Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, in an unexpected turn even to us, we take a trip to the dusty plains of the Old West to meet a lad of some renown.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP328 - Fastest Gun in the West
Some days grew me, my hours are slumberless. Dear is the shadows I live with, I'm nonetheless. Little white flowers will never awaken you. Not where the brachultra solace taken you. Angels have no fire of evolution in you. Would they be angry if I saw to join you? Ooh, Sunday. Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 328. This evening we present, "Fastest Gun in the West," part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by the final shot saloon. A show about everything and anything that carries a six gun and wears a broad-brimmed hat. Find it all at www.finalshotsaloon.com. Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, in an unexpected turn, even to us, we take a trip to the dusty plains of the Old West to meet a lad of some renown. "Fastest Gun in the West," written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax. An audio produced by Jessica Mac. William Brazos Barton held a reputation for speed that few could match. But he had worked for it. It had started when he was eight. His father had stepped down from their wobble-wheeled cart with a pistol on his belt. A J.H. Danson brother's black powder navy revolver. And the younger Barton had fallen in love with the thing before it even finished helping unpack the supplies that crowded the wagon's bed. It had taken a month of asking, but Barton Sr. had eventually been convinced to allow the boy to inspect the weapon then attended. On a warm Saturday morning in June, his father had handed across the gun after a careful inspection to ensure it was unloaded. And the lad had immediately bundled up the leather sling to scurry into the shadows of the barn. William's hours were spent drawing and firing. And every spray of imagined bullets knocked down a line of invisible road agents. It was nearly supper when he was finally ordered away to complete a day's worth of chores in an hour's time. In the following months, his father found it increasingly convenient to allow the boy access to his fascination instead of laying aside pennies as compensation for the youth's efforts on the homestead. It was soon the case that, despite dusty wind or sweltering heat or even impending storm clouds, William could be found in the shooting gallery of his mind. Draw holster, draw holster, draw. The muscles of his arm became attenuated to little more, and his finger danced upon the trigger to the beat of empty chambered clicks. At the age of fourteen, William had been wearing the weapon, now loaded, and often used to scramble unwanted reptiles when he'd stumbled across one of the Elmore brothers, raising his voice to bother Barton while keeping his hand on his belt knife. It was late, and by the smell of whiskey on their breath, Brazos knew they had likely been, at cards, previous to his appearance. It seemed to be coming to a head as the lad approached, but even as the irate guest began to flex his wrist to retrieve his blade, the younger Barton had drawn and planted his barrel against the man's left nostril. Wordlessly, the pair had marched one forward, one backwards, to the distant gate that marked the edge of their spread. By the time they'd arrived, the drunken Elmore had swung from anger to melancholy, but William barred the entrance behind him nonetheless. It was in recounting the story that the elder Barton gave his son his nickname, for each telling would conclude on the same statement that the lad had "damned near back the bastard into the real Brazos." Still, it wasn't Gumption that made William proud. It was his speed. At seventeen, he collected three Comanches apparently fleeing long distance from the cavalry columns that rode the territory and searched their deaths with their surrender. The trio were armed with weapons that would have been familiar to grandfather Barton, but if it was good enough for the army, it was good enough for Brazos. Before they could raise their lap-bound flintlocks to scare off what they thought to be a hungry coyote, William's ego had him standing beside their fire. He did so with his palms empty and his thumbs and his belt. When the youngest of the group, likely a year Will's junior, moved to stand. The old cap-and-ball revolver found itself the quicker to rise. The single round it fired passed cleanly through the boy's left shoulder. Later, William would tell himself, and those who'd listen, that it had been his intended target. In the end, it was a lucky result for the Comanches, perhaps, as the elder two captives were able to staunch the bleeding. And a life on the reservation was a small step up from a lonely death in the dusty stretches. The story of their capture did much to bolster William's name. Two years later, when he was largely known simply as Brazos, and he'd traded his father's seemingly ancient pistols for a cult, William encountered Chauncey Miller, another man with a reputation. Chauncey was well known as a drunk and washed up Pinkerton, and it was set around most rail yard card games that he might have once held the title of Fastest Draw in the Republic. He still wore a weapon at his hip, but he often spoke loudly about how rarely he'd used it since his supposed retirement. On such occasions, his closest friends would raise a questioning brow, though they declined to argue the point. Miller hadn't been considering his notoriety as a man of pacifism or war when he'd demanded payment from Brazos. He'd been solely interested in the whiskey the victory would afford him. His sperm chin stepped towards William, was meant as intimidation, not invitation. But Barton had become proficient with just one solution. He'd fired twice before Chauncey had even cleared his leather, and the Virginians quadruply pierced hat was tumbling to the ground with a well ventilated peak, by the time the older man's carefully oiled peacemaker was brought level. Brazos didn't have the chance to make a third shot. For three tenths of a glorious second, he'd been the fastest gun in the west. It was only through misfortune that he'd happened that very day to run into the man who remained the most accurate in the same territory. Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial 3.0 Unported License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com, but be aware that they may appear in a future Flashcast. We'd also like to thank the FreeSound Project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [Music]