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Father Kit Cool Gun Garth

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  1. Lucas rode his Palomino hard wanting to arrive in East Fork as soon as possible knowing that trouble was brewing at the Hammond estate. Aurora was a fine mare and could ride as hard as any stallion and he had won many a bet with others who doubted it. Her ability to maneuver as the slightess moment combined with her endurance made her the ideal ride for him. It wasn’t long before he met up with two other riders coming from town. “Halt, who goes there?” Jack shouted, watching the oncoming rider pull up on the reigns. “Lucas Clayton, well known by Marshall Utah Bob!” he exclaimed. Jack and Jacob approached the lad cautiously even though they were given a reputable introduction. “Well, I’m Jack Calder, Texas Ranger, and this here is Chief Deputy Jacob Keller, Firelands County, Colorado. What brings you this way?” Jack inquired. “It’s imperative that I deliver vital information to the Marshall,” Lucas responded in an excited voice. Jack tipped his hat, “Well, you best be on your way then, stay safe. There’s a lot of wild shoot’in going on ‘round these parts.” Each then set out on their separate tasks.
  2. Another good reason to have a concealed carry permit. This is a story of self-control and marksmanship by a brave, cool-headed woman with a small pistol against a fierce predator. Here's her story in her own words: "While walking along the edge of a pond just outside my house in the Villages, discussing a property settlement with my soon-to-be ex-husband, and other divorce issues, we were surprised by a huge 12 foot alligator which suddenly emerged from the murky water. It began charging us with its large jaws wide open. She must have been protecting her nest because she was extremely aggressive." "If I had not had my little Ruger .22 caliber pistol with me, I would not be here today! Just one shot to my estranged husband's kneecap was all it took. The gator got him easily, and I was able to escape by just waking away at a brisk pace. The amount I saved in attorney fees was really incredible, and his life insurance was also a big bonus!"
  3. With the stalls finally cleaned, Lucas headed for the bunkhouse, which was not one of the chores he cared for, especially if any of the hired hands were hanging around. They seemed to get pleasure in poking fun at him whenever they had a chance. Grabbing a broom and entering the building, no one was in sight; however, he heard voices coming from the rear. Pausing for just a moment to determine if they had heard him enter, he cautiously proceeded in their direction. Behind the door, he could hear them clearly. "I sure wish Hammond would make up his mind as to how he's planning on resolving this land issue of his!" Austin bellowed. "Me, too!" chimed Flynn. Ike offered his position as well, "I'll be danged if I'm going to hang around too much longer. Those men in town have already killed too many of us already, and I ain't gonna be next!" "I think we should all ride into town together and put an end to this, once and for all," Austin added. "This ambush idea isn't working, and the more we split up, the easiest it is to get killed or put in jail." "What about Hammond?" Flynn asked. "Forget him. Let's get with the others and see if they agree," Austin replied. Hearing them start to grab their gear, Lucas made haste for the front and quickly began sweeping. "Well look who came to clean up after us! If it isn't or little Lucas," Austin smirked, as he slapped him on the back of the head. "You missed a spot," Flynn added, pointing to a pile of trash they had left in the corner last night. "What a bunch of pigs," Lucas mumbled, under his breath. Austin quickly turned on his heals, and got right in Lucas's face, "Did I hear you say something son?" "No sir," he replied without hesitation, as if he anticipated Austin's reaction. Without saying a word, Austin leaned to his side, ever so slightly, and proceeded to spit a wad of chewing tobacco, just over Lucas's shoulder and onto the floor behind him. "Looks like you got some more cleaning up to do." The three men then exited the bunkhouse, laughing amongst themselves while heading to the corral where their horses were tied up. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lucas counted his blessings, continuing with the task at hand. A couple of hours later, having finally completed his last job of the day, he staged the broom and headed out the door for the main house. He had only gotten a few feet from the bunkhouse, when he was almost trampled by one of the last of the hired guns that Hammond had put on the payroll. Lucas only knew him as Lefty, as the others have called him, with no formal birthname, only an alias. Pulling on the reins hard, Lefty barked at Lucas, "Whoa there son, you best be getting, if you know what's good for you." Once he got his horse to a stand still, he dismounted, handing the reins to Lucas. "Take my horse to the barn and get him fed, and settled for the night. I'll need him ready first thing in the morning!" With that, he headed for the main house himself. Alas, another job for an errand boy. But not today! Lucas decided it was time to take action on his own, instead of constantly being under the thumb of others. Putting Lefty's horse in a stall and providing him with hay and water, he went to the stall where his own horse, a Palomino was housed, saddled up and headed for town to speak to the Marshall.
  4. Venus turned to Kit as they both understood the situation, and left without saying a word. Kit thought for a moment about the mornings events so far, then began to unfold the telegram that Levi had delivered. "Ranger Cool. (STOP) So good to hear from you. (STOP) As to your most recent inquiry, one Frank J. Milt has a large scar on his left cheek, and is missing a small piece of his right ear lobe. (STOP) You might also be interested in knowing that he has had several confrontations with a Linn Keller, former Yankee officer, Lawman and Preacher. (STOP) Stay safe my friend. (STOP) Sheriff York." (STOP) Pausing for a moment to let this new information soak in, he then calmly folded the telegram, placing it on the table beside the bed, and contemplated his next move. He began to feel better already.
  5. The silence in the room was broken, not by either party speaking, but by a loud banging on the door. "Mr. Kit! It's Levi, from the telegraph office. I have your telegram." As soon as Kit began to rise from the bed, Venus quickly stopped him and went for the door herself. Upon opening the door, there stood this tow-headed lad standing no more than three and a half feet tall, barefoot, with a face as red as a beet, most likely from running so hard. "Oh, Ms. Lardy! I have a telegram for Mr. Kit," he sputtered, having not yet regained his breath. "Why thank you Levi," she replied in that sweet voice of hers. "He's right here." She swung the door fully open, and stepped aside, as Levi made his entrance advancing to the bed and handing the folded document to Kit. "Shall I stay for a possible reply?" Levi politely inquired. Kit responded, "I don't believe that will be necessary, if this is what I've been expecting. Please tell your father I appreciate his sending you to deliver my message, and thank you." With that, Levi turned on his bare heels and rushed out the door and down the stairs. As Venus closed to he door, she couldn't help but laugh out loud. "That boy is as hyper as they come! He takes his job as messenger very seriously. There's not a day goes by that you won't find him running barefoot through town tackling various errands for his father and others. I've used him on several occasions with pleasant results." Kit could only chuckle to himself at the image she was delivering, causing his thoughts to go back to when he and his brother Clayton played together. "I should go," she offered. "You have business to attend to, and you'll need your rest, Doc Waite's orders." "Thank you again for bringing food and for your company," he returned with some hesitation in his voice, signaling he wished she would stay longer. Understanding that, and feeling the same, she reluctantly reached for the plate and cup she had brought earlier and as she reached for the door..
  6. Many of our long time members of SASS, here on the WIRE and in the SALOON, remember those early days when they first joined and reached that first milestone, receiving their 5-Year Pin. For those who have either just joined, or are considering joining SASS this occasion will come as well. I have enjoyed the comradery of the SALOON, and the WIRE and remember those early days. Here's to many more years to come. Thanks to all who have made this journey an enjoyable one.
  7. Frank Milt was not to be messed with, as the rage he held inside his soul could never be extinguished. He was conceived from the unlikely pairing of a Cherokee Indian mother and a loner mountain man father. Growing up was a daily dose of living an almost parent-less life as his father was constantly roaming the mountains and streams trapping beaver and the like. When he did show up it was to restock on supplies for the next trip. His mother, bless her soul, was a hard worker and the only provider for the household, which wore on her daily. Without the affection and love she so desperately needed, she resorted to seeking that comfort from others. When he was 15 years old, he ran away from home, stealing one of his father's horses and rifle to start out on his own. Without any source of income he quickly found easy pickings in robbing banks. He only worked alone, not out of necessity, but based on his distrust for anyone. By the age of 18 years old he was not only a prolific bank robber, but a murderer as well. His ability to evade capture is a testament to his wilderness upbringing. No one was immune from his anger, be it a loner on horseback out on the range, a family living out on their own, or a cowboy saying the something at the wrong time. Frank finished his meal at the SALOON, dropped the appropriate coin on the table and quietly exited the room, but stopped short on the boardwalk. Coming out of the Sheriff's office he spotted the Marshall heading across the street to the General Store. Pausing for a moment to contemplate his next move, he hastily headed toward the Sheriff's Office, stopping in front of the door, hand on the door handle, glancing one last time, then quickly entering the office. The simplicity of the office did not surprise him; however, he couldn't help noticing the collection of knifes proudly displayed in a glass showcase. Spying one he favored, he simply busted the small lock on the lid, and without hesitation picked it up, eyed it's beauty, and placed it in his coat pocket. On the wall just inside the door were several Wanted Posters, tacked to the bare wall in a haphazard manner. Blackwater, Tyrel Cody, and Cold Lake Kid among others. He was both surprised and confused that his likeness was not among those lesser known so-called criminals. He now wished that he had not tore up his Wanted Poster after shooting the preacher so he could place it on the same wall, but after thinking about it, it would explain how he could freely roam about town without fear of being recognized. Having satisfied his own curiosity, he pulled back the curtain on the front door, perused the surrounding street scene, and satisfied he would not be noticed, slipped out of the office, down the boardwalk a short distance, and across the street to his horse, still tied outside the SALOON. "Time for some fun!" he chuckled to himself, as he gave the reins a hard tug to the right, along with a hard kick to the sides of his mount and off they went, heading out of town. While in the SALOON having his meal, he had overheard a conversation between a couple of cowhands who were discussing some folks who had run into trouble several miles outside of town, due west. Frank decided this called for some investigation, or more likely, entertainment. Several miles outside of town he approached the canyon he had passed through when he first came to East Fork. Taking the high trail through the canyon, Frank found a perfect vantage point whereby he could easily see anyone passing through the canyon bottom. And he didn't have to wait long as entering the canyon was a lone rider on an Appaloosa followed by four saddled riderless horses. Pulling his spy glass from his coat pocket for a closer look, he jerked back from his prone position. "Dios mío," he exclaimed. Had he missed his mark out on the range? He was sure he had finally taken care of his nemesis, the preacher. "Preacher!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, providing his quarry with a fair chance. He quickly resumed his previous position, carefully shouldering his Sharps, taking every precaution necessary to ensure a steady shot. The lone rider had almost instantly laid down on his horse as Frank's shot rang out. Preparing for a second shot was out of the question, as the rider disappeared out of sight and onto the open range. "Another day, preacher man. Another day."
  8. Venus softly knocked on the door to Kit's room and upon hearing a "Come on in," she entered. His eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "Food! What a wonderful surprise." Realizing his poor manners, he quickly followed up with, "It's great to see you so soon. I can't express my gratitude enough for what you've done for me. Clearly a debt that I will repay someday. " Placing the plate of food on a bureau near the bed, along with the cup of coffee, she sat down on the bed next to him. "I hear Doc Waite is impressed with your recovery, and that you should be up and about within a day or two. That is great news! I'm sure you're famished, so I took the liberty of stopping by the diner to get you some breakfast." "That is so thoughtful of you. You'll make some man very happy someday," he replied, forgetting that he hadn't yet known if she was married or not. He felt embarrassed, not only in making that assumption, but the look in her eyes, and her sudden rising from the bed to retrieve his meal, told him that he had struck a nerve. The moment was awkward now as he tried to eat his breakfast, not taking stops in between to continue a conversation. He was hungry not having a decent meal since the surgery, and soon he was finished and began working on his coffee. "I've never seen a person eat so fast. For a moment there, I was afraid you were going to choke on the food," she said with a sweet chuckle. Kit apologized, not only for his eating manners, but for his earlier remark which appeared to upset her. "There's no need for that," she countered, as she took his plate and returned it to the bureau. "Most folks here in East Fork know my history, and I guess there's no reason you shouldn't know as well," she continued as she returned to her previous spot on the bed. "I'm a widow," she stated solemnly. "Married only a year, and lost my husband in the war," her eyes beginning to tear up to the point of overflowing and running down her cheeks. Without hesitation, Kit reached up with an extended finger to wipe away the tears, when she grabbed his outreached hand, and through tear soaked lips whispered, "These tears, whenever they are shed, are all I have left to remember him by. " They both remained frozen in silence.
  9. Lucas had always wanted to be a cowboy, growing up on his Uncle's ranch. He lost both his parents to cholera while in a wagon train heading to Wyoming from North Dakota. They suffered and died quickly as there was no medical attention to be had. Lucas was quickly quarantined, and survived. His mother's brother and his wife took him in, raising him since he was eight years old. Looking back now, he understood why his Uncle Clayton and Aunt Becky made him do the chores he was required to perform. Up at the crack of dawn to feed the chickens, gather their eggs. Provide hay to the horses in the barn and clean their stalls. Even milk the cows on occasion. All life lessons required to learn responsibilities. Then there was Church every Sunday regardless of the weather. Pastor Sullivan was a tall, thin rail of a man with short black hair so dark, it appeared to be painted on his head. His clothing was impeccably tidy, and he always wore a fresh cut flower on his lapel. Folks rumored it was in memory of his late wife. His fire and brimstone sermons are still etched in Lucas's memory. But the best part of his time at the ranch was learning to be a cowboy. Uncle Clay, as he called him, taught him his riding skills and how to handle a horse that makes you a team, one with each other, and knowing the next move even before the other did. Roping was next, and man that was hard. Learning the differences between a lasso which is made from stiff rope so that the noose stays open when it's thrown, and a lariat which has a small reinforced loop at one end, through which the rope passes to form a loop, and when to use each one. Combining those learned skills into roping cattle became second nature. And finally, shooting a rifle and pistol. Clayton was a shotgun messenger riding stagecoaches for Wells Fargo. He told him many tales of his adventures warding off would be robbers and Indian attacks. Although he was deadly with his Greener Double Barrel Hammer Damascus Shotgun, he favored his 1873 Winchester. He was also known to handle his sidearm, a .36 caliber 1851 Colt Navy Revolver, with the best of them. Lucas spent every available free time practicing and honing his long range rifle accuracy and his lightning fast, dead on proficiency with a revolver. Yet here he was standing with a pitchfork, about to shovel horse manure, cleaning out horse stalls. "Quit your day dream'in son! I ain't paying you to just stand there," came the loud obnoxious voice, quickly shattering his drifting thoughts. "Yes Sir, Mr. Hammond, Sir," Lucas replied in his best apologetic voice. "Well, don't just stand there, get those stalls cleaned out, and when you're through, head over to the bunkhouse and clean it up! Those no good hired hands are the messiest bunch this side of the river." And with that, headed back to the main house. All Lucas wanted at this moment was to be a real cowboy.
  10. They say time heals all wounds; however, in Kit's case, that was only half true. The loss of his wife and only child were buried in his heart for eternity, never to be healed. His gunshot wound was another story. Doc Waite had made a courtesy visit first thing this morning. Checking his wound after removing the bandages, he was pleased to report that Kit was healing faster than expected. "How's the side?", he asked. Kit hesitated before answering, as if to contemplate the corresponding response from Charlie. "Still sore. Had a rough night last night, but not as bad as it's been. Looking forward to getting back on my feet again." Charlie finished rewrapping the wound as he countered, "Don't be in such a rush that you bust my stitches!" "I'll do my best," Kit replied. With that Charlie packed up his satchel, grabbed his hat and bid good day as he left the room. As he approached the stairs, Venus was coming up with a plate full of food. "Good Morning, Charlie," she said in her soft toned voice. Grabbing the brim of his hat and nodding as he stepped aside to let her pass, "Good Morning as well, Ms. Lardy". He purposely avoided using her first name, so as to exude a professional, gentlemanly appearance. "Here to see my patient?" he added, knowing full well that was her intention. A slight blush immediately appeared on her face as she stammered, "Thought some good food would help him regain his strength." "He was definitely blessed to have you come by when you did. Most likely would have bled out." With that, they parted ways, Charlie heading back to his office, as Venus approached Kit's room and knocked softly on the door.
  11. As Kit lay restless in bed, he could now hear the shouts of various townsfolk, as they were trying to assess the current situation. "Over there at the jail!" exclaimed one person. "Someone get the Sheriff!" yelled another. The overall uproar took over the previously serene quiet of the night. Kit's thoughts went back to yesterday's events, trying to recall exactly what happened out on the range. A single shot, laying on the ground, the appearance of Venus, and then the doc's office. It all seemed a blur, as he vaguely remembered getting help to his room, but after that nothing until these shots rang out. Even with the commotion going on in town, it wasn't long before he fell back off to sleep. Frank "Flapjack" Milt had made his way back to East Fork, still gloating over his recent victory. Heading to the Saloon, he tied his horse up next to the water trough and entered through the batwing doors. Shimmying up to the bar, he pulled several loose coins from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter in a haphazard manner and grunted to the barkeep "Give me a Stone Fence and use one of your finest whiskeys, and best I don't see you water it down either, if you know what's good for you." Slim reached up to the highest shelf on the back wall, grabbing a half filled bottle of Old Kentucky, snatched a whiskey glass from the back counter, turning it right side up and filled it half full in front of the stranger so as not to deceive him. Reaching under the bar with his now free right hand, he... "Hold it right there!" Frank barked, as his right hand suddenly appeared above the bar, revolver already cocked, finger on the trigger. "You best not be reaching for no shotgun!" Slim's eyes grew wide as he froze momentarily, staring down the barrel of a Colt 45. "Just getting some ice," he replied. Frank return his gun to its holster as Slim rose holding two pieces of ice which he now placed in the whiskey glass. Turning around, he grabbed the bottle of cider on the lower shelf and proceeded to fill the remainder of the glass. A quick stir with a spoon and he slid the drink in front of Frank. Grabbing the drink, he turned toward the half-filled room and headed toward an empty table in the rear. Without turning his head, he commanded, "Now bring me one of them free lunches you're offer'in." Pulling the chair out and setting his drink on the table, he quickly scanned the room again making sure he was fully aware of his surroundings should a defensive move be called for. He then sat down, leaning the chair against the back wall, placing his hat on the table, and taking his first taste of his drink. Soon lunch was delivered with a plate of smoked herring, some rye bread, and dill pickles. "Nothing fancy," he thought, "but it's free." Without fear of being recognized, he merely relaxed and enjoyed his drink and food.
  12. In the valley of the jolly....ho..ho..ho...
  13. The sound of gunshots awoke Kit from a deep sleep. Reaching under his pillow for his revolver, he lay attentive in the bed, his room lit up by the moonlight, casting eerie shadows throughout. He knew that any attempt to quickly jump into action would not be forthcoming based on his current condition. Just as he was getting his bearings, two more shots rang out. They were coming from the direction of the jail. This time he decided to cautiously work his way to the edge of the bed, rising to a seated position. His right hand dropped his revolver on the bed as he worked his body upright, holding his left side where the doc had fixed him up. If he wasn't fully awake at this time, the sharp pain in his side made sure he was. Now seated on the edge of the bed, he had a clear view out the only window in his room, of the north side of town. In the distance he could see movement in front of the jail, but unable to determine what was happening, until the sound of a shotgun and its barrel flash caught Kit by surprise. Soon to follow was a single shot and the night became suddenly quiet. Realizing he could be of no assistance in his condition, he eased himself back onto his pillow unable to fall back to sleep, concerned for the townsfolk that may be involved in the shootings, praying for their safety.
  14. "Te tengo hijo de puta!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "I hope the buzzards chew on your sorry carcass for days," he said to himself as he lower the barrel of his Sharps rifle. His perch just below the Mesa provided him with the perfect vantage point with which to spot any rider on the road heading East out of town without spotting him. He liked that the backdrop of the mess made any rifle shot echo difficult to determine its source. On this day though it wasn't just anyone he wanted to kill , it was the preacher man. Placing the rifle in its scabbard, he took a few moments to get a swig of water from his canteen as he reveled in the moment he had been looking forward to for months. Opening his saddlebag he pulled out a faded rolled up piece of paper, holding it against his horse whilst staring at it for a time before reading it out loud, as if anyone could hear him. Glaring at the blurred image of someone who was supposed to look like him, he began to laugh. "If this is what they think I look like, they'll never find me!" "They don't even show the two inch scar on my left cheek I got when I was mauled by a mountain lion. Nor the piece of my right ear that got bit off by some miscreant by the name of Mike Stony during a brawl at a Saloon in Dodge City." "Diablos si me importa, ahora que 'El Predicator' esta muerto," he swore out loud, as he proceeded to tear the paper to shreds, tossing the pieces in the air and watching them scatter with the wind. Satisfied that his work was done, he mounted his horse and headed to town.
  15. And to carry all that... you'll need a MURSE!
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