The bell-ringer of the Clarkville church, Johnny Tucker, was a figure people in the district talked about with an inevitable shake of the head. He was a local legend, but a dubious one—like a mermaid who, instead of singing, scared fishermen with a hoarse cough. His repertoire was vast: on a Monday, he might peddle homemade cartridges and fragrant cracklings by the church fence; on a Tuesday, run a lottery with prizes like a mended teapot or a string of onions. And when times were truly hard, you could unfailingly find him at the "Old Jim's Tavern," where, fueled by cheap whiskey, he'd pick arguments and fights, which usually earned him a fresh bruise under his one good eye. The other eye he'd lost long ago in a drunken brawl with a coachman from St. Louis.
"Johnny," the local wags joked, "you could give him a thousand eyes, and by the next county fair, they'd all be scattered to the winds."
"And I ain't askin' for your eyes!" the bell-ringer would snap back, straightening his battered, tilted hat. "You'd best be worryin' about your own mugs, lest one of 'em catches a fist!"
One Sunday, a few days after Archie first walked Mary home, Johnny put on a lottery that put all his previous ones to shame. The grand prize, displayed on a stump by the church gates, was a pistol. A real, old, flintlock pistol, with a polished grip of dark wood. It lay on a piece of velvet cloth, and no one doubted its functionality—Johnny, for all his shiftlessness, was a connoisseur of firearms.
News, especially of that sort, spread through Clarkville with the speed of a prairie fire. And of course, one of the first at the church fence was Larry Botter. He had a nose for anything unusual, advantageous, and potentially dangerous. Not having a cent to his name, he nonetheless procured two lottery tickets, paying for them with a large carp he'd just pulled from the Mississippi. And then fate, as if deciding to play a joke on common sense, chose him. It was his ticket that was drawn from the old pot. The pistol passed into the hands of the American Bison.
They said that on that day, Larry comported himself like a true man: he drank cider (materialized from who-knows-where), smoked a cigar stub (similarly manifested), and, brandishing his trophy over his head, bellowed for all to hear: "Yee-haw! Now I'm a real man!"
On Monday morning, the school lived for one event alone. The news that Larry Botter had become the owner of a real firearm had reached every corner, every desk, every ear. When he appeared in the yard, he was met by nearly the entire school, forming a silent, reverent square. The boys swarmed him, and he strode among them with that important, unhurried gait of generals and continental explorers.
"Well, boys," he proclaimed, resting a hand on the pistol grip sticking from his belt. "We'll be saying our goodbyes soon. I won't be lingerin' here among you common schoolboys. My path lies West! Gonna run off Injuns, shoot bison, discover new lands!"
This declaration stirred up a storm, not just of excitement, but of near-religious ecstasy. To cement his status as a living hero, Larry announced to the whole yard:
"Today, after lessons, right on this very spot, the first trial shot from my musket will be fired! Anybody scared of thunder can go on home to their mammies right now. I ain't holdin' nobody by force. But I'm warnin' ya: the bang'll be so loud it'll deafen every livin' thing within twenty miles and make your eyes go dark!"
After such a warning, no one left. Even those inwardly skeptical preferred to stay—the fear of missing a historic event proved stronger than the fear of possible deafness.
When the long-awaited final bell finally rang, not a single boy even pretended he was heading home. The crowd, as if on command, spilled into the yard and formed a tight, hushed circle around Larry.
The man of the hour himself took a seat on a bench in the middle of the yard, looking every bit the expert. He drew out the pistol, laid out a neat bundle of powder and cloth wadding on a sheet of newspaper beside him. Then he pulled out his folding knife and clamped it between his teeth.
"What's the knife for?" someone hissed from the front row.
Larry took the knife from his mouth and answered with unshakable seriousness:
"It's my tomahawk. Gotta have it to hand. What if a whole Injun tribe jumps me while I'm reloadin'?"
Tommy Savage, standing at the edge with his eternal chunk of bread, muttered under his breath:
"Make up your mind, Bison. Are you a peaceful settler fightin' off Injuns, a pirate, or a red-skinned warrior with a tomahawk? You're mixin' it all up."
Larry ignored the remark. Will Frey piped up in his defense, squeaking with excitement:
"He's the American Bison! He can do whatever he wants!"
The crowd laughed, but the laughter quickly died—the climactic moment was at hand.
Larry, his entire being now expressing a chilling disdain for death, took the pistol and with a concentrated air began pouring powder down the barrel. Then he tamped down a wad, poured a handful of fine shot on top, and plugged the muzzle with another wad. For the final touch, he placed a small, shiny percussion cap on the pan. The bolder ones edged closer; the more cautious took a step back, earning disapproving looks from the "real men" for their "cowardice."
The crowd froze, braced for the roar of the shot. Archie, standing on the edge, noticed Clint's hands trembling and saw one of the little ones even cross himself.
And then, at the most tense moment, Tommy stepped out of the circle. He buttoned up his coat and headed for the gate.
"Hey, where you goin'?" Larry yelled after him.
"Home," Tommy answered without turning. "If you don't shoot somethin' off yourself, Whitaker'll rip your ears off for sure. I ain't keen on listenin' to your howlin' later."
"I ain't afraid of nothin'!" Larry declared proudly.
"Yeah, right," Tommy threw over his shoulder. "Then go ahead and take a shot at the principal's feet—that would give us all a laugh."
"I will!"
"You're lyin'. You should've gone to the river to shoot, where there ain't no people."
"You go to your own river!"
Tommy didn't argue. He merely smirked—a brief, soundless twitch—and walked out the gate.
Larry, now without his chief skeptic who dared challenge his authority, got up, paced off ten steps from the bench, and struck a dueling pose: sideways, pistol arm extended. Several agonizing moments passed. He contorted his face into the most terrible grimace he could muster.
"Die, dog!" he roared, aiming at an invisible opponent somewhere by the fence.
The crowd squeezed their eyes shut and clapped hands over ears as one. Any moment now, the deafening roar…
But no roar came. There was only a weak, pitiful click.
Larry stood with the pistol in his hand, confusion slowly dawning on his face.
"It… it ain't firin'?" someone dared to ask.
"'Course it fires!" Larry countered instantly, but his voice had lost its former confidence. "It's… it's just made o' Damascus steel! See? That kinda steel… it's finicky. Might fire, might blow up."
"So, you chickened out?" voices prodded from behind.
"Me?!" Larry straightened up. "I'd do it right now… Just don't wanna hurt you fools. Someone might get hit by shrapnel."
And then, as once before during prayers, inspiration struck. He'd found a brilliant solution. Tying the pistol to the old apple tree right under the school bathhouse window, he attached a long cord to the trigger, walked back to the boys, and, still looking every bit the commander, gave it a sharp tug.
This time, the shot did ring out. Loud, sharp, downright deafening. And immediately following it—the sound of shattering glass. The bathhouse window exploded into a thousand pieces.
A moment later, a fist the size of a good frying pan appeared in the broken window frame, followed by the crimson, furious face of the church land tenant, who farmed the local fields.
"Have you all gone plumb crazy?!" he roared, climbing out through the shattered sash. "Outta your minds! Now, whose work is this?! Who fired?!"
Dozens of frightened eyes, as if on command, swiveled toward Larry Botter. Sensing danger, he was already backing away, trying to melt into the crowd.
"Aha, it's you, you brat!" the tenant was in front of him in one leap. "'Course it's you! You were born a fool, and even then you were late to it! I oughta…"
"I thought the pistol was Damascus…" Larry began to babble, retreating behind the other boys.
"Damascus?! I'll give you Damascus! I'll shove that Damascus right up your—"
But he didn't get to finish his threat. On the school porch, black and motionless as a thundercloud, appeared Mr. Whitaker.
"What is the meaning of this?" His voice was quieter than usual, which made it all the more terrifying.
"Well… this boy was foolin' around," the tenant said brusquely, gesturing toward Larry.
"Who fired?"
"Botter, they say."
Mr. Whitaker slowly turned his head toward Larry. He looked at him as if trying to vaporize him from the face of the earth with the sheer force of his gaze. For several seconds, he breathed heavily, noisily.
"You… little… devil!" he finally exhaled, and in those words lay the entire sentence.
The boys began hastily dispersing, scattering in all directions. Those who boarded at school scurried to the dormitory and sat there quiet as mice. Meanwhile, in the middle of the schoolyard, a brief but expressive storm was playing out. Mr. Whitaker, wasting no words on lectures, set about the task he considered most pedagogical. Larry, standing before him like an ancient oak before a hurricane, was stripped that day not only of his heroic aura but also of a good portion of his self-assurance—as well as, it was rumored, several tufts of hair, plucked out in the heat of educational zeal.
Expelling him from school seemed a serious consideration for the principal. But Mr. Burns, who always found mitigating circumstances even for the most incorrigible scamp, persuaded him to give the boy one last chance.
Later, when passions had cooled a little, Larry, rubbing the back of his head, confessed to the few remaining listeners:
"Aw, if I'd known Whitaker'd come chargin' out like that… Shoulda listened to Tommy. Shoulda gone to the river. He was talkin' sense."