Al straps on the odd-looking holster. He positions it, so the handle of the WAGONER CONVERSION PISTOL was directly over his belly button. He had function tested this pistol, so he was sure it worked perfectly. Al had designed this conversion to the Remington New Action Army pistol, so that it accepted the same ready-made cartridges used in the Henry repeating rifle. That made it the most powerful handgun in production, and far easier to load than the original muzzle-loading [Cap and ball.] configuration.
Al knows that Bobby always comes to town on riday evenings, to one saloon or the other; it is riday evening. He started making the rounds of the saloons. If Bobby wasn’t there, he left. After three misses he found Bobby in ’ A long thin building with the mahogany bar running down the left side, an isle in the middle, and tables on the right side. A pot belly stove was set mid-way to the back. There is Bobby, sitting at a table near the stove, with two other soldiers from the fort.
Al had never been in this saloon, but he had been in many like it. The hammered metal ceiling had once been white but was now stained to a yellow brown with tobacco smoke. There was the ever-present smell of stale dried beer and whiskey. Tobacco smoke hung down from the ceiling in a blue haze that burned his eyes.
Al walks to the bar, opposite Bobby’s table. He orders a whisky; drinks half of it, and waits, watching Bobby through the mirror behind the bar. It is his first taste of whisky in many years, but he remembers it well. Al looks down to the rough wood floor at his feet. There sits a brass spittoon. Using his foot Al scoots the spittoon away from him a few feet. His hand slips down to the pistol. He unhooks the leather thong from the hammer spur and thumbs the hammer back to full cock with a click. The muzzle protrudes from the open end of the holster that is designed to point sideways rather than downward at some angle. Al had this holster specially fabricated for this application.
Bobby notices Al staring at him in the mirror. “Well, if it ain’t, old man Wagoner. Where’s your pal, Wagoner, hiding in a hole somewhere?”
Al turns around, leans his back against the bar facing Bobby. “He sure as hell ain’t hidin’ from the likes of you, Bobby. I doubt you’ll see him hide from any man, let alone a piece of shit like you. You best leave Myla alone. She’s Jason’s fiancée now. I think she’s made it clear to you, she wants the better man.”
“You keep running your mouth old man, I’ll come over there and slap it for you.”
“Drank enough whisky yet? It appears to me, the only time you have guts enough to actually do anything is when you’re drunk.” With a grin he adds, “Of course, even then, you ain’t very, good at it, are you? Jason handled you like you was a baby.”
“Keep it up old man, and I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass, no matter how old you are.”
His voice is loud, causing a hush to settle over the room.
Tension is as thick as the smoke; everyone watching the drama unfold. Al turns to the rest of the men in the bar and says in a loud voice, “Anyone here know the difference between Bobby Kerry, and a catfish?” Al looked around the room. Everyone looked. No one said anything. “Well, one of them is a slimy, low life, bottom feedin’, scavenger.” He pauses, “The other one is a fish!”
Bobby thinks about that for a minute. When everyone in the saloon starts laughing at him, he stands up so fast his chair falls over backwards. The laughing stops, and the room again becomes quiet. “You asked for this, old man.” He starts toward Al.
Al turns his left side toward Bobby. In doing so the muzzle of the pistol protruding from its strange holster, is pointing directly at Bobby’s belly, on full cock.
Bobby keeps coming, when he gets almost to Al, the room shakes with the sound of the big .44/40 pistol. Al fires without removing the pistol from the holster.
Bobby is thrown back violently, shot in the lower part of the abdomen. He falls almost back to the pot belly stove.
Al slides the big revolver out of the holster and re-cocks it. He looks around the room. The pistol follows his eyes. He says, “Anyone here looking to back his play?” No one said a word.
Al stands there waiting for Bobby to find his tongue. inally, Bobby’s shaky hand reaches for his Colt, .44 service revolver.
Al grins, “Go on Bobby! Reach for it, you coward.”
Bobby says haltingly, “You got the drop on me.” His hand stops.
Al knows that Bobby will die from that belly shot. Maybe not right away, but for sure. He thinks, “The first part’s, done.”
Al puts the pistol back into the holster and holds his hands over his head. “There, Bobby, you got your hand on your pistol, your holster flap’s open, my hands are up in the air. If you got any guts left in you, go for it!”
Bobby pulls his pistol and shoots Al two times in the chest. Each time, Al rocks back against the bar, but he remains standing, with his hands still over his head. Bobby stops shooting, astonished that Al is still standing.
It is so quiet he can hear the sucking sound from Al’s wounds. The acrid powder smoke mixed with the indigent cigar smoke.
Al thinks, “Second parts done.” He brings his right hand down, slowly and deliberately taking the pistol from its holster.
Bobby seeing this, fired two more times into Al’s chest. Undeterred, Al empties his weapon into Bobby, taking his life with the remaining five rounds.
Barely audible, Al says, “I fold.” His knees buckle under him.
The men in the saloon stand there dumfounded. How was Al able to remain standing and finish Bobby, after taking four bullets in the chest? They wonder.
p had been passing by when he hears shots from the saloon. He waits until the shooting stops and some of the men come out, telling of the shooting. He goes in to see if he can be of help. After examining the two men he says, “There is nothing I can do here.”
While Dr. Spring is examining Al, a small, flat, wooden box falls out of Al’s inside coat pocket. Dr. Spring, recognizing it as a medical device, examines it.
A man is telling the Doctor about how Al just stood there after taking two rounds to the chest, then slowly and deliberately emptied his pistol into Bobby, before falling to the floor. Dr. Spring held up an almost empty hypodermic syringe, and the bottle labeled ‘Morphine’. He says, “I don’t think Al was feeling any pain.”