Bullseye from the Start
The auction dragged on after that, but nothing else caught my eye. I could only think about the 686 that was now mine.
It wrapped up around 3:30 p.m. I headed to the settlement desk.
“Number 142.”
“Ah, winner of lot 52. Congratulations. That's $440 plus a 15% buyer's premium, total $506.”
More than I'd expected. My stomach twisted a bit, but with the bounty money in hand...
“You'll need to fill out the firearm purchase paperwork. Got your ID?”
I showed my driver's license. Texas made gun buys pretty straightforward—pass the background check, and you could walk out with it.
“Hang tight for a minute.”
She processed the forms, and approval came through after about ten minutes.
“Here you go. I'll case it up for you.”
The clerk slipped the revolver into a plastic case and handed it over.
“Ammo's separate. It takes .357 Magnum or .38 Special.”
“Thanks.”
The case felt solid and heavy in my hands. Sam grinned at me.
“Congrats, Jake. You scored a beaut. That quality at this price? You're in the black already.”
“Haha, yeah. Couldn't have picked a better one without you, Sam. Thanks.”
We chatted as we stepped outside. The sun was already dipping west.
“So, Jake, what's next?”
Sam asked.
“Got the gun—head home?”
“If you ain't got plans, there's a spot nearby. Gotta shoot it fresh off the line. And grab ammo.”
I blinked at his suggestion.
“...Right now?”
“Damn straight. Indoor range ten minutes out. Let's get you practicing today.”
I'd bought the gun, but Sam was the one buzzing like a kid. I chuckled, letting him drag me along.
True to his word, the range was close. We pulled into Lonestar Shooting Range, an indoor spot.
“First time shooting?”
At check-in, the clerk pointed to a side room.
“Safety video first. Fifteen minutes.”
We watched in a small room: gun handling, range rules, safety protocols. Sam chimed in.
“Treat every gun like it's loaded. Muzzle never points at anything you ain't aiming at. Stick to those two, you're golden.”
“Got it.”
Video done, we bought ammo. Sam picked a box of .38 Special.
“.357 kicks hard—start light.”
Earplugs and safety glasses on, we hit the lane. Gunfire echoed from the next bay over.
Bang! Bang!
Louder than I'd pictured, even with plugs—a deep, explosive thrum.
“Haha, you'll adjust quick. C'mere.”
Sam pulled the 686 from its case. Under the lights, the stainless steel gleamed softly.
“First, open the cylinder. Pull this latch...”
He demonstrated slow. It swung out smooth as silk.
“Your turn.”
I mimicked carefully. Latch clicked; cylinder opened effortlessly. No drag—pure glide.
“Good. Load 'em one by one. Six rounds. Easy.”
I slid in the cartridges. Brass cases cold against my fingers. Hands shook a touch.
“Close it. Till you hear the click.”
Pushed it shut. Click. Locked solid.
“Two hands. Right on the trigger, left cups it. Yeah. Elbows loose.”
I set up. Sam tweaked: feet, shoulders, arm tension—precise as a coach.
“Target's at seven yards. Close for a rookie.”
Paper silhouette hung up front: bullseye circles dead center.
“Breathe in, out halfway, hold... squeeze slow. Smooth, like you don't know when it'll go off.”
Deep breaths. One, two.
Sights aligned: front post centered in rear notch, target top in the slot. Finger on trigger.
“Slow.”
I eased it back. Trigger melted—no creep, steady pressure.
BOOM!
Muzzle flipped; recoil rippled up my wrist and arm. Milder than expected—thanks, .38.
“Whoa...”
Gunpowder stung my nose. Ears rang despite plugs.
“Nice! Let's see the group.”
We checked the target. Hole left of center—but inside the inner ring.
“Huh...?”
First shot? That close?
“Whoa, Jake!”
Even Sam sounded shocked.
“Damn fine for a first pop. Just a hair left. Most newbies miss the paper.”
“For real?”
“Real deal. My first went wide. You grouped inner ring out the gate.”
Felt good. Luck or skill? Hard to say.
“One more. Sight a tick right.”
Setup again. More confident. Breathe, align, squeeze.
Bang!
Recoil steady. Gun sat rock-solid in my grip.
“Check it.”
Dead center this time. Way tighter.
“What the hell, Jake!”
Sam hollered.
“Second round kissed the bull! That's...”
He stared at the revolver.
“One more.”
Bang!
Third clustered with the second. Sam whistled.
“Whew, Jake! This ain't normal. Three in a row like that? You a natural? Or...”
He inspected: sights, cylinder swing.
“This piece... special. Trigger's butter. Stock 686s ain't this slick.”
“The gun, then?”
“Probably. But it takes talent to let it shine.”
“Lemme try? For comparison.”
“Be my guest.”
Sam squared up—decades of muscle memory.
Bang!
Dead center.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Four more. Tight cluster.
He lowered it, eyed the target.
“Hot damn... jackpot.”
“What?”
“Twenty years, dozens of irons—this one's different. Trigger glides like glass. Even pull, crisp break, quick reset.”
Sam geeked out.
“Custom gunsmith magic. Jake, you hit the treasure vault!”
He handed it back.
“Keep going. Box ain't empty.”
“Hell yeah.”
Reloaded six. Faster now.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Checked paper: clustered center. Tighter still.
“Insane...”
Sam muttered.
“Jake, forget trucking—you were born a marshal. In the Old West, you'd be legend.”
“Don't hype me, Sam. Gun's the star. No wobble on the pull. Rock steady.”
“That's tuning. Slick trigger means no jerk. Cheap ones snag and yank the muzzle.”
Sam marveled. We drilled on.
Twelve, eighteen, twenty-four rounds. Strays happened, but most inner ring. Sam's tips flowed.
“Breathe steady. Good.”
“Shoulders low.”
“Better than last!”
After twenty-five:
“New target. Ten yards.”
Distance upped. Tougher now.
“Shake amplifies at range.”
Bang!
Still center-ish.
“Wow...”
Held up despite the gap.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Fifty rounds total. Sam fetched the last sheet.
Palm-sized group in the bull. Long whistle.
“Even peak me struggles for that. Rookie pulling groups? Pure gift.”
Gift... maybe my Object Past Vision. Touched the gun, saw the engineer's know-how. Subconscious muscle memory?
Or just flawless craftsmanship?
“Thanks, Sam. For spotting this gem.”
He grinned.
“Never sell it, Jake. Lifetime keeper. Hell, heirloom material.”
“Deal.”
Cleaned it thorough. Sam showed: bore, cylinder, frame.
Felt right in hand. Balanced perfect. Like fate.
“Weekly practice. Gun's gold, but reps make masters.”
“You got it.”
Cased it gentle. Last target glance: clustered kills.
I did that?
Mind-blowing. Grateful to that engineer. His craft lived on—with me now.
Out to the lot. Sun near set; sky orange-purple blaze. Texas sunset magic.
“Starved? BBQ first.”
“Yes, please.”
Local joint: brisket, ribs, sausage, coleslaw. Texas true.
“Cheers. To Jake's first iron.”
“Cheers.”
Glasses clinked. Meat heaven: smoky brisket, ribs falling off bone.
“Sam, thanks tons today.”
“Fun outing for me too. Range next week. Drill every chance.”
“Count on it.”
Parted with Sam, back to the trailer. Stashed the case in the bed safe.
Showered, crashed. Marcus's self-defense advice: check. Better than expected.
Phone rang. Dispatcher Tom.
“Hero Jake, rested up? Seattle long-haul tomorrow. You in?”
“Drop the hero crap. I'm there.”
“Sweet. Details emailed. Wheels up 6 a.m.”
“Roger. Thanks, Tom.”
Hung up on his teasing. New gigs piled up, but road called.
Back to my rig, my highways.
The trucker life I knew.