had to be present at the shootouts. Momma always came. His father never even acknowledged the sport.

  As boys growing up, the two brothers fought together. Clint got punished if he won. They chalked it up as an exercise in character building if Curt won.

  Clint still blames his brother who at five years older, convinced his distraught father to shut the machines off after the accident. As usual, his father didn't even consider Clint in the decision making. Clint was at a special fast draw camp for teens and he'd gotten the call to come home. He was on the plane when he sensed a presence and a dire premonition of dread came over him. Clint acknowledged the presence although the seats next to him were empty. Then the tears came. There remained the 30-minute drive home after he arrived at the airport. Aunt Lucy collected him at the luggage carousel and they headed for home.

  She swiveled in her seat after a short time, “You know that your momma passed, don't you? They shut the machines off this afternoon.”

  Clint grew numb. It was like getting kicked in the balls. The intensity of the pain overwhelmed him.

  “It was 2 o'clock.” Revelation came to him in an instant. “I know. I felt her spirit next to me.”

  Heartbroken and without shame, the tears streamed down his cheeks in the darkened vehicle. He would never see her again. The funeral home collected her body and cremated it before the plane had even landed.

  Clint had only been seventeen when it happened. Clint developed the stutter soon after the funeral. It was most noticeable when talking to pretty girls at school. The teens at his school did not tease or bully him about it. The other students understood about his loss. His mom had volunteered at school many times and remained a favorite among the students. The stutter vanished as Clint emerged as a premier contestant in the sport when he took on the persona of his alter ego, The Gunslinger.

  “I beg your pardon, Madam. What was it you said?” His thoughts sprang back to the delightful task at hand. The beverage choices included several brands of sarsaparilla and the modern root beer, too. They came from a cottage industry of brewers almost identical to the microbreweries which had sprung up everywhere for the distilling of beer and other spirits. The brand names for several of them were hilarious. 'St. John's Tonic' was well liked by the crowd, but it had alcohol in it. It tasted the same as cough syrup to Clint, who had sampled the stuff.

  “There are so many kinds,” Janie complained. “I don’t know which one to choose. You choose for me.”

  “As you wish,” He replied with a smile.

  The 'Tennessee Old River Root Beer Company' offered the best tasting drink there. He paid for two
ice cold bottles, used the opener nailed to the side of the stand, and handed the icy brew to Janie. A funnel cake stand was next to the drink emporium, and he ordered one with powdered sugar and cinnamon. Her eyes gleamed at his gesture. He'd remembered how she liked them. Another wave of heat passed through her and she blushed again as the heat spread. His remembering her preferences gave her a smattering of hope. He seemed to be nowhere near as standoffish as he had been in their prior meetings.

  Janie floated on a cloud, her pink and white fringed shirt almost popping buttons as she swelled with pride as Clint escorted her around the grounds. Taking one of her leave days, she had arrived the day before and had found a prime camping spot. She gathered her courage as they progressed through the crowd and asked him if he had a camping spot yet.

  “It looks like there are more campers here today.” Janie began her inquiry. “Where are you set up?

  “I don’t know. I guess that I’ll get pot luck by getting here late. What I mean is that I’ll be lucky to find a place to put my pot.”

  Chuckling at his quip, she said “I have space at my campsite if you’d like to share. I’m sure that they will make people share. I’d rather share with someone I know, like you, maybe?”