NEW STORY TITLE: ANNIE FUCKING OAKLEY
Enjoy reading…
The hemi engine in the big dually truck throbbed as it flew down the highway.
The tall man driving glanced at the petite red head huddled in the passenger seat. She was rocking back and forth in obvious pain.
“Doc, will you stop for a bottle of water? I need to take two more Midol.”
“I’ll stop for the water. But, Annie, you’ve already taken eight in the last two hours. Two more won’t help. I can’t believe you forgot your medicine.”
The woman exploded in anger.
“I DID NOT FORGET THE FUCKING PILLS! I PUT THEM INTO MY SUITCASE JUST BEFORE I CLOSED IT. GODDAMN IT STRAIGHT TO HELL!”
She stopped suddenly, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
He patted her hand.
“I know. Yell at me if it helps. We’ll be home in about 40 minutes, just hold on.”
She attempted a smile.
“Sing for me Doc. You know it calms me.”
So the man she called Doc sang for her in a soft baritone voice. He sang love ballads, murder ballads, songs of cowboys, miners, fallen women, sweethearts, and outlaws until he pulled into her drive.
……………………
His real name was Will Jones, not Doc Holliday.
Her real name was Sherry Wilson, not Annie Oakley. She was married, but not to the man she called Doc.
They were members of the Rough River Rangers, a western reenactment club. They were from Rolla, a small town in the rolling hills of Missouri.
There were similar clubs in every state and many foreign countries. People joined for different reasons. Some for nostalgia of a more simple time, some for the spirit of adventure the times represented, others for the period costumes and companionship of like minded people. Some joined for the shooting, especially the black powder weapons. Most for a combination of it all.
……………………
Sherry became a member at twelve when her dad joined them up. He had always had a fondness for vintage weapons, but when he married he obliged his wife by locking his weapons in his gun safe. She was from St. Louis, a nurse who had seen too often what gunshots wounds could do to a human body. Unfortunately, when Sherry was ten her mom started feeling tired. She ignored it for a while but finally saw her doctor. Cancer. Terminal. She lasted another year.
Her dad owned an insurance company, with a string of offices across the state. Money was not an object, but he threw himself into expanding his business. Sherry was given a nanny and time alone. After six months her dad realized his mistake and started reconnecting. He never actually ignored her, he loved her dearly, but the grief clouded his judgment.
Joining the Rangers provided the bonding experience he was seeking. One of his clients remembered his fondness for shooting. He was a local judge and a board member, and invited them out to the farm.
“The Farm” was Ranger headquarters. An actual farm with 140 acres bequeathed by a founding member with the understanding that should the club dissolve the land would go to charity. With a roster of over 100 members the chances of that happening were slim indeed.
Sherry would never forget her first visit. The farm was well kept, with pastures, fields, and woods well tended. There was a full time caretaker who lived in the farmhouse and made sure everything was maintained. He lived rent free and was furnished with a truck and a small salary.
The focal point was the barn. Carefully converted over the years it now housed a full replica of a western saloon that doubled as the meeting hall. During meetings and in the presence of minors the bar was closed. On Saturday nights and adult functions alcohol was served. Members rotated bar tending duties.
Sherry and her dad visited on a Saturday afternoon. They were given a tour of the barn and treated to frosty mugs of root beer[IBC, of course. It was Missouri after all]. Petite all her life, at twelve she was only 4′ 8″, and sitting on a bar stool in a real western saloon with a mug in her hand made quite an impression. When they went out to the shooting range, every thing, EVERY THING, changed.
One of the focal points of these clubs was the shooting competitions. The best shooters would compete in districts, progress to sectionals, states, regionals, and finally nationals. These were strictly amateur events. No money changed hands[except for perhaps a gentlemanly wager], just trophies and bragging rights.
They visited at a time when practice for district meets were being held. Even with the mandatory ear plugs Sherry was impressed with how loud it was. Seeing the black powder flame out of the barrels and the smoke hang in the air fascinated her. She stayed close to her dad and the judge, as they paused from time to time to chat with the shooters. From time to time one of the shooters would offer her father a chance to fire one of the weapons. He would always accept eagerly.
They were discussing the merits of a particular rifle, a 50 caliber Hawkin reproduction, when Sherry wandered off unnoticed. Two stations down, she saw it lying on the stand. The owner was sitting at a table facing the other way, breaking down and cleaning another weapon. He noticed her, but with her small stature he took her for a much younger child and dismissed her from his thoughts. She picked it up, and having watched closely knew what to do. It was too heavy for her to hold steady with her small hands so she set the butt on the stand for better support and carefully lined up the target.
Firing had stopped or the owner would never have heard the triple click of the hammer being pulled back. He turned around and was horrified to see a child of about eight holding his Walker Colt, her face just inches away as she tried to line up the sights.
Three things happened almost instantaneously.
He screamed “NO!”
She squeezed the trigger.
The 44 caliber, six and a half pound Walker bucked backwards, her small hands not strong enough to hold it. It flew backwards, catching her between the eyes. Down she went.
Stunned, she remembered the next few minutes in bits and pieces. Lots of yelling, mostly at her. A man, talking to her, shining a light in her eyes. And everywhere she looked adults with angry eyes.
They sat her in a golf cart and took her back to the barn. Once she had an ice pack on her rapidly swelling bruise the lectures began.
The judge went first.
“Young lady, you just committed the most serious breech of rules possible on a firing range. You fired a weapon without permission into an area that was not cleared. Thank God the target setters were already done. These are weapons, child. People could have died from your carelessness. Plus, through your carelessness you were hurt. It was just luck that one of our shooters today was an EMT.”
When the judge ran down the owner of the Colt started.
“Aside from all that, it is a serious lapse of etiquette to ever touch another persons’ weapon without permission. It is an act of total disrespect, and one we don’t take lightly.”
Her father chimed in, offering apologies and withdrawing his request for membership. Sherry was crying bitterly and begging for forgiveness. Her pleas were so heartfelt and piteous she didn’t see the smiles starting to appear.
The judge looked round the room.
“How about it boys? Feel like convening a kangaroo court?”
Quickly six people, four men and two women were seated. The judge acted as both prosecutor and judge. Oddly enough, the man who owned the Colt agreed to defend her. It was short and sweet.
“Do you admit to your deeds?” said the judge severely.
She did through her sobs.
“Your witness, councilor.”
The man, who happened to be their gunsmith and went by the name Sam Colt, began.
“Judge, members of the jury, mistakes were made today. I should never have left a loaded weapon unattended. Judge, she was your guest, you should have watched her more carefully[this drew a frown from the judge]. And you young lady, should have had more respect. I think that about sums it up.”
He looked directly at the jury.
“That being said, I believe she is truly sorry and won’t repeat her mistakes.”
He paused for effect. Then he pulled a target out from under his vest.
“But most of all, we would be idiots to let a girl, who has never fired a weapon of any kind before, without any training, and can still do this, go.”