Summary: More musings from Ben.
Rating:  G    Words:  1,215

The Brandsters have included this story by this author in our project: Preserving Their Legacy. To preserve the legacy of the author, we have decided to give their work a home in the Bonanza Brand Fanfiction Library.  The author will always be the owner of this work of fanfiction, and should they wish us to remove their story, we will.

The Gun

My mind is in turmoil as I stand inside the closed front door of the house, leaning for support against the wood, my forehead resting on its cool smoothness as I struggle to catch my breath. I feel the sweat brought on by fear dampen the back of my shirt as I wonder, not for the first time, whether or not I have done the right thing and yet, in my heart, I know that I have. I have given my eldest son the means to defend himself; I have given him a gun.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s had a rifle for a long time so that we can go hunting together for food and protect our growing herd but, to my way of thinking, there’s only one kind of creature that you hunt with a hand gun, the kind with two legs.

I sat him down when I gave it to him for his birthday to pass on some words of wisdom. I had baulked at the prospect of giving him something potentially destructive as a celebratory gift and tried to persuade him to select more of his beloved books, but he was adamant about what he wanted and folks tend to learn one thing pretty quickly about my son. That is that when his mind is set one way, he’s downright stubborn. Wonder who he gets that from!

So we had our little talk. Now he’s had a mature head on young shoulders for far too long and I trust him completely. I know that he will not be reckless or foolhardy but the same cannot be said for other men, people that do not hold the same values that I have done my utmost to instil into him and his younger brothers. I am so proud of him and the way he has grown up, the way his mind works. He’s a thinker, but he also has a strong sense of what’s right and wrong and he’s not afraid to say so; to stand up for what he believes in and to help out others who can‘t help themselves. I have a feeling there’s a lot more to come from him on that score and I wouldn’t have him any other way; he wouldn’t be my Adam.

But I also know there are folks out there who do not share his integrity or his deep-seated moral code and they will be prepared to stand against him. As a parent, I want to protect him always and with my life if need be, but I cannot be with him every minute of every day and I need to make sure that he can look after himself. He has taken on more and more responsibility from me as this ranch of ours grows and we know there are those that are jealous of our success. They want what they can’t have, not realising it has taken a whole heap of blood, sweat and tears to get where we are today and it goes without saying that Adam understands, probably more than most, what it takes to defend our home, our land, our family.

He’s good with that rifle but today, when he didn’t know I was watching, I came upon him a distance from the house – careful as ever with his younger brothers out and about – and he was practising with that gun; the same way he’s been practising every day since I gave it to him and what I saw frightens me.

There’s the way that black leather gun belt hugs his slim hips like a second skin as if it were always meant to be there. And that stance! Weight distributed, a slight crouch, right arm steady and unwavering with the weapon nestled comfortably in his hand and a hit every time with the bullets that belch from the barrel. Then there’s the draw. He’s obviously been working on that too and he’s fast.

I watch as he straightens, gives a grim nod of satisfaction and walks forward to inspect and retrieve the dented tins that he has been using for target practice. They’ve flown in every direction with the force of impact and I can’t help but think of the same impact being inflicted on a man’s body. It would be like a puppet that suddenly loses its strings, the wherewithal to control its movement and all I can imagine are the flailing limbs, the explosion of agony, the blood. The face is always that of my son and I wonder if this is what I have brought him to, this is the fate to which I consigned him the moment I put the gun in his hands.

But then I think again. This is a violent land to which I have brought him and although he may have been thinking like a man for a long time now, there is no mistaking the fact that his body has now caught up and men see him in the same light. I may always think of him as my boy, but the boy has grown. I may not like it but I have to face it that there’ll probably be those who’ll want to put this precious young man to the test and I would be failing in my duty as his parent not to give him the means with which to protect himself should the need arise.

I raised him to believe in the sanctity of life and the day I gave the weapon to him, I reminded him that it is just that – a weapon, and that it’s a huge responsibility to take another man’s life, to deny him – probably in an instant – of that which we hold most dear. There’ll be consequences; there has to be, even when a man defends himself. I trust him enough to expect that he would never wantonly put himself on the wrong side of the law but I have known in my life what it is to kill a man and I have now given my boy the means to kill or be killed. I pray that I can keep him from that knowledge for as long as possible for I have no doubt that the day will come eventually and I know that the guilt will eat him up. I can’t hide him from that but I can be there for him, to love him and support him as I always have done, as I always will.

I have to show him that I trust him, even though I can’t rightly say the same for other men. Toting a gun, he now presents a challenge; without one he is easy prey and doesn’t stand a chance. It’s a no-win situation. I back away from the door and take a deep breath to calm my thumping heart and unsettled nerves. Another heartfelt prayer wends its way heavenwards that I won’t have reason to regret the day I gave my son his first gun.

I sink into the chair at my desk and stare unseeing at the papers strewn across its top. The cold fear has returned, gnawing at me as I realise my last words to the Almighty will go unanswered.