When It's Cold I'd Like to Die

by K. G. Laurence

  The owner smiles as he replies. "Why yes! we do have several different models of pocket pistols in stock right now young Sir! Now, depending on what you want y... wait just one moment!" he says, noticeably having cut himself off from his own train of thought before he quickly gathers himself, as once again he speaks. "Now you look somewhat familiar... you wouldn't happen to be in anyway related to J. S. Wilcock, would you?" the owner asks curiously, as he briefly scratches the top part of his balding head, the young man nods in acknowledgement, while nervously holding his hat in his hands as he compulsively spins it by the brim as he takes yet another hesitant pace forward... "Yes Sir, I would, John S. Wilcock, Jr is my name... John Willcock, Sr is my father" he says, confirming the man's suspicions with a sad tone in his voice.

  The owner slaps his thigh with his right hand. "Why I thought so! Boy, I've seen you passing this window many times up until recently! but only up close can I see such a strong resemblance to your father!" he joyously exclaims.

  John briefly take his hand off his hat, as he scratches the back of his reddened neck "...I am my fathers son, for better of worse, that is true" he says distantly. The owner puts his hands on his sides and laughs. "Why! the times I have seen you pass this window! time and time again getting even more sizable than before! My boy, you have grown into a fine figure of a man! if I do dare say so without hesitation!" he exclaims, nodding his head and laughing warmly, as he continues reminiscing. "I remember your father hoisting you up on his shoulders on Thanksgiving day parade, why that must have been nearly ten years ago if not to the day, if I recall!" the owner says enthusiastically, as he leans carefully on the brass piped edge part of the display case.

  John briefly looks outside at passing horses, and at the now waning sunlight. "Sir, I hate to press you for time however, the derringer..." Suddenly the owner seems to remember that he does, indeed, sell firearms. "Oh, why yes, of course! for self defence only I would hope!" he says partially grinning at John fondly. John nods "Yes, well, of course..." his eyes shift as they betray him, if only for a fleeting second.

  The owner stands up straight and beckons to John to come ever closer towards the displayed guns in their cabinets, all with small price tags hanging from their trigger guards. "Now, don't look so concerned, son. I mentioned it only in passing due to the fact, that as far as say hunting goes, a derringer pistol is about as well useful as a whore in the kitchen!" he says, pointing to an unseen room somewhere in the back. The owner scratches his face "Hell, nine times out of ten it'll take at least two rounds from one to put a man down, never mind keep him there!" he says convinced, seemingly having been in, or close to the situation previously. John's gaze moves toward the hard and dusty floor, before coming back to meet the owners dark blue eyes. "What about up close, to the head" he says somewhat solemnly.

  The owner puts his off-hand on his waist, and his dominant hand once again on the edge of the display case as he looks towards the ceiling. "Well, up close and personal is best, that's for sure, as for a shot the head? well, sure, I suppose... although I can't say I'd fully trust a straight shot to the forehead to finish the job with such a small caliber... y'see, bone is real dense up there.. yep, I saw something like that a few years back, a shootout in front of the saloon, things can go wrong if your shootin' from anything other than point blank range with one... but by sure it would ruin his day some, though!" the owner says, laughing before stopping to continue his retort.

  "...In all honesty, not that I would ever suggest doing something so lacking in chivalry and candour... but if, and that is a big if! IF it came down to it, then I'd say your best bet would be to take your foe by surprise, from behind, and put one in the back of his ear... If you should find yourself pertaining to such a situation that you would surely hope to never find yourself in, that is" he says, folding his arms together tightly by the end of the sentence.

  John looks genuinely quizzical "b-behind the ear?... which ear would be best Sir? ..left? ..right?" he asks genuinely. The owner stands up and belly laughs to himself "Ho-ho! It really doesn't matter which ear son!" he says shaking his head as he continues "... but, taking into account everything besides say, anything other than an act of God, then yes, that should stop him dead!" he says with stern conviction.

  "...How much?" John asks, while putting his hat back on, and patting down the side of his jacket obviously scanning for the particulars, the owner folds his arms. "Well, that depends on what you want. See, I have this fine nickel-plated pair here for just $15 and..." John abruptly cuts him off. "I'll only be needing one, and your cheapest at that, please" he says, as he nods in self confirmation, the owners eyes quickly roll half-way round the inside of his head. "...I see, on a shoestring, are we? Well, alright, the cheapest single pocket pistol I have is... this one, here $7" he says pointing. John doesn't even look. "Done" he says, already totally convinced, most likely due to the price.

  The owner laughs at the ease of the sale "Very good, son! so, do you want the appropriate cartridges with that too?" John cautiously straightens his hat. "Certainly, how much?" John asks, the owner looks to the ceiling and scratches his face with a rigid right index finger "for this particular pocket pistol? er, that's .41 Short, so that is... 35 cents a box" John nods "I'll take one" says John. The owner begins to walk away "one box it is..." he says, while moving away. "No" John says in return, "I meant one round" he says adamantly, before he continues talking, practically speaking to the back of the owners head, the owner turns around confused "One round? But why, the gun itself holds two." giving a puzzled look straight at John.

  John straightens himself up. "Why, Mr... uh?" the owner points straight to the window, and then the door "Herbert. It's on the window, and above the door" he says proudly. John looks at the window, and then turns around with conviction in his eyes. "Why, now Mr Herbert, while you may know my father, or of my father... if that is true, then you should also know that my father is a very prudent man." The owner pulls his hand down over his mouth. "I... Sure, that he is..." he says, remembering.

  John continues "...and as I have already said, I am certainly my father's son, and as such, I do admit to ...lacking some of his, shall we say greater virtues, however, I can say for sure, that I am not a capricious man, and that I share just enough of my fathers... conservative nature, that I am completely and utterly sure, in fact convinced even, that I will only ever need one-round in my two-round derringer pistol... Sir."

  The owner is taken a back by the strange assuredness of the young man. "Well... if you insist so, persistently about such a thing... I suppose I can throw in a single round for free, let me... let me break into a box here." he says walking over to the ammunition cabinet.

  "Thank you." John says, as the owner walks away.

  As John leaves the store, he counts out his change just as the wind blows dust across the street, he places the small, newly bought pistol and his change in his jacket pocket inconspicuously, as he slowly, and assuredly walks away on the only road leaving town.

  A short while later, John settles at a nearby creek, the clear blue water carelessly babbling down the stream. John checks his pocket watch. It's nearly five o' clock, he looks around, and back at the town about a half-mile in the distance, he turns back and looks further down at the running water sparkling... and edging ever closer to the setting sun, it's rushing, he's thinking... possibly about the sound of the water, and that it surely wouldn't be enough to muffle a gunshot to anyone nearby, however, at that, he suddenly remembers that he doesn't care... as it would no longer be any of his concern anyway.

  John sits on a nearby embedded rock that is set in the partially wet dirt, right at the bank of the creek. He stares into the cold running water for a while... a few minutes later, he begins to run his hands up and down his face one, two, three... four times. John takes off his hat and carefully lays it beside him. He opens his jacket pocket with his left hand, and reaches inside with his right, as he pulls out his newly purchased derringer pistol.. its small
size throws him off for a second, realising what it could do. He looks at it with fear, trepidation, and then with marginal anger and disgust. Its brand new mirror-polished sheen barely showing off the heavily distorted reflection of his face.

  He break's open the gun, and pulls the single round out of its top chamber with his left hand, he looks at it... it's live, it should do the job.. It will. John puts the cartridge back, as he closes the gun and stares at his warped reflection once again, briefly, if only for a few more seconds, then John cocks the gun with his right thumb, just as it rests in his right hand... then he puts it behind the top of his right ear.

  ...He closes his eyes tightly, and braces himself for the noise? The unknown? The blackness... He pulls the trigger *click* ...Nothing happened? John opens his eyes, confused, he looks at the gun angrily, and with even more confusion, he goes through the routine again, he cocks it, puts it behind his ear, shuts his eyes *click* and once again... nothing. John opens the gun, checks the round, puts it into the other chamber, closes his eyes as he again cocks it and pulls the trigger *click* ....Again. Nothing.

  John is pissed off, he takes out the bullet and puts it in his pocket as he he angrily stomps his way back towards town.

  The store bell rings, harder, and more erratic than the first time. "We're closing..." the owner says, as if by reflex as he's bending over, while looking into the lower-regions of the brass and glass display cabinet, completely ignoring the door. "Sir, I came for a refund!" John says, with barely suppressed bellowing anger under his voice. The owner looks up. "Why, it's you John Jr... wait, what's that I heard? a refund? ...why, may I ask?" he says has he stands to attention.

  John wipes his red face with his jacket sleeve, wiping away some of the encrusted dirt and dust from his forehead. "Why?! well, because, my good Sir! the pocket pistol I purchased from you not one hour ago! does not seem to particularly fire... which, excuse me if I do say so, is the EXACT damn thing it was made to do!"

  The owner looks genuinely surprised. "Well, Sir, I sincerely apologise if your purchase is unsatisfactory... however, there is no need for harsh language! why don't you bring it over here, and let me take a look at it?" he says beckoning to John to come over with his right hand.

  ".....Hmm? Yep, it looks fine, nothing noticeably broken" he says, laying the new derringer pistol down onto the counter, John is still leaning halfway on the display case. "...Then if I may ask sir, why did it not fire?" he says confused.

  The owner has an idea "do you still have the cartridge?" he asks John curiously. John nods putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket "I do... here" he says, as he hands it uncaringly to the owner, the owner takes a close, careful look at the cartridge "yep, it's as I thought, it's a dud, failure to fire probably, it might be the primer, although it could be the powder, we've had a bad batch lately. It happens" he says, shrugging and carefully putting the bullet on the counter, standing it upright.

  John picks up his pistol and looks carefully at it. "You mean... that there's nothing wrong with the gun?" the owner nods in acknowledgement. "Yep, nothing wrong with the gun" he says convinced.

  John puts the gun back onto the counter. "Well, I suppose I should apologise Sir, especially for my earlier manners... or lack of them" he says genuinely. The owner goes back to nonchalantly leaning on the case. "Oh, it's no trouble there, John, these things do happen" he says in a matter of fact way, John seemingly understands. "Of course, however... could I trouble you for a few more rounds of ammunition? more than one, this time" he asks nervously.

  The owner nods as he makes his way to the ammo cabinet, about half the way there, he stops. "Sure, no pro... wait just one moment... if I may be so bold as to ask you what you may have been trying to shoot, first?" turning around, now looking John directly in the eye. John attempts to grasp his hat from his head, it isn't there, he answers "I-I think that may be... *ahem* ...that is none of of your concern..." Hearing this, the owner walks back to his usual place behind the case.

  "None of my concern?! Son, if you're going to want me to sell you ammunition for a firearm that I already sold to you in MY establishment! you would best be armed with the knowledge that it certainly is of my concern! Why, if the Marshall found you doing... whatever it is your trying to do! and with one of my guns, no less! So what is it?! you plannin' on robbin'?! or killin' someone, maybe? is that it?!" he shouts, for a time, while randomly and forcefully gesturing all over the place with his hands.

  John backs away slightly "Mr Herbert, please, calm down!" as he tries to implore the store owner, however the owner is still enraged. "I will not be told to "CALM DOWN!! in my own god-damn store! ..and by a fellow who is barely old enough to to grow facial hair no less! Why I should..." he says thrusting his closed fist towards John.

  John stares directly at his shoes "....It was for myself, Sir. I was... planning on doing myself in" he says, dejectedly.

  The owner stops himself midway through his ranting. "What?!... why?" he asks with complete and utter surprise in his voice. John shrugs "I, I just, wanted... No, it does not matter.. but to be sure, Sir, honestly, I am over that now... I have seen the error of my ways! I now do not wish to end my own life!" he finishes his speech by looking the owner square in the eye, while the owner is briefly distracted by the passing horses quickly trotting just outside the store window. "Well, that is good to hear, I suppose... but I really should be contacting your father concerning this incident..." he says, as he assuredly turns back to John.

  John waves his hands madly at the owner, and in relative anguish. "NO! PLEASE! ...I mean.. no, because... it, it's simply is not that necessary! besides, he's away! from the farm, right now... but I can take him a message, if, if you want!" he says, practically staring a hole through the owner, while putting both his palms flat on the display case. The owner folds his arms firmly. "Son, do I look like I was born yesterday to you?" John violently shakes his head. "N-No! b, but I'm serious. Sir! a letter! ...you could write him one! right now! and you have my word that I would deliver it!" John genuinely implores, the owner seemingly disagrees "...I don't think that's a very good idea now, do you?" he says, with his arms still folded.

  John looks down at his gun "w, what about my derringer?" he asks, the owner seems to have his arms permanently fixed together "...what about it? I'll be taking it back, that's for sure." he says sternly. John stares at the pistol before looking back at the man "will... I... be refunded?" he asks softly, the owner shakes his head "fully? no, you'll be given half what you paid... it is still considered used, after all" he explains. John stands still he is taken aback "b, but it didn't fire!" he exclaims passionately.

  The owner begins to walk around the counter. "Wait here while I fetch the Marshall, son..." "No!" John says sternly, he slams his fist on the edge of the counter, the loud vibration sounding like it nearly cracked the glass, as he blankly and angrily stares at the owner, his eyes following his every step... the owner walks back behind the counter to where he first began his brief journey. "Hey! watch the gla... Wait... What did you just say? " he asks looking John right back in the eyes, still unsure of what he had heard.

  John begins stiltedly laughing... He walks over to the far corner of the room and crouches, clasping both his hands behind his head while facing the wall, then suddenly, he stands up, and begins pacing the room... backwards and forwards, while violently gesturing and talking to himself manically "No! I said! No "Sir!" NO! Hahahahaha! I will not "wait here" while you bring the Marshall! and I will not "wait here" while you bring my father!" he says frantically, while still pacing. The owner shouts his ultimatum towards John. "...NO?! Let me tell you somethin' boy, I don't know what you're plannin' but you'll be either waitin' here for the Marshall with breath in your body, or you'll be waitin' here stone-cold dead!" he strongly and assuredly exclaims. John silently stares the owner in the eyes with a terrifying blank look on his face... the temperature of the room seem to drop drastically for a brief second before John looks ahead, and slowly-walks toward
s the door before continuing to laugh unhinged.

  Suddenly the owner springs a large double-barrelled shotgun from behind the counter. "Stop right there, boy! I've got a ten-gauge coach pointed at your spine, you're not leaving!" he says convinced, iron-in-hand, and within his very own words, the owner continues to point the shotgun rigidly at John's back.

  The store bell rings.

  Unfazed, John turns around to look the man in the eyes briefly, the door still in his hand. "I do not answer to you, fool! I answer only to my father!" he says, as he turns back round, and calmly walks out of the store, the bell gently rings as the door closes behind him, as John steps into the street outside. "...Dammit!" the owner exclaims as he runs around the counter towards the door.

  Outside, John stands in the middle of the street as several horses pass by, and one or two people start to gather round to hear what the strange man beckoning to them in the middle of the street has to say, the owner only briefly looks at John, while instead choosing to run down the street towards the Marshall's office, with shotgun still in hand.