silver hammer of the pistol. Then, he removed the gun from its holster, perfectly grabbing the handle of the weapon and yanking it up towards him, moving his elbow back and pulling the trigger all in one swift move. As a boy, Darvy McCoy would hike the narrow dirt trail behind his cabin, ascending up the nearby hill, which seems mountainous to youth; and collect sticks to then be used as pretend ri es. Hours alone at his makeshift range eventually shaped Darvy into a marksman. His cabin sat at Mt. Redsokket, and the dried grass and dirt, paired with the lea ess trees, exposed the shanty from all sides and could be seen from in the valley below. Running down the trail, Darvy carried his stick like it was his own ri e. He gripped the sanded-down wood of the stick and brought the butt up to his head, looking down the branch, using the protruding splints of wood as iron sights. "Bang!" he yelled out. "Darvy, get over here boy!" A burly man stepped out of the cabin. His thin hair dangled down to his shoulders, and you could see his scalp through the sparsely planted follicles. His eyes were sunken in, and wrinkles accumulated at the corners and continued down to his cheeks, making his face seem saggy and tired. He had a small head, though, and the gray beard he grew out extended from his unkempt sideburns, failing to hide his shallow jawline and chin. "Darvy!" "Yes, father?" He dropped his stick quickly, and his feet moved soon over the dusty trail once more, kicking up dirt that caught the golden sunlight. The man extended his large hand down to his shoulder of Darvy as he walked by, grabbing it rmly and throwing the boy o his balance. "We told you about that trail, didn't we?" the man asked. His grip tightened, and his other hand came down from above and struck Darvy in the face, spinning him around and sending him down on his bottom. The familiar feeling of the burning sting on his face became a reminder of his father, his strikes were almost recognizable by now, and only his tears soothed the ames on his soft cheek. The childhood nights spent either outside among the trees or inside his one-room shack shaped him into an independent boy, yet each time the door to the cabin ew open and his father stepped through, there always came fear. A coonskin cap hid his face, so only his raggedy gray hair and beard came out from under the shadows of his hat. "Darvy, where are you boy, come here!" he slurred. Growing louder, his father's footsteps shook the windows. His blue eyes locked onto his sons.
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He saw the boy in the corner, crying, holding his knees with his head down. Approaching closer, he
