Twisted Desert – #1

We used to live in Old Rosemary — one of the biggest towns in the state back then. Pops was a gunslinger. During his early days, he fell in love with his boss’s daughter — she became Momma. 

Now Pops was always the macho man, in and out of the house, so I never really had the guts to even be around him. That left me with Momma — day and night. Out of all the boys in Old Rosemary, I was probably the only one who was closer to his Momma than his Pops. I remember breaking poor Robin’s nose once for calling me ‘Momma’s girl’. 

I never really knew what Pops was doing as a gunslinger. It always got my curiosity up and rising. All I knew was that he was the part of an outlaw gang run by Momma’s Pops: Big Pops. 

Now I rarely got to see Big Pops. All that I remember of him was two instances: my fifth birthday and his funeral. He was a man with a lot of paper. He kept sending me things — fancy things. 

After Big Pops checked out, Pops was the unanimous leader of the gang. He was seldom around — becoming the leader made him even more rare to see. Used to travel to more than five towns a month, Pops. But I never knew what he did there. He was clever to not let me know. And I never understood why, until I myself step foot into the business.

That was all I knew about Pops. And before I could try to get to know more — he died.

The Pub (1894)

It had been an year since Pops bit the dust in a gunfight. And ever since, me and Momma were seen as worthless scumbags, without a man of the household. We shuffled houses every night — no one was willing to give us even a room for more than a day. Folks used to be scared of us too. Family of a gunslinger after all.

Momma did small jobs around the town to keep us going. She made it a point for my education to never stop.

“Education is not what’s important, Daryl. Knowledge is. And in this world, the only way you can gain knowledge is through education. Remember Daryl: a man with knowledge is far more powerful than a man with everything.”

That stuck with me. Till this day.

It was on a Sunday morning, I remember. I ran out to the post office to get the mail. The post office was right beside the pub — now the pub was a place where all the gunslingers gathered. People feared it, but as a 9 year old boy, I saw nothing that scared me. Familiar faces used to roam around there — Pops’s associates. Used to keep coming home, that lot.

After grabbing the mail, I playfully ran out, through the gate, and into the main street. As I soared through the midst of the fleeting crowd around shacks, I heard my name being called out. I skidded to a stop.

“Oi, Daryl! Daryl Johnson! C’mere boy!”, shouted a gruff voice, from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Scanning the place and trying to block out the racket, I found myself ending up in the pub.

“Haha, there ‘e is. Johnson’s big boy. C’mere son”

It was Uncle Shaun, seated at the helm of The Big Table — that was the unofficial throne of all the big gunslingers. It’s top was never empty, either a pitcher of beer or a plate of steak was on it, along with the usual guns and wads of money, littered with a few gold coins here and there.

Uncle Shaun looked downright sloshed, but I didn’t give much thought to that as I was too occupied being in awe of the pub and its interiors — guns hung on hammered nails in the wall, stuffed heads of predators looking upon, albums of the greatest gunslingers to ever live — though Pops kept me away, I was too keen to let it go without a generous amount of research.

“Don’t just stand there like a stranger, boy, this is your place! Come and ‘ave a seat”, he said, waving his gun frantically.

I trotted up to the Table and took my place right beside him. He patted me on my back, so hard that I almost flew up onto the table. He started telling me the names of all the big men seated in a circle with us.

“That’s Ol’ Larry, the best gunsmith in town”, he said, pointing at an elderly man donning a worn-off denim jacket.

“Handled your Dad’s Hilbury with me own hands. Pleasure to meet you”, he said, tipping his hat and returning to his beer. Humble, I thought.

“That’s Windy Williams, the best rider Rosemary’s ever seen. Rides like the wind”, said Uncle, pointing at a young fellow in a dark brown leather jacket.

“Rode with your Dad in the Ambush of the Corks in ’76. Come by the barn some day, Mr. Daryl, and I could teach you riding like no man ever can”, he said, shaking my hand. All he had in front of him was a bowl of green salad. Well-mannered for a gunslinger, I thought.

“That’s Handy Harold, a master with explosives and ammunition. Work like clockwork, those hands”, said he, pointing at a middle aged black man covered in white overalls with black suspenders, topped off with a black bowler hat.

“I can’t say I’m a master but I get the job done. Nice meeting you”, he said, winking at the end. Charming, I thought, as he gracefully returned to his plate of half-eaten steak.

“And lastly, that’s Gunning Gregory. The only thing stopping him from going crazy with that gun is his namesake job in the law. Fit to be put in a museum, those eyes”, he said, pointing at a rough-looking man, whose face was half-covered with a scarf.

“Howdy”, he said, without even budging to look up from cleaning his gun. Mysterious, I thought.

“Go on boy, introduce yourself to these lovely gentlemen”, said Uncle Shaun, slurring his words.

“Well, most of you already know me”, I muttered, shuffling in my seat.

“We know you as the son of Jerome Johnson, the greatest gunslinger to ever live. We don’t know you as YOU. It’s a shame your mom don’t want you to follow in your Pops’ footsteps. What does that lady want you to do?? Clean dishes for the rest of your life?? Bah!”, he ranted, slamming his pitcher onto the table as a finishing.

“Momma… well, she wants me to study”, I muttered again, this time sitting up straight.

“Study?? And do what?! Live a normal life like the rest and give up yourself to the will of fate?? You’d rather jump in a well, boy!”, he said, spitting onto my face.

“Well, momm-”

“Look boy, you want to lead a meaningful life?? Then you got to do justice to your father’s death. Follow in his wake. Take his legacy forward! And for that, you need to start from now. Now! And so, in the name of Jesus, in the name of Jerome, and in the name of Rosemary”, he shouted mightily, hoisting himself up onto the table, “I give you, your father’s revolver — the one with which he left a throne to be filled. Now, it’s yours. Take it, boy!”

The revolver was right in front of my nose, shining enormously. I looked up at Uncle Shaun — he had a beckoning and proud look on his face. I looked at the others, a look of intrigue and excitement on their faces, except on the mystery man’s. I looked back at the gun. It all felt — mighty.

The euphoria of being between the people who honoured me, being in that pub, and the longing to grab that revolver — everything culminated into a moment that seemed so decisive, that I could feel the eyes looking at me.

Without my knowledge, my hand was edging closer to the revolver. And when it finally slid across its smooth exterior, the rush of adrenaline was unreal. And when I held it by the grip, the drive to pull the trigger took over me, sending me into a trance.

That one moment, that one day, that one second where I grabbed that revolver — it felt like I had discovered a long lost part of me. A part that completed me, and began my journey, to the stellar rise and equally magnificent fall, in the world of dust, horses, and guns.