Mario Micolucci - Damn Loot!

“No, let those four scoundrels out there scrounge for scraps. That way they won’t bother us for a while. Y’know son, if you wanna get a pack of dogs out of your hair, toss a bone at’em and wait for’em to tear each other up.” The boy had already come to that conclusion on his own, and knowingly chose not to pick the generous guest completely clean. He was getting pretty good at letting his father believe that he was the one in charge.

“Whew, I thought I messed it all up again. What do you say we take a gander at what’s in the parcel, Paw?”

“Hold your horses, boy! Take the saddle off the horse and put him in the lean-to before he shits all over the parquet.” With a shit-eating grin he spat on the floor, which was made not of parquet, but of rough cut, split, raw wood planks.

The boy did as he was told and led the animal through a back door that allowed access to the shed without having to leave the house. When he returned, he found that his father had just opened the cloth of the parcel on the table and was evaluating its contents. His eyes glistened as he surveyed the haul.

People always said that Badfinger was heartless. Oh, how wrong they were! The deep sentiment that Hugg felt about treasure was both tender and all-consuming.

The objects in the carefully obtained haul he was scanning resembled the image he had had in his mind when he first laid eyes on the package strapped to the stranger’s saddle. There was only one thing he hadn’t anticipated: the quantity. As he scanned over the banknotes, which were carefully folded and secured with a fine golden clip, he grew ever more elated. Goods like this couldn’t belong to the likes of him, let alone the baboon he just offed. That guy would have either spent the money or kept it crumpled in his breeches. The hat and boots were too prissy for him too; they clashed with the rest of his getup like a glass of milk on a saloon bartop.

“So, Paw, how’d we fare?” Damn good. Too good. Weasel knew it already, and in his gut and he was starting to get worried.

“When’re you gonna learn how to valuate a haul? You can’t figure it out on your own?” he replied, winded with excitement. “I’d wager to say the guy and his cronies have been aiming high. They must’ve cleaned out the whole family of some big shot. Look at these jewels! I never seen diamonds like this. And this little revolver? It’s got ivory and mother of pearl in it, with solid gold finish. By ginger, I’m droolin’ all over myself!” He ran his hand across his mouth and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s pretty fine, but damn near useless. It’s the kind of so-called weapon them Nancies like to carry,” he wiped some more spittle with his filthy sleeve then used it to try to shine the pistol. “It even has a backloader. Wouldn’t want to get gunpowder all over Nancy-boy's pretty little hands! Reckon its owner must’ve had it made just for him,” he continued, examining it.

“Dang, Paw, I’ve heard about ‘em before, but I’ve never seen a gun you can load in a single stroke!”

“Simmer down, kid. Backloading is a stupid invention and won’t stick around for long. If you want to shoot straight, it’s best to load the chamber yourself. Leave the toys to the babies. Way I see it, this ain’t no different than the other baubles we found in our haul. Good to get a few dollars, but not something you use to put a bullet in somebody’s behind.”

He pulled out his long-barreled gun which he kept squeezed between his pot belly and his belt. He then slammed it on the table next to the smaller one and stood up straight, as though he were introducing a prize-winning hog. “Now this is a weapon. Eats black powder like a sow and shits it out in forty-four caliber pellets! Progress advances and the world becomes more and more confusing, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: when talkin’ weapons, nothin’ shoots better than a Walker Colt and that’ll still be the case a hundred years from now. Sure as shootin’.”

The overall value of the loot was very high; much more than he had ever possessed. Because of this, the man was in a fantastic mood. After he pinched his son’s cheeks raw, he burst into a resounding laugh.

"Finn, get me my Navy." His tone became serious, pensive.

"Right away, Paw!"

Is he really doing this? thought the boy as he handed it to him in its black and shiny leather holster.

Hugg pulled out the revolver, weighed it and flipped over in his hand. Being a thirty-six caliber, it wasn’t a particularly powerful weapon, but it would do the trick. In his huge wooden palms it looked like a purse pistol.

"It’s well made. A tad small. Little more than a toy, but for a kid like you it'll do fine," he said, handing it over to his son. He did so with some reluctance. He had no intention of using it anytime soon. He could actually make a few bucks hocking it, but now that he had that spread of riches in his possession he had to have someone to watch his back. Not that he trusted the little snot much, but he was the person he was the least wary of. More than that, he was cheap labor. All in all, he had pretty much hired him with a play gun and some ammo.

Finn took the gun with gratitude. “I’ll put it to good use. I did have a great teacher after all.” His old man didn’t ever really spend much time teaching him how to use one, but he was there nearly every time his father cleaned, loaded, and shot his. Finn had always been very observant. On top of that, his father had let him practice on a rusty old Paterson he had picked off of a dead Buffalo soldier. It had a little too much play between the barrel and the cylinder, but heck, it was a gun, and for years it was the only toy he had until it finally quit on him.

“If I ever find myself backed into a corner, I want you to have my back. You'd better not forget.”

If there was anyone in the all the West with an impeccable memory it was Finn Badfinger. Even the most minute and unimportant details of people, places, and events were indelibly etched in his mind. No, his memory was anything but lacking, and he would prove it.

"I won't forget, Paw!" Weasel took the revolver, put it back in the holster and fastened the belt on his waist. Then, with a swift action, he pulled it out, pretending to point it at an invisible adversary. He threw it into the air, grabbed it again, twirled it on one finger and put it back in place in one quick movement. The award for his performance was the back of a hand square in the jaw. The boy found himself on the floor with a red, swollen cheek and a puffy lip.

"Where did you learn that buffoonery? When you pull out the gun, it's for shootin’ and when you shoot, you shoot. Period. You want to be a gunslinger or a two-penny circus act?"

Weasel looked at his feet. “Sorry, Paw.”

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it. If I catch you playin’ to the gallery again I’ll ram that toy between your cheeks and pull the trigger so fast you won’t know what hit you.” He knew from experience that his father was dead serious.

Hugg went back to the table with the haul to try to summon back the good mood he was in. Muttering under his breath, he struggled to calculate how much he could possibly get for it all. The sums he was coming up with were in the thousands of dollars. That cheered him up a bit. It became short-lived, however, when he found himself unrolling a large sheet of paper. He hated when he couldn’t understand things, and there was nothing he could understand less than a document full of writing. One thing he did know: rich and powerful folks could perform miracles by showing a piece of paper like that one. It looked official and the stamps seemed familiar, like the designs printed on banknotes. If tiny banknotes could hold so much power, maybe this big one would get him even further.