The Walker Colt. Lost Love

© Andyhm. 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.

When Randi asked if I would be interested in writing a story for her latest event, I was nervous. I enjoy writing for her, but I was in the midst of a major new chapter in my life. I'd retired the previous year, sold my home of twenty years, and moved to the Southwest of France for a life afloat. I didn't want to say yes and then not have the time to finish my offering.

But, and isn't that a great word, but I'd been thinking about another chapter in the Walker Colt tales. After listening to an audiobook in the car on a 14-hour journey to the south of France, this story formed in my mind. It's as close to a travel themed adventure story as I'm going to get and has the bonus of being a western. I think it fills the brief.

This is the second part of a series of tales I want to write centered around the Walker pistol. I've no schedule for any further chapters; they will be written as the muse takes me.

A big shout out to Blackrandl for agreeing to edit this story. Any remaining mistakes are mine as I can never resist the final tweak.

The Walker Colt: Lost Love.

Prologue:

It had been a couple of years since the Colt first pulled me through the mists of time. For what had felt like a couple of months, I'd been a passenger, watching the world through Billy Pruitt's eyes. Yet I now knew that only moments had passed in my reality. Since then, I'd had heard distant echoes of Billy, but nothing concrete.

The images of Daniel and the flash and bark of the Walker pistol held in his hand had been my last vivid memories of Billy. There had been a bright light, an agonizing flash of pain in his, my head, and then everything went black.

The savage pain in my head had slowly receded, and I'd found myself lying on the ground. My head had been pillowed on a folded jacket, and a face framed with blonde hair and featuring the bluest eyes swam into blurred focus

"Bobby, love, what happened, Sam heard the shot, and you cry out." It took me a moment to remember that her name was Patsy.

I had looked around me anxiously; I wasn't able to see clearly; something was in my eyes, but I could see enough that I knew I was behind the barn at Earl's ranch. I was lying on the ground at the shooting range. When I moved my head, the pain had flared up, and I recalled rolling to my side and being violently sick.

Patsy had looked over her shoulder and asked, "There's so much blood, where's the ambulance, what happened Sam?"

I knew what had happened, that bastard Daniel had shot me, no, not me; he'd shot Billy, my alter ego.

Sam had told Patsy, "I found him lying on the ground. It looks like his head's been grazed by a bullet. That's where all the blood is coming from, but don't worry, head wounds bleed a lot. He must have been test-firing that pistol. I only heard one shot, Miss Patricia, and he hit the target. It must have bounced back; I just don't see how."

One thought had tickled at the back of my mind, one I'd considered deeply since then. Billy had known he was likely to die when he saw the pistol in Daniel's hand, but from what I'd felt, and Sam was saying, I'd got a glancing blow. The wound had bled like hell, and if Billy had been wounded in a similar manner, then maybe Daniel had left him for dead. God, I hoped not, I so wanted him and Eileen to have a long life together.

That hope had been boosted when I'd rested my hand on the pistol lying by my side. The metal that should have been warm was icy and had seared my palm. For a second, I swear I'd heard the sound of a baby crying, and Eileen singing a lullaby.

Robert:

The morning began with a soft whimper as I kissed the back of Patsy's neck.

"Don't start what you can't finish," she murmured, "your daughter will be awake soon, and you know she'll be in here as soon as she gets out of bed."

I paused to check the screen on the baby monitor sat on the bedside table. Lucy's eyes were still closed, a contented half-smile on her face. I knew that expression; it was the one she reserved for the build-up to a full nappy.

"I'm willing to risk it," I murmured and returned to kissing the back of her neck, hoping for a stay of execution. I reached around to tease her ripe nipple. She groaned, and her free hand slipped behind her back to take control of my growing cock.

She briefly raised a leg and eased the head of my cock between her legs, before trapping it as she tensed her thighs.

"Damn woman," I groaned as she began a gentle rocking motion that allowed me to slide back and forth. Patsy must have been feeling the need as much as I was, as in a moment, her hand was guiding me into her. A quick shift, and I was able to ease most of my length inside her.

She shuddered. "God, I love it when you do that."

We began moving more urgently; numerous past experiences had schooled us to grasp any opportunity with both hands. Our goal was to come, to satisfy our mutual pleasure. I felt her fingertips brush against my shaft as she played with her clit working hard to reach her release before our daughter's impending interruption. She groaned deeply as I pulled and teased both of her nipples.

Patsy stopped moving and said, "Shit, I'm getting cramp in this position; let's change."

"Ladies choice," I offered.

"Then get behind me, husband," Patsy said contentedly.

Doggie was her go-to position for hard and fast orgasms, and I loved how deep I could get. Moments later, she was on her hand and knees, and I was pushing back into her again. Patsy arched her back as she received me, then pushed back against me. Her head bent down to rest on the pillow, and her whole body shook to the rhythm of my thrusts.

"Yes, oh fuck, yes," she groaned, and I wasn't complaining. The slap of flesh against flesh became the dominating sound in the room, counterpointed by our mutual groans of growing pleasure.

"Yessss," she hissed. "Close baby, so close, do it now."

That was her hint that she wanted me to slide a finger into her ass, a sure-fired trigger for her orgasm. I ran the tip of my thumb around her puckered brown rose, and she gave a sharp gasp. Pushing my thumb past the ring of muscle to the first knuckle was all it took.

She met my last thrust and gave a plaintive cry. She froze in place, just the muscles in her thighs shivering as she came. A long shuddering breath escaped her lips. I'd been holding back, and it only took a few more quick thrusts and then I was coming as well. Spent, we both sagged down, hearts beating frantically, chests heaving as we both tried to catch our breath.

I luxuriated in the afterglow, and my eyes were about to close when there was a murmur from the baby monitor that grew in volume.

Patsy giggled, "Told you so." She rolled onto her side and pulled the covers back over herself.

"It's your turn," I heard her say. I groaned, but she was right. I rolled out of bed, aiming to capture Lucy before she turned our bed into her private trampoline. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, pulled on a pair of shorts, then made my way across the hallway to Lucy's bedroom.

Lucy, the escape artist that she was, was halfway over the safety rail on her bed as I opened the door. Patsy had been so convinced that Lucy would be a boy that she'd refused to find out the baby's sex at the ultrasound checkups. Lucy's arrival had necessitated a complete redecoration of the nursery. Mind you, her parents hadn't helped the situation. The boy toys disappeared into storage, to be replaced by a blizzard of soft toys.

There were so many of the damn things you took your life in your hands as you tried to navigate the soft toys assault course after a Lucy toy hurricane had struck. The three-foot-tall Mandy bear was kicked into touch on my way to the bed.

"Daddy," she said indignantly, as I scooped her up and deposited her back on the bed. "Nappy yucky." She still wore a nappy to bed, but detested the damp feel of it.

I changed Lucy, gave her a quick wash, and dressed her. I stuck my head into our bedroom and could hear Patsy snuffling in her sleep. With my daughter on my hip, we headed down to the kitchen. On the counter sat the results of last night's family project. A row of carved Halloween pumpkins of various sizes sat in all their glory. It wasn't until I moved to America that I saw firsthand how big an event Halloween could be.

I placed Lucy on her booster chair and gave her a slice of apple to keep her occupied as I brewed the coffee. I placed a bowl of her favorite cereal in front of her, and she happily attacked it. I was enjoying my second cup of coffee as Patsy appeared in the entrance to the kitchen.

"I thought you were going to lie in," I said as I poured her a mug of black coffee.

She gave me a smile, "Did you forget that I'm taking munchkin over to my parents', we're going to help them decorate their place for the Halloween party at the weekend."

Lucy gave her a few moments to sip her coffee before demanding to be picked up. Patsy scooped up her daughter and wiped her face.

"What are your plans for the day?" she asked

"If you are going to be at your parents, I'll probably go into the shop. I need to work on the shotgun for that client in California."

I'm a gunsmith who had been fortunate enough to have apprenticed at Purdy's in London. I had moved to the States after inheriting a distant relative's ranch and business interests. One of those interests had been a partnership in a gun store. I started a bespoke gun shop in the back of the store, where I made unique custom firearms for clients with more money than sense.

I also restored the odd classic firearm, and although I intended to do a bit of work on my current project, the real reason I wanted to head into the workshop was to work on my Walker Colt. I'd noticed an odd feeling in the trigger mechanism the last time I'd fired it. I wanted to strip it down, and the tools at the shop were more suitable for the job.

"I thought you were going to take the day off?"

"I was, but if you're gone, I may as well head over to the workshop."

"Well, don't forget, Mom and Dad are taking us to dinner at the roadhouse this evening. I'll get a lift from them," Patsy said.

"And Trouble?" I asked, nodding my head in Lucy's direction.

"She's spending the night at Mom's, and she's arranged for Rosella's daughter to babysit while we are out. We can pick her up in the morning." She gave me a contented look. "So, there will be nothing to interrupt us tonight."

I couldn't keep the grin off my face. I loved my daughter, but her need for attention at the most inopportune moments was putting a severe cramp on our sex life. Patsy returned my grin and followed it up with a hug and a kiss.

"Want kisses, too," interrupted our daughter.

Right on time! I scooped her up and gave her the required attention, which left her giggling happily.

Patsy and Lucy left an hour later in Patsy's pickup, and I followed them down the drive in my SUV. At the county road, Patsy turned left while I headed in the other direction. The bespoke weapon side of the business had quickly outstripped capabilities of the small workshop at the store, so the year before I'd relocated that side of the business to an industrial unit on the outskirts of town.

There were two vehicles parked outside the low green painted building when I pulled up. One belonged to Ricky, my assistant, the other one was a dirty Silver Honda SUV I didn't recognize. There was a discreet sign above the door that said 'Davis Arms,', and an Authorized Personnel Only label on the door. I punched in the security code on the keypad and after hearing the click, pulled the door open.

I was greeted with... silence, which was odd as Ricky was a country music fan, and the radio was permanently tuned to the local country station. The small reception area was empty, and the door to the workrooms was closed. "You back here Ricky?" I called out as I pushed the inner door open. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have just strolled through it.

Ricky stood in the entrance to his work cubical. His face was pale and streaked with blood from a cut on his forehead.

"What the fucks going..." I managed to get out before I was shoved heavily from the side and slammed into the wall, my head bouncing off the cinder block. Pain flashed through my head, and I subconsciously thought, 'I'm going to have another scar.' I was pulled away from the wall and saw a blurry figure in front of me.

"I thought you said you were here alone," the figure snarled over his shoulder.

"I wasn't lying, I didn't think the boss was coming in today," Ricky said shakily, pain evident in his voice.

"What the hell do you want?" I asked, convinced that this was a misguided robbery attempt. "We don't keep cash here. The stock for the store is held there. Anything we make here is shipped out as soon as we complete them."

Ricky added, "Bob's telling you the truth, there are only the rifle and the shotgun that are close to being finished. All the rest are just unfinished components."

"Shut the fuck up, we know the pistol is here, " a second person growled. I was pulled around to face him. He was stocky, his head covered with a ski mask which left his eyes and most of his nose clear. While I didn't recognize him, there was something about his eyes that triggered a memory.

His eyes flashed in anger, and he snarled, "Where's your pistol?"

For a moment my mind went blank, I didn't carry a gun, the only weapons I owned were the historical ones I'd inherited with the ranch and they were safely locked up in my study.

"The Walker!" he added.

Okay, so now I knew what he wanted. Given how valuable the Walker Colt was; it sat in the gun safe that only Ricky, John, my partner in the business, and I had keys for. After I'd restored it, we had decided not to put it up for sale. John had known how much I admired the pistol and had given it to me. It was too valuable for my home insurance, so I kept it there.

I'd taken it out a few days before to let a journalist photograph it for an article in an international antique arms magazine, and I'd let him fire it at my improvised gun range at the ranch, which is when I'd noticed the issue with the trigger mechanism.

I didn't understand what their plans were. Over the past two years, our Walker Colt had been fully documented and was now accepted as one of the original pistols built by Samuel Colt for Captain Walker and issued to a trooper in Company C of the United States Mounted Rifles.

As such, amongst weapon aficionados, it had acquired a semi-cult status, not surprising, as before its discovery, only 37 of the 1100 built were still known to exist. That made stealing it a bit like stealing the Mona Lisa, possible, but incredibly stupid, as no one would want to touch it. Without its provenance, it was worth a fraction of its real value.

Evidently, I didn't know squat, as the two armed thugs currently threatening Ricky and me confirmed.

"It's at the shop," I lied, hoping to gain a few minutes to think.

"It ain't," the first thug snapped back.

"We ain't stupid, we know it's not kept there, and it's not in the gun safe. so where is it?" thug two interjected as he pressed his Glock into my ribs.

Their knowledge was worrying. I thought I was the only person that knew I'd not replaced the Colt in its case. I could continue to bluster, but in the face of the threat to Ricky or myself, it wasn't worth the risk. I shook my head regretfully; after all, the Walker was just a gun.

"It's outside in my car," I admitted.

"Was that difficult, the keys," came the demand.

They were still in my hand, so I held them out, pressing a discreet recessed button as I did. As soon as the key fob came in range of the car, the immobilizer would activate, preventing the engine from starting. The first thug snatched them up.

"They won't do you a lot of good," I pointed out. "It's stored in a secure lockbox built into the frame. You need both the code and my thumbprint to open it. I don't understand what you think you can do with it. It's so well-documented that you can't sell it on the open market."

Thug one snorted while his companion gave a brief laugh. "Who said anything about selling it."

"That's enough," the first one admonished his companion. He grasped my arm and dragged me back through the building. Behind me, I saw Ricky being bundled into the storeroom. I was pulled to a halt by the SUV.

The lights flashed, and the door locks clicked open as the button on the key fob was pressed. This could go several ways. They could try to take the vehicle, but the immobilizer would prevent that, and I couldn't reset it. That didn't seem to be their goal as I was dragged over to the rear of the vehicle.

Now it was down to two options. I could be told to retrieve the Colt once I'd opened the lockbox and hand it over, or they would shoulder me out of the way as soon as it was unlocked. Logically, their paranoia would force the issue; they wouldn't trust me that there wasn't a weapon stashed where I could retrieve it.

It went as I expected; I was told to show them the location of the lockbox, then open it and step away. It lay beneath a false floor of what I still called the 'boot.' There was a lot more to the lockbox than I had let on to them.

I opened the tailgate and unlocked the panel set in the floor, then raised it to expose the face of the strongbox that stretched across the width of the space. In the center was the digital lock panel. With both robbers peering over my shoulder, I entered the code and after a moment's hesitation, pressed my right thumb to the sensor plate. The glowing red light flashed three times before turning green. There was a dull click, and I was pulled out of the way.

I stepped to the side and squeezed my eyes shut, opened my mouth, and was starting to raise my hands to my ears when the world exploded, and I was thrown into the side of Ricky's truck and everything went black.

If they had researched me as much as they apparently had the pistol, then they should have noted that I'm left-handed. Using my right thumb triggered a series of actions, pre-programmed by the ultra-security conscious designers of the box.

When David found out I was driving around with bespoke weapons worth up to a quarter of a million dollars in a cheap plastic gun case, he'd insisted on installing the protected lockbox with all its inbuilt safety features. I was told it would be wise to be as far away from it as possible if I ever had to activate its defenses.

And now to Billy again:

The acrid smell of horses and sweat was the first thing I was aware of as the pain in my head receded. The cessation of movement, the second, as the horse I was riding came to a halt. For a long moment, I sat quietly, aware that I was looking at an old world. It was one I remembered vividly. The hands holding the reins weren't mine, but they were eerily familiar and I had no control of them.

It was so much easier, this time, to relax and slip back into my role as an observer, knowing there was nothing I could do to influence the situation. I'd been here before, and I felt the familiar merging of my consciousness with that of Billy's. I was eager to find out what had happened to him and how he/I had survived Daniel's shot.