Slowdown
An autobiographical short story by Eric
Bob was hard as nails. He worked hard and drank harder. A modern cowboy and catskinner, no job was too tough for him. Bob was the quintessential Marlborough man, except his honor was worn as threadbare as his wranglers. We had heard stories of men he had beat down at the local bar. He never lost.
I viewed him with deep distrust at first, just like all of my mother’s past string of boyfriends. But he taught me how to weld, operate a dozer, saddle a horse, and rope cattle. I learned how to irrigate and generally take care of the basics that came up on the Lacy Ranch in Olancha, California in the late 1970s.
One summer, we were up in the high country of the Sierra Nevada mountains at our upper ranch. My brother, Grant, and I were playing on the porch by ourselves in the special way kids eleven and twelve years old do. In those days, the ranch had neither electricity nor phone service. Except for chores, Grant and I were free to play. A favorite pastime was to hike several miles to the South Fork of the Kern River to go swimming.
A strange pickup truck pulled up the drive. Mom jumped out, yelling and upset. Bob followed her and another man I had never seen before. They had been drinking at Grumpy Bar’s, the only bar on the mountain. Nothing new.
Grant and I were about to go find other adventures up at the barn when I heard a scream.
A scream of pain.
Bob and the man struggled with my mom. I did not like the way they were manhandling her. Bob started dragging my mom by her hair towards the house.
We had never seen anyone get rough with our mother. Shocked and angry, I was not about to stand for it.
I was not afraid and I did not panic. I felt like a character in one of my favorite books or movies. I remember being calm and rational. At the same time, I felt fiercely protective and determined to act. I needed to rescue my mother.
I knew my brother and I stood no chance in a fight with Bob. He would kick us aside like a couple of feral cats. I looked around. Suddenly, our porch had become a fort. I saw stacks of firewood. Ammunition.
Grant and I yelled, “Stop!”
We threw firewood at them to try and distract them. No effect. Desperate, I ran into the house and got the 30 30 Winchester. Back on the porch, I wanted Bob to stop again. No luck.
I fired into the air.
BOOM!
Instantly, Bob forgot all about my mom and made a beeline for us on the porch. The man fled in his truck. Mom was safe. I did not want to shoot Bob. My brother and I jumped off the porch as he raced up the stairs. He did not follow us.
We rushed to help our mother. She seemed okay. I thought we were safe, but we still needed to get away.
Mom yelled a warning, and I turned to look back at the house. Bob had gone inside and retrieved another rifle. He was aiming directly at me with our favorite target rifle, a Ruger .22 carbine. He gestured for me to put my rifle down.
Now, my brother and I go shooting nearly every day. I could account for each round of ammunition, and I knew we were out of that caliber. I knew we were in no immediate danger. I carefully laid the 30 30 on the ground. Bob never took his aim off me.
Mom had had enough.
Fast as a rattlesnake, she went for the Winchester in the dirt, levered a round in the chamber, and fired as true as Annie Oakley.
Bob fell from view.
We got in the truck and fled.
We thought he was dead.
