The Craftsman's Revolver

A few more days passed.

The media was still covering the incident.

A local station even reached out to me for an interview, but I turned it down. I didn't want to put my face out there and get treated like some hero. I just wanted to live quietly.

Instead, the experience had pushed me to finally do something I'd been mulling over. On Saturday morning, I called Sam.

"Sam, you got time?"

"Jake? What's up, son?"

"One of my trucker buddies mentioned the other day about getting a gun for self-defense. With what happened... I've been thinking hard about it, and it doesn't sound half bad."

Sam paused for a moment, then replied.

"That's not a bad idea at all. Livin' in Texas, a man's gotta have at least one piece."

"So... where's the best place to get one?"

"You free to head out today?"

"You bet."

"Alright then, let's go together. Leave in an hour. I'll swing by your place."

"Thanks, Sam."

I hung up, took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and stepped outside.

Right on the hour, Sam pulled up in his old Ford F-150 pickup. It was beat-up looking, but he kept it immaculate with his own hands.

I climbed into the passenger seat, and he handed me a cup of coffee.

"Here, drink up. Just brewed it myself."

"Thanks, Sam."

A sip of the hot coffee woke me right up. We headed out toward the outskirts of Austin.

Texas plains stretched out the window—blue skies, wide open fields... As I took it in, Sam spoke up.

"Jake, before you buy a gun, there's some things you need to know."

"Like what?"

"Haulin' a firearm in your truck ain't simple. Laws vary state by state. Texas is pretty lax, but places like California or New York? They're a nightmare. Even regulate how many rounds you can have loaded."

He was right, of course.

Up till now, I'd mostly done short hauls in Texas, so it hadn't been a big deal. But things were different now. Plenty of company drivers couldn't carry at all because of their employer's rules.

"Yeah... guess I gotta think about that."

"Damn right. When you're on long hauls, check the regs every time. Don't be a fool and keep it loaded in the cab everywhere—could end up with a fine, or worse, arrested. Keep that in mind."

"Got it. I will."

"That's why I'm recommendin' a revolver. Compact, easy to conceal, and only holds five or six rounds, so it skirts most state limits. Reliable as hell, too—don't break easy."

"A revolver, huh?"

"Yep. Might seem old-school, but for truckers, it's the most practical. And forget about a shotgun if that's what you were thinkin'. Where the hell you gonna stash that monster? Haha!"

Sam ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chuckled at his own shotgun joke.

Truckers with shotguns was just romantic fiction. Big, heavy, pricey, and heavily regulated—no real hauler lugged one around.

"So, what's your budget?"

"Uh... around five hundred bucks?"

"That'll get you a solid used one. Ain't like you're plannin' shootouts like a cop. For self-defense, used is plenty."

About thirty minutes in, an old building came into view. A sign read RUSSEL'S GUNS & AMMO.

"This here's the oldest gun shop around. Owner's Richard—good friend of mine. Lots of used stuff, fair prices."

Inside, guns lined the walls floor to ceiling. Pistols, rifles, shotguns—every kind imaginable.

"Sam! Been too long! How's the knee holdin' up?"

A white guy in his sixties waved from behind the counter. Richard—big gut, white beard.

"Hell, how far's the word on my damn knee spread? Hey Richard, this is Jake. Like a son to me. First-time buyer. Lookin' for a revolver for protection."

"Haha, same old Sam. Nice to meet ya, Jake. What's the budget?"

"Under five hundred."

Richard nodded and pulled a few from the case.

"This'd be good. Ruger SP101, .357 Magnum. Stainless steel, no rust. Used, but mint condition. Four fifty."

It was a silver revolver—compact, practical-looking.

"And this is a Taurus Model 66. Also .357. Three eighty. Brazilian-made, so cheaper."

"Give it a feel, Jake."

Sam urged. I picked up the Ruger gingerly.

The moment it touched my hand... my vision blurred.

The gun slipped from my hand, clattering onto the counter.

"Hey, easy!"

Richard snatched it up quick.

"S-sorry."

My heart pounded. Cold sweat from that scene. Sam eyed me.

"You okay? You're pale as a ghost."

"Yeah... fine. Just... dizzy for a sec."

Richard handed me water.

"First-time nerves, huh? Take it slow."

I sipped, trying to steady my breath, but it wasn't easy.

"Wanna look at others?"

I set it down, hands shaking.

Richard pulled out more. But every one I touched showed similar scenes—violence, threats, fear, blood. Used guns carried dark histories.

"Sorry... just doesn't feel right."

I stepped back from the counter. Sam hustled me outside.

"Easy. Breathe slow."

Fresh air helped a bit.

"What happened?"

Sam asked quietly.

"Just... bad vibe. The used ones, maybe."

Sam nodded—it happened. He thought a minute, then suggested another option.

"Let's try somewhere else. Know a gun auction?"

"Gun auction?"

"Yeah. Used stuff, but collectors keep 'em pristine. Might find a gem. Prices are good, too."

Sam checked his phone.

"Perfect—gun auction in Austin this afternoon at 2. Preview's starting now. Wanna check it out?"

"Sounds good. Let's go."

Sam popped back in to apologize to Richard, who waved it off.

We drove toward downtown Austin.

The Texas Firearms Auction House was bigger than expected—a two-story brick building with a banner at the entrance: Today's Auction: 2 PM.

Lots of cars in the lot—pickups, SUVs, even luxury sedans. Collectors galore.

Inside was a vast showroom, high ceilings, walls packed with hundreds of firearms.

Rifles, shotguns, pistols, even antique muskets—like a museum. Each had a number tag, description, and starting bid.

"Preview time before auction. You can handle what catches your eye, check condition. Gloves required, o' course."

We grabbed numbers at the desk. I was 142.

"First auction?"

The clerk asked nicely. I nodded.

"Yup."

"Here—read this."

"...What's buyer's premium?"

"Auction house fee—15% on top of the bid. Five hundred hammer means five seventy-five total."

"Got it."

Sam chimed in.

"Just bid up to about 85% of your max. Covers the premium and stays in budget."

"Smart. Thanks, Sam."

We wandered the displays. Way more variety than the shop. Sam pointed things out.

"Whoa, that's a Winchester Model 1873—Wild West icon. Collectors love 'em. And that's an M1 Garand. WWII GI standard issue."

I handled a few, gloved up. Old ones were mostly fine—hunting, war, tools of life. Not bad.

Then a glass case caught my eye: a lone revolver inside. Up close, the tag read:

"Hmm, Smith & Wesson 686, .357. '80s production... ah, pre-lock model?"

Sam muttered, reading the tag.

"Something special?"

"Smiths added internal safeties in the early 2000s. Old-timers prefer pre-lock—simpler mechanics, more reliable. This is one."

Stainless finish, 4-inch barrel, worn wooden grips. Well-maintained for its age.

"But why so cheap?"

Tag said est. $350–450. Sam frowned.

"This shape? Should go five, six hundred easy."

Sam flagged a staffer.

"Excuse me—can we see this one?"

"Sure."

They opened the case, handed gloves.

"Gloves on, handle with care."

Sam gloved up, pulled it out, inspected.

"Cylinder smooth... check the action inside. Trigger pull's buttery."

He cocked the hammer, tested.

"Someone tuned this. Not factory stock—pull's way smoother than standard 686."

Impressed, he asked the staffer.

"More info on this?"

They checked a tablet.

"From a small town in central Texas. Estate sale from a retired cop. No provenance docs."

"That explains it. No papers, no proof of value—keeps the price down."

Sam nodded, offered it to me.

"Jake, wanna feel it? She's a keeper."

I hesitated. Another bad vision...?

"Yeah, let's see."

I glanced around—no staff nearby—slipped off my glove. Bare hand on the gun: heavy, cold metal.

Then...

I set it down slowly, smiling. Sam noticed.

"What d'you think? Nice, right?"

I took a deep breath.

"...Yeah. This is a damn good gun."

"Told ya. Looks like a plain 686, but it's custom-tuned. Price is right, too."

Sam checked his watch.

"Twenty minutes till start. Let's target this one."

"Hell yeah!"

I set it down reluctantly. Sam whispered,

"Don't look too eager. If folks see you want it bad, they'll bid up."

We browsed others, but my heart was set on that 686.

Two o'clock hit. Folks flooded the auction hall.

About a hundred chairs, stage up front with auctioneer's podium. We sat mid-row.

"Too front, auctioneer pressures ya. Middle's best."

Sam whispered.

"This is tense."

"First gun auction—normal. Stay cool, no tells."

Hall filled—fifty-plus bidders. At two sharp, the auctioneer took the mic.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Texas Firearms Auction. I'm Tom Harrison, your auctioneer today. We've got 85 lots lined up."

Applause.

"Rules are simple: I call starting bid, raise for yours. 15% buyer's premium on hammer. Let's begin!"

Guns came and went fast. Then...

"Lot 52!"

My revolver. Auctioneer held up the 686.

Hands shot up everywhere.

"Two fifty!"

"Two eighty!"

"Three hundred!"

Fast calls—cheap price drew competition.

"Three twenty!"

I raised mine.

"Three fifty!"

Middle-aged guy in back.

"Three eighty!"

Young guy to the side. Sam whispered,

"Easy. Slow. Budget five hundred—four thirty max after premium."

"Four hundred!"

I nodded, raised. Back guy shook head—out. Just me and the young guy now.

"Four twenty!"

He bid.

"Four forty!"

My counter. He hesitated. I was already pushing budget a tad.

He shook off.

"Four forty! Bidder 142! Anyone else?"

Auctioneer scanned. Silence.

"Four forty, one!"

Heart thundering.

"Two!"

Sam gripped my hand tight.

"Three!"

Gavel fell.

"Sold! To 142—congratulations!"

"You did it!"

Sam clapped my shoulder. Relief and joy surged.

I'd done auctions before, but this? Nerve-wracking. Guess 'cause it was mine now. My own gun.