Tale of a Gun 1921

[aeons_crackshot]

"G'damn Edward, you look like death warmed over."

"I'm aware of that Tom," Edward Smithson remarked as he limped over toward Tom in an attempt to get out of the pouring rain. "I came as soon as I got the telegram in Mineola..."

"So you got the telegram? Thank God!  We weren't sure where you were, and there was a bit of a tizzy over where to send a message..."

"Tom!" Edward barked in interruption. "How is she?"  For all that a childhood bout with polio had left him with a limp that had rendered him unable to serve in the War, Edward Smithson could take on the bearing of a military commander when he felt the situation warranted it.  His expression suggested that he was going to get an answer by God, come Hell or high water.

Tom blinked in startlement a moment, "She's been sleeping most of the time, but the sawbones Jeremy scared up swears she'll be just fine once she's healed."

Edward closed his eyes a moment and sighed in relief. "Thank God.  What happened?  The telegram didn't say much..."

"Some son of a bitch didn't take kindly to finding out that Annabelle was a better shot.  Apparently, her act was drawing off his paying customers.  He'd gotten on the outside of too many bottles of gin, and decided to get rid of his competition," Tom explained as the two of them moved from canvas awning to tin roof toward the center of the area where the circus had set up camp.

"How badly was she hurt?"

"Flesh wound in the arm mostly, though the Doc thinks it might have scraped the bone.  He put her under with ether to take the bullet out.  Good thing too, the police might not have been as sympathetic if they'd heard her her cussing like that.  Don' know where she learned that kind of language," said the source of several of Annabelle's more...interesting epithets.

"Why would the police be unsympathetic?  Was the man who shot her telling tales?"

Tom's grin at Edward's questions was sharp and not entirely friendly, "Oh he won't be complaining to anyone, save God almighty or the Devil.  Annabelle put a knife through his eye at 20 yards before he got the chance to take a second shot.  The police are calling it a miracle," he concluded, with a smirk.

Edward raised an eyebrow, "I take it no one mentioned that Annabelle could throw knives for a living if she had a mind to?"

"Didn't see the point of making things...complicated." As Tom finished that last statement, the duo finally reached the tent where Annabelle was recuperating. Tom turned to Edward, "John will be glad to see you, I don't think he's slept more than a handful of hours since she was shot."

"Worry is a father's perogative.  Don't worry Tom, I'll try and convince him to let me spell him for a bit."

"Much obliged.  Me and some of the boys are going to have a look-see here abouts and make sure no one's getting any...ideas."  With that, Tom vanished into the downpour and Edward lifted the tent flap and went inside.

John Newfield looked up when Edward entered the tent and smiled when he recognized Annabelle's mentor in the art of shooting. "She'll be glad to see you Edward.  She's been sleeping most of the time, thanks to the morphine, but I suspect she'll wake up for a little in a bit."  Edward went to remove his coat, and couldn't quite hide the fact that his body wasn't responding as readily as it should.  That simple act took nearly 5 minutes, as his muscles locked up or trembled in turn. "Edward..?" John started to ask, as he stood up in startlement, gravely concerned.

"There's nothing to be done, John," Edward said quietly.  "The doctors tell me it's only a matter of time."

"Uncle Edward?" Annabelle asked, groggily, as she tried to sit up.

Edward smiled at her inquiry, "No sitting up on my account Annabelle, you might do yourself a mischief."

Annabelle's smile turned uncertain for a moment, "I wasn't armed and he shot me and I...I killed him," she said, all in a rush.

"Tom told me about what happened, " Edward said as he leaned forward to hold his honorary niece.  "It's a terrible thing that you had to do, but no matter what happens, you'll always be my little Crackshot."

"Really?" Annabelle asked as she looked up from his shoulder, which was now slightly damper than it had been.

"Always."  Edward reached under his coat, "I want to give you something," he said as a pistol came into view.

"But that was your brother's pistol!" Annabelle protested.

"Edward," Annabelle's father interrupted, "are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'd feel better if she had a weapon that was easier to carry than the rifle." Edward's face turned grim, "There might not be a kitchen knife next time."

"Next time?" Annabelle asked as her fingers traced over the letters engraved on the pistol, the name  James Smithson .

Edward's and John's faces were both sad when Edward replied, "There will always be people who hate you for being good at what you do.  If those people decide to act physically on that hatred, I want you to be protected."

Annabelle's gaze was distant for a moment as she remembered that night, "I don't ever want to feel like that again," Annabelle stated, grimly.

Edward nodded, his hands shaking slightly as he gave Annabelle his brother's pistol, his most prized possession.

Annabelle was about to remark on the trembling when she suddenly felt terribly tired. "You should rest for a while, Annabelle," her father remarked.

"I just woke up," Annabelle grumbled.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Edward promised.  With that, Annabelle nodded off.

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Several weeks later, when Edward was getting ready to go back on the road himself, Annabelle couldn't quite shake the feeling that she wouldn't see him again.  The shaking and trembling had gotten worse, though Edward refused to say anything about it. Thus, Edward got a tearful goodbye and thank you from Annabelle when he left for Oklahoma City.

  She wasn't  surprised when she got news several weeks later that Edward had chosen to leave this world on his own terms, rather than dying by inches.  The loss still hurt.