The things we experience in youth often shape the rest of our lives. When he was young, Shane McNair never could have known just how true that would be for him.

I wrote this little story just before the end of last year. It's supposed to be the first installment in a series, which I haven't quite yet decided on a name for. A synopsis can be found here:  Shane_McNair I don't know if the whole story will ever get written, since I have so many other priorities in life now, and I don't know if I'll really be motivated enough to ever continue it. Maybe someday, who knows.
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Bang!

Another .45 caliber bullet plowed into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust and missing the rusty old pail by nearly a foot.

Martin McNair’s older brother chuckled mockingly. “If that bucket was a charging Hun, you’d be stuck on the end of a bayonet right now!”

Annoyed, the young border collie leered over his shoulder at him as he stood leaning against a shady old cottonwood tree, arms crossed and smirking smugly.

“Aw, shut up Shane,” he sneered. “I’ll hit it!”

“You’ve already missed every shot, Martin,” Shane heckled him. “But hey, at least you’re doing a good job of killing the dirt!”

“Shut up already, will you?!” Martin snapped. “You’re breaking my concentration!”

Shane cocked his head back and cackled mischievously. “Okay Marty, okay…”

Martin turned his attention back to the pail. He concentrated, fixing his gaze on it intently like an old time gunslinger in one of the pulp magazines he always read – as if staring down a bad guy at high noon.

He brought the pistol back up on target; wriggling his fingers as he adjusted his grip and realigned the sights for another shot. Breathing in deeply, then exhaling, he focused his eyes on the small front sight while letting his view of the rear sight and target blur. With the pad of his finger resting on the trigger, Martin gave it one more careful and deliberate squeeze.

Bang!

The gun lurched backward in his hand from the strong recoil, and finally the bullet hit its mark, causing the pail to jump and fall over on its side. The slide locked open on the empty magazine, and a small bit of smoke drifted from the chamber. Martin’s nose again caught the sweet, burned scent of gunpowder, and looking back at Shane, he flashed a self satisfied grin.

“See? I told you. Alvin York couldn’t make a better shot than that!” he gloated.

“Yeah well, you just got lucky that time,” Shane countered indifferently. “He actually knew how to shoot a pistol.”

“Aah,” Martin groaned, waving his hand dismissively at him.

“That was a good hit, son,” came another, more mature voice from behind with a congratulating pat on the shoulder. Martin turned to face their father, meeting his gaze with an uneasy smile. “Don’t listen to your brother, he’s just funnin’ with you,” he reassured. “Pistols aren’t easy to shoot well. You just need more practice, is all.”

“Alright, my turn!” Shane declared enthusiastically, walking up to his brother. “Now give that here and I’ll show you how a professional does it.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Martin replied, rolling his eyes. He released the empty magazine into the palm of his hand and carefully handed over the gun. “Next time we do this with rifles, and we’ll see who the better shot is!” he said poking his finger in Shane’s face.

Shane couldn’t have denied that it was a legitimate challenge. Although he wasn’t great with a handgun, Martin certainly was an adept shot with a rifle. The boys had grown up at Fort D.A. Russell, Wyoming when their father was still in the regular Army. The setting was rural and game was plentiful, so from an early age they learned how to shoot and hunt everything from rabbits and pheasants to deer and pronghorn antelope. After he retired from active duty, the family settled on a small ranch just outside of Cheyenne. It was a refreshing way to start anew, with the lively notes of Reveille giving way to a rooster’s crow. The boys found even more opportunities to fish, hunt, and hone marksmanship skills, and John McNair was finally able to give his sons an idyllic and wholesome country childhood that mirrored his own.

Shane took the forty-five from his brother. As he stepped up to the firing line of their makeshift shooting range, he admired the piece’s nicely proportioned shape and clean, straight lines. It was a beautiful, even artistic thing to behold – three pounds of skillfully worked American steel with an attractive blued finish and an exquisite set of checkered walnut grips. It was well balanced and had a natural feel in the hand; and with its hefty weight, it felt like a weapon. Although the small sights were a bit difficult to see, the gun pointed so intuitively that they almost weren’t even necessary. At this point, as practiced and familiar as Shane was becoming with it, the weapon was starting to feel as though it was an extension of his arm – like something that had been custom made just to fit his grasp.

“Alright then, show us how it’s done Mister Professional,” Martin said, crossing his arms expectantly.

Shane glanced at his father. “Okay Dad, pick out some targets.”

“Alright…let’s see…” he mused, scanning the remaining targets they’d set up amidst the small cluster of old cottonwoods. Twelve yards from where they stood was an old, rotting log with three steel cans still perched on top. “Right there,” he pointed. “The cans on the log.”

Shane nodded confidently. “Okaaay…” he said, sliding a fresh magazine into the grip. His small thumb was barely able to reach the slide release, but after a second or two of fumbling he got it to slam forward into battery. Positioning himself sideways to the log, feet shoulder-width apart, Shane extended his arm outward toward the can on the left. He breathed in deeply, and then breathed out, trying to keep the sights aligned and his arm steady with both eyes open and trained on the target. He concentrated on his trigger squeeze, avoiding any jerky movement.

Bang!

The can shot backward, landing a few feet behind the log. Shane directed his aim at the next one, and repeating the same process as before, he squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

Another can down. Shane lined up the sights on the last one.

Bang!

Once again his aim was true, and the bullet tore through the can.

“Good!” Shane’s dad praised. “Now hit that bottle up there!” he said pointing to a low hanging branch in front of them.

Bang!

The round struck the bottle squarely below the neck, shattering it into a multitude of fragments. Shane turned his attention to a ragged scarecrow standing off to the right. Getting into a combat stance, knees bent and leaning forward, he extended his arm out from the raised pistol position, firing his last three shots in rapid succession. Dust and straw flew about as each bullet struck the scarecrow’s torso. The slide locked back again, and Shane blew the smoke from the chamber.

“That’s how you do it, little brother,” he said smiling at Martin, who was clearly unimpressed with his haughtiness.

“Good shooting,” his dad said approvingly. “You handle that pistol well. Just keep on practicing and before long you’ll be able to hit a running jackrabbit.”

“You really think so?” Shane asked eagerly.

“I do,” he replied. “You have the makings of a great pistol shooter. Just remember that most of your practice should be slow and repetitive so you don’t develop bad habits. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. With a little time, it’ll all become instinctive, and you’ll get faster.”

Shane smiled optimistically.

“Son, you’re old enough now, and you’ve shown that you can handle it well,” his dad said. “I want you to have this gun.”

Shane’s grin turned to a look of surprise. “Really? You mean that?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you’re ready for it now. My days of carrying it are over, and I think you can put it to better use.”

“Wow – thanks Dad!” Shane said with a smile. His eyes fell back down to the Colt Government Model automatic, then he looked back up at his father. “Dad,” he said with uncertainty. “Do you think Mom will raise a fuss about you giving me this?”

The older border collie looked back reassuringly at his son, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother’s a smart lady,” he said. “You’re fourteen years old now, and she knows just like I do that you’re becoming a man. You and your brother are at a time in your lives where you have to start taking on more responsibility and trust. It might be difficult for her to accept that her boys are growing up, but I know she’ll understand that the time is right.”

Shane’s ears drooped slightly, twitching as he listened considerately to his father’s words.

“Just remember, this pistol is a special kind of weapon, Shane. It may have more limited use than a rifle, but it has its place. Someday it could even save your life, so treat it with respect and take proper care of it. Keep learning to use it well, and most importantly of all, don’t be a fool with it.” His tone then turned somewhat harsher, as if to give strong emphasis. “And Shane, you’d better remember that it’s no small thing to take another life, so don’t you even think of ever pulling that thing on someone unless you have no other option. Do you understand?”

Somewhat submissively, Shane looked him in the eye and nodded. “Yes sir.”

He looked back down at the pistol. This gift, he knew, was no small gesture, and he understood the strong statement his father was making by giving it to him. The weapon carried with it a profound symbolism of things that his old man knew about all too well; troubling, unmentionable, and powerfully life-altering things that he carried deep within himself.

John McNair had already had a lengthy military career, and was still serving as a captain in the National Guard. Shane knew that he’d seen heavy combat when he was in France six years earlier, and that he’d been wounded in battle. The only physical evidence to give testimony of this was two small, grisly-looking scars and a Purple Heart, but there was also something more than that. John never spoke much about his part in the war, but his wife, Shane, and even Martin knew that there was something he’d been hiding from them ever since he came back. Shane couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but his dad was different when he returned home. He’d been through a lot during those two years over there, and the pistol had been there with him through all of it. Shane never brought it up, but he was sure that it had been used to kill men in the trenches, and had probably saved his dad’s life on a few occasions as well.

Shane looked back up to see his father eying him with the kind of steady sternness that commanded his attention and deference. It was the look that he always displayed when imparting one of his crucial bits of wisdom, and when trying to convey the dire importance of it.

“This is a tool that must always be used with maturity and good judgment, son. If you always remember that, then it will serve you well like it served me. Okay?”

“Okay Dad,” Shane answered. “Thank you again. This really means a lot.”

The two of them fell silent, listening to the warm summer breeze gently rustling the leaves of the cottonwoods. Together they stood, father and son, sharing in what Shane didn’t yet know would be one of the most formative moments in his young life. His father had always raised him and Martin to be fighters; bringing them up to be strong. Among the many things he taught them was how to protect themselves, with fists or weapons. He instilled in them the importance of always standing up for oneself, and of never shrinking in the face of a threat. Just the same, he had also told them to never to start fights, but only to finish them. John McNair raised his sons to abide by and hold dear the virtues of justice, self-respect, and all that was morally right.

“Someday, it could even save your life…” his fathers words echoed in his mind.

It wasn’t hard for Shane to comprehend his father’s expectations, but he couldn’t imagine that the pistol might someday save his life. He wasn’t one to question it, though. He knew that this was all for good reason. In the school of life, his old man was his teacher, preparing him for its many complexities the best way he knew how. His intentions were driven by a robust pragmatic sense and understanding of the world that had been garnered through a life of self-sufficient living, struggle against adversity, and hard lessons learned. He was a powerful force in the lives of his family, and Shane had grown up with a deep respect for him.

Shane immersed himself in the peace of that moment, looking afar and admiring the rolling, wide-open landscape as he stared off toward the mountains in the west. The midday sun soaked the earth in its warmth, and the prairie grass gently swayed in the breeze as the warbling song of the meadowlarks carried across the pastureland.

“Well,” his dad said. “I think that’s enough for today. Save whatever ammo’s left for next time. I’ve got some business to take care of in town, but I’ll be back in a short while.”

“Okay,” Shane acknowledged.

Once again, he placed his hand on Shane’s shoulder and gave him that stern look. “Take it back to the house, clean it, and put it in a safe place. And son…”

“Yes Dad?”

“You won’t forget what I said, will you?”

“No sir,” Shane answered, shaking his head.

“Good.”

He gave Shane an encouraging smile, and with that, he turned and headed back to where they’d left their horses, leaving him and Martin behind.

“No fair!” Martin griped. “How come you get a pistol and I don’t?!”

Shane looked at him and frowned. “Well hey, it’s not like one would do you any good with the way you shoot,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should let me practice with it, and I’ll get better!”

Shane chuckled again. “I don’t think so,” he said with a smile, patting Martin on the head.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that!” Martin protested. “You couldn’t shoot that thing any better than me just a year ago! I can be as good as you! Even better! Hell, I could be the best pistol shot in this whole county someday if I could just practice!”

“I’m sure you could…” Shane replied passively, strolling over to a barrel where the pistol’s wooden case sat. He placed the gun and magazines inside, then latched it closed.

“Ugghh…” Martin fussed, sulking and rolling his eyes frustratedly. “You always do this to me! You just have to hog everything, don’t you?!”

“Aw, quit your whining,” Shane answered, somewhat annoyed. “He gave it to me, and he didn’t say I had to share.”

“You know, it’s not even about the gun. It’s about how he always picks you first. You’re always first in line for everything!”

“That’s because I’m older, don’t you get that by now?” Shane countered.

Martin sighed and shook his head in exasperation.

“Just relax, I’m sure you’ll get one too someday,” Shane said, heading back to get his horse with the case and ammo boxes tucked under his arm.

Martin looked at him with a sour expression. “I’ll still outshoot you with a rifle, though. You know I will!” he asserted. “I’ll even bet money on it!”

“Okay, Martin….”

Suddenly, Shane heard a familiar sound. He stopped and perked his ears up, listening to the faint roar of aircraft engines growing louder. Turning his eyes skyward, he searched for the planes. Then, he spotted them - a flight of four Thomas-Morse MB-3As flying low and approaching from the east. The boys paused and watched them as they came nearer.

“Hey, look…Army planes,” Martin observed as the insignia of the Air Service on their wings became visible.

They looked upon the rare sight of the military aircraft, flying directly overhead in a right echelon formation, and then breaking off in preparation to land at the nearby airfield.

Four years earlier, the field had been established on the northern outskirts of town – just a short distance from the McNair homestead. Cheyenne was an important stop on the Transcontinental Airmail Route between Chicago and San Francisco, and it was developing into one of the premier centers for civil aviation in the country. Airplanes had become a common sight in the area, and since he was ten years old, Shane and his brother had been watching them come and go as they journeyed back and forth over the Rocky Mountains.

This early exposure to aviation was already having a preoccupying influence on Shane’s life. It was the age of wood, canvas, and bracing wires; the age of nomadic barnstormers, flying circuses, and other stripes of aerial daredevils. The sight of the machines, and the things their pilots could do, kindled in his youthful and imaginative mind an enchanted fascination with this new realm of possibility and adventure. Living near the airfield as they did, Shane and his brother had numerous opportunities to see the planes up close and meet their pilots; further reinforcing what would be a lasting interest. When the bug bit, it bit hard. There was something else that Shane didn’t know yet, but this, perhaps more than anything else, would set him on the course that the rest of his life would follow.

“Hey Martin, we don’t have any more chores to do, do we?” Shane asked his brother.

“Uh, no. Why do you ask?”

“I’m gonna head over to the field and get better look.”