The armload of dried wood crashed onto the existing pile, kicking up a bit of dust and making a mellow, rattling chorus. The cowboy who’d just dumped it took a moment to push his hat back and wipe his brow with the back of his gloved hand. As he did, his eyes tracked across the endless horizon, taking in the majesty of the scene.
“That should do nicely, Bart,” said the older cowboy, as his final armload of wood joined the rest of the fuel in a pleasing thunk. “We should have plenty to keep it going through the night, I reckon.”
“Yessir, I reckon we will,” said the younger man, “as long as Teddy doesn’t throw it all in there at once, to make another one of them ‘Great White Hunter’ bonfires of his.”
“Bully!” shouted the older one, while squinting his eyes and wagging a defiant finger in the air, causing them both to laugh out loud, at the uncanny imitation.
As the chuckles slacked off, the old lawman threw his arm over the younger one’s shoulders and steered him away from the completed work. “C’mon son, let’s go try out that new .44 Special load of mine, before things get busy tonight.”
Parade prep
It was a little strange, he thought, that the sun felt so good through the blue wool of his uniform. He remembered other times when the celestial fire and hot lights had done their best to melt him in place, but today it merely filled him with a pleasant warmth, and danced off the silver shield that he proudly wore over his left breast pocket.
The crowd was already beginning to form along the parade route, which stretched from the shining gates to a spot well beyond the horizon. As he slowly paced along the edge of the golden avenue, Martin twirled the baton on the end of the leather thong like a master puppeteer making his marionette dance. A few of the old-timers that he’d met up here had taught him the art, and he was proud to carry on the tradition.
The stick caught a young boy’s attention, who seemed entranced by its perpetual motion. Martin saw the youngster and added a few special tricks to the performance, delighting the young man. He caught the spinning baton as he neared the boy, jauntily used its tip to push back his uniform cap from under the bill, and squatted down to talk to him at eye level, with a big grin on his face.
“Are you excited to see the Arrival?” he asked the young boy, in an animated voice.
“Oh Yessir! Can I try to spin it?” said the still-focused youngster, pointing at the baton.
Martin chuckled, slipped the leather thong from his wrist, and carefully threaded it onto the boy’s. The baton’s tip slowly corkscrewed into the ground as the boy traced a rough circle with his raised hand, occasionally glancing the stick’s grooved handle off his elbow or ribs on the return trip. As the nearby crowd cheered him on, Martin told him he, “looked like a veteran copper, now,” as he plunked his cap on the grinning boy’s head.
When the youngster finished, Martin collected his baton and cap, and shook the boy’s hand, wishing him a good day. He acknowledged the woman fixing the young boy’s hair with a smile, a nod, and a polite, “Ma’am,”then he turned to resume his foot beat down the edge of the shimmering parade route.
As he walked away, Martin overheard the excited boy tell his mother, “I want to be a policeman when I grow up!”
Officer Milner smiled. He’d had the same thought, down there, while playing the role of Pete Malloy. “I know what ya mean, kid,” said the reel-cop-turned-real-cop, as he got the stick spinning again.
The driver
Ned was a little nervous, as he sat behind the wheel of the idling pickup truck. It was his first Reception, and he didn’t want to goof it up.
“Now, don’ ya worry a bit, pardner,” said the short cowboy with the tall hat, as he stood with folded arms on the sill of the truck’s open driver-side window. “The ol’ boy is gonna be a little confused at first, but you just let Red and Wolf take care of the welcome speech,” he said, pointing the pipe he’d just removed from his mouth towards the rear bench seat, where a pair of restless malamutes stood with noses out the windows, and bushy tails wagging. “After that, you jus’ follow the light to the gates, an’ drop him off.”
“I can do that,” said Ned. “I’m just a little nervous because I feel like he’s been a friend forever, even though I never met him in person.”
The short cowpoke snickered. “Yep, there’s a lotta fellers who feel like that about him. Magic of the pen, ya see. But don’ worry about that. You just git him dressed, an’ drive him to the gates, an’ He will take it from there.”
Ned nodded, looking at the passenger seat one last time, to make sure the sixgun and leather were still there. Yep. All in place. A custom Ruger, chambered for a cartridge as big as his thumb, and fitted with fancy stocks, rested in a carved leather rig with the motto, “Men Who Stand in the Gap,” across the back of the belt. The matching Marlin levergun rested against the seat, and was topped with a broken-in, cattleman-style, cowboy hat that would fit his head just like he’d worn it for decades.
Ned took a deep breath, put the truck in drive, and eased on the gas pedal. As he pulled away, he could see his cowboy coach waving good luck in the mirror.
As he watched the departing truck, the mischievous cowboy put the waving hat back on his head, and yelled out, with a twinkle in his eye, “Don’ mess it up, ya city slicker, or we’ll hang ya!” He no sooner got the words out, and the clear skies rumbled with a clap of thunder, reminding the sawed-off, Idaho gunman to mind his manners.
“Sorry, Sir,” he responded.
“That’s OK, Elmer,” boomed the voice from beyond, with a hint of a chuckle.
Special specials
The workbenches in the glowing room were filled with a variety of presses, trimmers, scales and tumblers. Cabinets hovered above the benches, each perfectly labeled to identify the neatly stacked dies therein. Buckets of gray and shiny bullets rested under the benches, next to stacked cans of HGC-marked propellant. A pleasing mix of gunpowder, case lube and Hoppes aromas hung in the air.
The gent working the press had been hard at work, all day, pumping out the cartridges that he and his pal would be shooting this afternoon. He whistled a tune as he pulled the fat, shiny cartridges out of the tray where they’d been caught, and placed them into plastic cartridge boxes that had already been marked with the specifics of the load.
He chuckled out loud at the label on the hinged lid, which identified them as .44 Specials. He’d ruffled some feathers down there, once upon a time, by writing, “the .44 Special ain’t so special!” The proclamation drew howls of protest from shooters across the continent, just as his playfully devious, mustachioed editor knew it would, when he gave him the assignment. He was happy to play along of course, because it tickled him to no end to have a hand in the good-natured mischief.
Of course, the “argument” also opened the door for his pal to heroically ride in, wearing a 10-gallon, white cowboy hat, and issue a full-throated rebuttal in defense of the Finest .44, which was the other half of Editor Roy’s not-so-evil plan. When his pal (“the other Idaho gun ‘riter,” as they playfully teased him) strongly declared, “The .44 is still special,” you could almost hear the cheers of triumph, and the Battle Hymn of the Republic softly playing in the background, as he defended the honor of the grand old cartridge.
The imaginary dust-up generated lots of attention, and the trio that hatched it chuckled about it, for years to come, after that. So, yes, the .44 Special it would be, for the afternoon’s outing. They’d shoot a few thousand through sixguns and leverguns after the parade, and still have time to get back for supper, before the campfire that night.
As he stacked the cardboard boxes full of cartridges on the hand truck, he thought to himself that he was sure looking forward to the reunion, as he hadn’t seen his pal since leaving Montana. Ready to go, he brushed a few loose grains of powder off his colorful Hawaiian shirt, grabbed the steel pot helmet off the hook by the door, and wheeled the load outside, where another shooting pal was waiting to help load the truck.
The brawny fella with the sleeveless t-shirt and double-braided beard made short work of putting the load of .44s in the bed of the truck, right next to several crates of .45 ACP that would feed the M1A1 Thompson that Duke packed for them to shoot, too.
He didn’t want to disappoint John, after all.
love and peace
The math wouldn’t have made sense to anyone, down there.
It would have been impossible to fit it all into the course of a single day, but time was a dimension with no boundaries up here.
In fact, nothing came with boundaries. From one moment to the next, he’d gone from joyous reunions to wondrous introductions; From riding beams of Heavenly light with the Angels, to throwing lead downrange with his Perfect Packin’ Pistol; From parades down streets of gold, lined with the faces from almost 86 years’ worth of life down there, to friendly campfires amidst the stars, with millions of new friends that had somehow always been a part of him, even before their introduction.
The measures, restrictions, and possibilities of mortal life had no bearing here. Past, Present, and Future were meaningless. Here, it was possible to live an eternity in a moment, or a moment for eternity.
The physical treasures of mortal life were unnecessary and absent, yet meaning and joy could be experienced in their form, as He wished. The mortal vessel that carried him through more than eight decades of life down there was no longer necessary, and could no longer bind him, yet his soul still appeared in that form, at times, as he soared effortlessly across dimensions of space and time.
It was all wondrously confusing, yet powerfully calming, at the same time. He knew all of it, but knew none of it, all at once.
As John rocked in his chair on the porch, gently stroking the ears of the loving malamutes parked on either side, and letting his eyes scan across the swirling ocean of stars and mist before him, the family man and retired teacher from Idaho, turned gun ‘riter, silently wondered about it all.
His companion sensed John’s thoughts, and spoke to him. As He did, John felt, more than heard, the words.
“Welcome home, my son.”
“Thank you Father,” he said gratefully, as the chair rocked, the leather gun belt creaked, and the malamutes continued to soak up the love.
*****
May 2, 1939 – March 10, 2025
A Man Who Stood in the Gap
A tip of my Perfect Packin’ pistol to eminent “gun ‘riter” John Taffin who inspired the concept.
Thank you, Mike, for the good and fitting tribute to a good and worthy man. John Taffin was like an old friend to so many of us and he will be missed. I’m grateful for his writings and his sixgun and levergun knowledge that he shared with us for so long. He was a trusted advisor for handloading my favorite guns. Best to Mrs. DD and his family- we all knew how much he loved them. It’s a cold snowy day here, I believe I’ll strap on a .44 Special under my coat in his honor. A 4″ 624, a PPP he would say. His celebration at the campfire will be a big and joyous one!
Indeed, pal. John was a friend to all of us, even the ones who never met him in person. It’s hard to imagine how many lives he influenced, how many hearts he touched.
I’m in no rush to join that campfire, but it warms me to know it’s waiting . . . as long as I do my part, down here, and don’t stray off the path!
An absolutely beautifully written tribute. I tell my wife all the time that Heaven just wouldn’t be Heaven if it doesn’t have a range somewhere. Rest in Peace, John. As a revolver-obsessed Idaho family man and teacher (not a gun ‘riter yet) myself, I’ll do my best to try and measure up.
A tribute that Taffin would love. Once again Mike, you have written a piece that is just wonderful!
John deserved it!
I never had a chance to meet John in person, but after my dad passed, I was feeling a little sad one day, and wrote a letter to John, care of the magazine, to tell him a favorite story about my dad and his Colt. John wrote a very gracious reply, and it told me a lot about him, that he would do that. He was a good man. A family man, a teacher, a patriot, and a good role model for the rest of us.
Shot my Blackhawk Bisley .44 Special yesterday, and thought of Mr. Taffin. Thanks for all the wisdom you shared over the years, John. Rest in Peace, good sir.
Well done. This sure brought a tear to my eye just knowing that someday we will all be united at the great shooting range. What writers in any other field could bring the love and joy to a cold hunk of steel like our heroes did? Thank the Lord I had sense enough to save all the writings I could of these great men and will have them to pass on to my heirs when I join them in the beyond. Oh there just might be a few Perfect Packin’ Pistols for them to enjoy as we do for years to come.
Buck, there’s no doubt that John made these guns come alive. He gave them soul. He had a gift for that. We’re fortunate he and the others left us such a great collection of writing to enjoy for decades to come.
Well done Mike, and I’m honored my lowly name was mentioned. I put John and Duke up to that .44 Special “Ain’t so Special” article series. They both loved it and we laughed and laughed as I teased them both to keep the “rivalry” going. It all started when I was chatting with Duke on the phone one day and the .44 Special came up. I recall Duke telling me, “Roy, there isn’t really anything wrong with the .44 Special … but it’s not anymore special than a lot of other cartridges.” Then he laughed and said, “Boy, that’d get ‘em going if I wrote an article about that, wouldn’t it!?” Indeed. So I said do it.
My next call was to John and I baited him into it. “Mike says the .44 Special isn’t so special. You going to let him get away with that?”
Of course not.
And it just might have been the two articles generating the most reader mail in years!
Rest assured, they liked and respected one another, which is why we all got to have this sort of fun.
Thanks again Mike, and your story isn’t fiction at all …
Roy Huntington
P.S. While I have you, I’d like to explain Duke’s nickname. Lots of people think it’s from John Wayne, but not at all. When Duke was a cowboy wrangling horses in a national park when he was in his teens, his favorite horse was named Duke. They were always together so after a while it became Big Duke and Little Duke … then just Duke. The name stuck.
Roy, thanks for sharing that! It’s so fun to hear “the rest of the story,” as Paul Harvey would say.
Really wonderful tribute Mike! I really hope there is a camp fire and a shooting range waiting for us all. Thank you and God Bless.
Well done Mike! I miss em all. I miss em all. I am forever indebted to Jeff Quinn and JT…when those men spoke people listened and responded.
Soon those of us striving to move to that new address that is eternal will join family and friends that are already there.
I look forward to the new address.
Well done my friend!
Mike…what a Great tribute to Mr. Taffin!
Wonderful tribute. John Taffin was a gentleman and very generous with his knowledge and expertise. He will be sorely missed.
Mike, A better eulogy could not have been written. John Taffin joins a chorus of great men who have kept the revolvers in our conscious (and even subconscious) thoughts, and even expanded horizons for others. We are losing some of the great revolver advocates, and I pray for our generation of great Revolverguy writers who keep the SA-DA Revolver fires burning in hearts and minds.
Thank you Sir, appreciate the kind review. I think we’ve lost a lot of talent in the revolver sphere in the last few years, but we’ll do our part to celebrate the guns and people here.
What I liked about him, and Mike Venturino, was that they both wrote about guns as well informed hobbyists. They were having fun, and they made their readers want to have fun.
I am so thoroughly turned off by the grimacing survivalist fear your neighbors style that has taken over the gun writing world that I rarely read anything anymore (other than, of course, revolverguy).
Great tribute-
Well done. Nothing more, nothing less need be said
Thank you Sir!
Lost track.
Didn’t know.
Thanks. Well done.
Readers of John Taffin’s stories and book were, and continue to be, guaranteed of old time, common sense evaluations of what constitutes great handguns and cartridges . Obviously he preferred quality, large-bore sixguns–particularly vintage stuff–though he wrote about all types of sidearms. But revolvers were his passion.