I was a young cowboy with a fondness for horses, firearms, and pretty girls, in that order. One afore-mentioned pretty girl awaited my arrival across a high mountain pass that guards my Rocky Mountain home, but as my diesel pickup growled its way upward toward the pass I knew I was going to be early for our date. So I geared down and pulled off the highway into a small patch of ponderosa timber. The motor grumbled to a halt and I lifted my most recent crush off the truck seat, it’s long frame svelte and gleaming in the late afternoon light. The action was as smooth as whipped cream sweetened with maple sugar, and I forgot all about my upcoming date. Carrying the curvaceous form a little way from the truck I swung it to eye level and squeezed. A distant twig disappeared with a thunderous crack, and smoke rose in slow spirals from the six-inch barrel of my vintage Colt Python.
I was in love.
My infatuation with six-shooters began early at the hands of Louis L’Amour.
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