Volume 51 - No. 28
The Gunned-Down Gunfighter By Sam Lowe
One recent evening, as I watched an old Western movie on one of those channels that also advertises quick medical fixes for everything from scabies to erectile dysfunction, I painfully recalled the day I let my cowboy heroes down. It was several years ago, back when my hands were lightning fast, my gaze was steady and my eyes were steely blue. But little did I know, as I drove toward the showdown at Reata Pass, that the day would result in another entry in my personal log of “Great Unfairnesses.” This one involved a quick draw shootout against a bunch of amateurs. The Great Unfairness? I didn't win.
The importance of that declaration is that it undermines every adage, every rule and every precept ever coined about fairness, hard work and the good guys winning. The list includes such old familiars as “Practice Makes Perfect,” “As Ye Sow So Shall Ye Reap,” the eternal “All Good Things Come to He Who is Willing to Work Overtime For Brownie Points but No Extra Pay” and all those other goody-goody crocheted sayings that hang on kitchen walls. None is true. If they were, I would not have been seated dejectedly there in my office, pounding out a description of the incident on an IBM Selectric. Instead, I would be relaxing at home, watching an oscillating spotlight play off the intricate engraving etched into the “Fastest Gun at Reata Pass” trophy while hundreds of adoring fans and autograph seekers milled around me, pleading for just one more demonstration of my skill with a six shooter. But then, as now, I sat among shattered dreams, thinking of wasted years. How quick I was, back then. My guns, hand-carved from carefully selected box elder tree branches, slipped effortlessly from my holsters, handmade from the finest burlap, as I gunned down varmints, black-hatted ne'er-do-wells, bounders, cads, rustlers and even an occasional Nazi spy masquerading as an The Paper - 760.747.7119
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old cowhand from the Rio Grande. Back then, I knew not fear.
Of course, there were occasions in which an unprincipled horse thief or stage robber would get off a lucky shot and I'd be winged, but it was always the perpetrator's final act as my guns unerringly spit lead and ended his miserable existence. After sending another coward to his just rewards, I'd clench my teeth while tying a bandana across the wound, neither wincing nor surrendering to unbearable pain. I thought of those hours dedicated to developing my quick draw abilities while driving to the site at Reata Pass, an Old West saloon cleverly disguised as a restaurant. Once there, I sized up the opposition. There were eight of us, and I immediately appointed myself the favorite because the other seven looked like they'd faint over the acquisition of a blood blister.
With the extreme nonchalance that comes with self-assurance, I pulled a rolled-up beef jerky from my vest pocket, stuck it in my mouth, struck a wooden match across the seat of my blue jeans, lit the jerky, snuffed out the match barehanded and turned a steely gaze at my quivering foes. A faint smile played upon my lips. T The words to Conway Twitty's “Easy Pickin's” drifted through my head.
It was so obvious that none of them had ever defended a barn against ten thousand screaming savages, the way I had. Their attire gave them away. Not one was wearing a ten-gallon hat; one was clad in a Hawaiian shirt that wasn't even invented back when I was personally saving the Old West. I pushed my hat forward, stuck my thumbs into my belt loops, leaned up against a hitchin' post and felt mighty good. And, although I pretended not to hear them, the whispers and low murmurs spread through the gathering crowd of anxious spectators. They were factual, thus hard to ignore.
“...called him Kid Dakota...” “...hear tell he rode in from up Kensal way...” “...saw him go up against the whole Nogosek gang once...” “...faster'n greased lightnin'... “...wears his guns like he was born with 'em...”
“...doesn't slouch or chew...” Stuff like that.
A young woman walked by with her small son in tow. I raised my Stetson to mid-forehead and gently uttered, “Ma'am.” Her eyes sparkled with admiration and the little boy's jaw dropped as he listened carefully while his mother explained the virtues of eating all his vegetables and studying hard so he might end up like me. Then they called us out into the street. It was time for the showdown. We took our places. I crouched low, balanced myself on the tips of my scuffed-up cowboy boots, wiped the sweat from my palms on the faded denim of my cowboy jeans, pulled the brim of my cowboy hat low, unsnapped the wrist buttons of my cowboy shirt and twisted my cow-
boy bandana so it wouldn't flap in my face, checked the cowboy sixshooters the sponsors loaned us, placed my left hand in front of my cowboy outfit in case there was a need for quick fanning while resting my right hand lightly on the butt of my Colt .45, and grimaced my cowboy grimace. All in one motion.
With temples at full throb and hearts pumping at full throttle, we faced each other and when the signal was given, we drew and fired. The acrid smell of gunpowder seared our nostrils and the white puffs of smoke obscured our vision but we gallantly stood and blasted away while the judges determined who hit whom. It was strictly subjective since we were using blanks and none of us probably could have hit anything anyway.
The Gunned Down Gunfighter Continued on Page 2