Six Shooters

He was ten when he first noticed that his favorite six-shooter didn't have a hammer.

It was Bobby Shomaker's fault, really. He'd shown up at the front door decked out in his bandanna and cowboy hat, the rim half-blocking the sharp Texas sun. He was grabbing his own hat and six-shooter even as his mother yelled upstairs for him.

The two kids ran wild for a few minutes, screaming as they tore through the lawns of their neighborhood, chasing each other to the dry stream bed they called their own.

"Lookit this, Peter," Bobby said, withdrawing the gleaming silver of the cap gun. "My parents bought it for me yesterday."

Peter solemnly accepted the weapon, his eyes widening in delight as the sun glinted off the metal. He loving caressed the simulated mother-of-pearl handle, his finger delicately tracing the stamp of "Cowboy Bob", complete with crossed lassos.

Bobby reclaimed his prize, showing Peter how to fire off caps with it. They tasted their anticipation as Bobby dry-fired it several times, hearing the sharp click of metal on metal. As the boys spent the afternoon exploding small amounts of gunpowder and frightening birds, Peter occasionally stole glances at his weapon, dingy, hammerless, and harmless in the dirt.

When Peter returned home, he went straight to his room, leaving the six-shooter abandoned on the living room floor.

He didn't talk to his parents for the rest of the night.