Warren Moore was having a hard time keeping up.
It seemed like just moments ago that he’d been at the wheel of his Toyota Camry, starting across the intersection on a fresh green light. He thought the big rig to his left on the cross street was slowing, but realized too late that the driver was slumped over the wheel and it was still coming at him.
They’d actually arrived together. Robert Wilson was his name . . . a short-haul trucker from Muskogee, with a hidden defect in his heart valve that both Robert and Warren discovered within seconds of each other. He and Warren hit it off, and they enjoyed spending the last few months together . . . or was it the last few minutes? Time seemed to have no meaning here; no start, no end. It was so confusing for a newcomer.
“You two fellers comin to the party?” asked the cowboy with the friendly smile, bushy beard and tall hat. “You best come with me, if you don’t wanna be late.”
Warren’s jaw dropped. He knew that cowboy from the magazines, and he knew the sixguns that were riding in carved leather on his hip, too. “Men Who Stand in The Gap,” read Warren, from the stampings on the wide gun belt that was threaded through the two Mexican Loop holsters. But how could . . . and where were . . . and when did . . . his conscious mind simply reeled, struggling to simultaneously ask and answer all the questions that were flooding his brain, but seemed to elude him. His mental gyro went unstable, but his feet did their job and put him in trail of the friendly cowboy and the pair of Malamutes trotting at his side.
A SMALL GATHERING
He knew this place. The shop walls lined with racks of long guns; the calendar with the scene of the hunting dogs crashing through the tall grass, ahead of the shotgunner; the coffee urn in the corner, radiating an intoxicating aroma of roasted beans that mixed with the sweet smell of Hoppes #9 that hung in the air . . .
He knew this place!
The din of voices grew as he went deeper into the small room that held millions. One voice rose above them all for a moment, a Louisiana drawl that led the assemblage through a prayer, then passed the lead off to a small cowboy with big guns on his hips, a pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth, and a twinkle in his eye.
“This here meetin’ of the Aych-Jee-See is call’ta order, an’ the first order’a bizness is ‘ta welcome allar new pals,” he said to great applause, as Warren felt a few hundred friendly pats on his shoulder and saw lots of hands shaking in the crowd, including a buncha folks around Robert, who waved back at Warren.
A TIME FOR GIVING
A few housekeeping items were swiftly dealt with—Robert wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard something about a boxcar of Bullseye and primers?—and it was announced that the gift exchange would start, henceforth.
Gift exchange? Why, of course! It’s Christmas! It was Christmas Eve when I met Robert!
The festivities began with a fella dressed in red and black plaid taking the spotlight. “My gift this year was a first pheasant for little Tommy Nelson, in Rapid City, South Dakota,” he said, to nodding approval. “He winced and closed his eyes at the last second, just before he yanked on the trigger of that old Remington,” he chuckled, “but I made a couple’a those pellets connect anyhow.”
The crowd chuckled and gave a few thumbs up, while grinning ear to ear at the thought of the young man getting his first bird on his first hunt. “I’m not sure who was more surprised,” he continued, “Tommy or his grandpa!”
That brought a collective laugh from the audience, and paved the way for the next speaker, who made his way to the campfire ring that suddenly replaced the shop scene, and left Robert struggling to catch up.
The speaker told the crowd how he blew a puff of air at just the right moment for the bullet to get the course correction it needed to break the 10-Ring of the distant rifle target. “You shoulda seen the dance he did, layin’ there on the shooting mat on his belly,” he said, to eager applause.
MORE GIFTS
The speakers continued, sharing news of the gifts they had given—of tree stand falls that were narrowly avoided, and four-point bucks that showed up in the last minutes of legal hunting after days of getting skunked, and scopes that held their zero after the rifles were accidentally dropped.
The tall, lanky gent with the Louisiana drawl who led the opening prayer told of the negligent discharge that he deflected into the workbench, instead of the shooter’s leg. “Dat ol’ boy’s sphinctah’ went fromma twelve gauge to a twelve-hunnerd gauge jus’ like dat!” he said, to the crowd’s great amusement. “Yeah, his ears are ringin’, but he’ll be more careful from now on,” he said, as millions nodded in agreement.
The father and son duo from the desert Southwest took a moment to stop tending the fire and tell of their own gift, which they’d worked on together. The pair of veteran lawmen had saved a small-town copper from certain death, when they stopped the felon’s gun from firing. The boys at the crime lab would find it hard to explain why the primer didn’t have a mark on it, despite the hammer falling at full force, explained the son, with a smile. “And to sweeten the pot,” said the father, joining in, “I made sure that cop’s flashlight landed right where it needed ta, ta knock that hombre out cold. His Stetson won’ fit right fer a while.”
SURPRISE GIFTS
The old copper from Los Angeles snickered at that, then told how he arranged to have an auction gun, with some of the grips he’d once carved, go unnoticed long enough to guarantee a retired Reno copper would get the package for a song. “Mike will sure enjoy those,” he said, “and he’ll really enjoy teasing his buddies about how they overlooked them.”
A story of a magic gun show find came next, with the speaker telling how he helped to steer a gent towards the right holster—“It’s the exact one I was looking for! The same kind I remember him using!”—for Grandpa’s old gun.
In a moment that left many around the fire shaking their head in disbelief, one fella told of his “gift for two”–the trade he’d managed to facilitate for a young tenderfoot with a fire for the latest plastic wunderpistol, and a “dumb old gun” that he’d inherited and didn’t want. “He was just gonna sell the old gun to the shop for a couple’a hundred bucks towards the new automatic, so I delayed his arrival long enough for Steve to run into him, as they both entered the store,” he explained. “When it was done, Steve got the Registered Magnum for $500 and the kid got his plastic-fantastic for just a few hundred more,” he chuckled, shrugging his shoulders.
Warren saw a fella near the campfire suddenly launch himself into orbit at the story, like a hot piece of brass had just landed down the back of his collar. “Holy Spitfire!” shouted the sawed-off cowboy with the tall hat and the pipe. “That stupid lil’ jackass is dumb enough to try milkin’ a bull!”
“ELLLMERRR!” boomed the voice from the beyond, in a kinda-friendly, yet kinda-stern admonition . . .
“Sorry Lord,” said the cowboy, quickly removing his hat and bowing his head.
ETERNAL GIFTS
As the flames receded and the embers started to dim, the members of the HGC began to drift away, each grateful that they’d had the chance to bestow their gifts on a deserving soul down there, in this season of celebration.
They also left secure in the knowledge that each of them had been the recipients of the greatest gift of all—the gift of eternal salvation, granted by a man who had no sin, but took their sins upon himself, so they could enter the Kingdom of Heaven.
The same gift waits for each of us who believe in Him.
Merry Christmas to all! May God bless you and your families during this season of great hope and joy. We look forward to seeing you next year!
*****
Featured image from https://tophinhanhdep.com/anh-thien-nhien/campfire-wallpapers/
Well done Mike. You have great talent for writing.
This story, like many you do, reminds us of the assignments given to all of us by our loving and forgiving God. He wants us all to plant seeds to bring more folks to eternal salvation.
Sometimes we forget out duty or just get lazy.
We are all Sinners. It is never too late to receive forgiveness.
We need to always be be alert for opportunities to plant seeds for our Creator.
Merry Christmas & Happy Birthday to the Lord.
Indeed, my friend. I have a long way to go, to live up to expectations, but His love is never in doubt. Merry Christmas to all!
God bless you, Mike! And thank you for the tale!
My pleasure, buddy. God bless, Merry Christmas!
Amen, and ain’t that the truth.
Merry Christmas all!
Thanks, Mike.
And God rest ye merry, gentlemen.
Godspeed in the coming year.
Those fellas at the HGC sure have been busy this year. Just this Friday I walked into a local gun store and there among the carbon fiber “sniper” rifles was an old, patina’d, 30-30 Marlin 336 from 1950, the first rifle I’d ever been able to hit anything with. The tag said $299 but they gave it to me for $275 because the salesman couldn’t see why anyone would ever want it. It won’t win any beauty contests, but my 3 year old son and I had an enjoyable afternoon cleaning it up together. I firmly believe our Lord helps us out in all aspects of our lives, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if some old Idaho gunslingers were sent to help out this young Idaho gunslinger find his newest old rifle.
Haha! I have no doubt, Andrew. Maybe its previous owner was holding it for just the right guy, who would appreciate it. You’ve got a hidden treasure there. Enjoy, and God bless!
Again, your prose strikes a chord in my heart, my eyes, and my soul Mike! Terrific!
Maybe next year there won’t be any any new members at the HGC and the fellers will just have to retell some of the same stories!!
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas my friend, and enjoy your new Regstered Magnum! 😁
Thank you also for the kind praise! I’m looking forward to another year of writing for this great audience!
Well done, Mike! It’s comforting to know that the folks we looked up to who’ve left us moved on to such a place. Maybe God actually allows the faithful around the campfire to assist pilgrims like us with the gift exchange you articulated. That’s a great thought. I belly laughed at the Almighty having to chastise Mr. Keith for his rough edges, too. Merry Christmas to all the good folks that are readers and writers here at Revolver Guy.
I sure hope it looks like that, but it’s probably even better than we can imagine. I like to think there’s room for guys like Bill and Elmer who have a devilish sense of humor, and a few rough edges, because it means there’s hope for the rest of us!
Merry Christmas, my friend, and thank you for all your wonderful contributions to RG! I love being part of the team with you, Tony, Bruce, Justin, Spencer, and all of our other wonderful writers! I’m proud of what we’ve built.
Well done Mike.
My friend Warren Moore drives a big Buick V8 sedan tho.
Wonderful story to illustrate the blessings we have in this life and how Providence benefits all believers.
Merry Christmas!
-john
Haha! Well, I hope his Buick doesn’t meet any runaway trucks soon . . .
Merry Christmas John, thanks for writing!
I am a Christian and have been since my wife drug me to services in 1973. After attending for a while and in time the Lord opened my heart so I could understand what I needed to do to put myself into a position where I could take full advantage of God’s saving grace. I obeyed the gospel in 1974 and am eternally grateful to my wife, and a very gentle and longsuffering preacher who aided in introduced me to Jesus, and His Father, and the gospel. It totally changed my life ever since. I now want just to be a humble servant of His.
The Holy Father has showed up in my life, many times, and I “knew” it could only have been Him that answered prayer and worked out things, to my advantage, for me. God takes care of His own children. God loves all and desires all to be saved.
Merry Christmas Mike and all of the folks at Revolver Guy.
Merry Christmas Sir! I’m always glad to see my old StoppingPower.net friends stop by!
Merry Christmas and a happy new year Mike
And to you, Dave! Thanks for all your contributions in the comments!
Mike,
Another superb Christmas tale. I closed my eyes and could see Elmer Keith, Skeeter and Bart Skelton, John Taffin, Mike Venturino, Bill Ruger, Sr., Jack Weaver, Jim Cirillo, Bass Reeves, and many others gathering around. I’m no writer, but I had to get my Blackhawk and my trusty old S&W M66 out just so I could hope to qualify in some day being a part of that venerated group. Somewhere in the crowd I saw a 6′ tall gentleman who went through World War II with his engraved Colt Single Action Army .45 Colt revolver in Sam Myers’ leather, reminding folks that his guns have ivory grips, that only a ‘pimp from a cheap New Orleans cat house would carry a pearl handled revolver’.
To all those who have blazed the trail for us to enjoy great guns and great cartridges, our heartfelt gratitude to them. And for those who carry the torch of blued steel (okay, stainless steel, too), revolving cylinders, custom stocks, rimmed cartridges with flat hard cast lead bullets, speed loaders and leather, I salute you all and wish everyone a safe Christmas and New Year.
To those who have never had the privilege, and fond memories, to carry six for sure from S&W, Colt, and Ruger, speed loaders (or speed strips for those pesky drop pouches) on duty and off duty, year in and year out, well, all y’all just missed out on an era the likes of which we won’t soon see again.
Fröhliche weihnachten, y’all !!
Merry Christmas my friend, and thanks for penning the perfect comment to the final story of the year! I could see those gents warming themselves by the fire, too!
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas to you, Gavin, and the rest of your family, Wade!
Merry Christmas Mike and all RevolverGuys and Gals! What a great story for this wonderful time of year.
Merry Christmas, my friend! It was wonderful to see you in October!
Nice writing! I know a few fellas, old friends, I’d like to think are around that same campfire now. With any grace, I’ll get to see them again and meet the Old Timers already there.
I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you Donald . . . but no rush!
I think someone up there held a Model 28 through the holidays for me, just long enough for me to handle it and decide it’s gonna be mine…looks awful, but somebody rode the river with it. Trigger is smooth as glass, has a beautiful set of stocks on it, and a painted sight. Thank you, whoever it was up there…maybe my Great-Uncle Bucky, who carried one for the NYSP.
Thanks Uncle Bucky! If you’ve got some spare time, maybe you could keep your eye out for a clean Model 58? 😉
Enjoy that new Highway Patrolman, Chris!