An ugly voice spoke from behind, warning me not to touch it. The graveled voice told me to steer clear of it if I knew what was good for me. If you'd have seen it though, you'd know just why I couldn't listen...
"You're crazy old man. This ain't no snake; it's a gun belt. And a fine one too." My words were inadequate. It was spectacular. The dark rich belt was tooled with various depictions of running and rearing stallions, but that wasn't the half of it. The gun resting inside the supple leather of the holster was a wonder to behold. Engraved silver plating covered its 8" barrel, leading to a cylinder bearing a cavalry battle scene and on to a grip layered with a combination of pearl and mountain gold. The revolver inflamed a lust in your heart just to look upon it. It was a Colt Army, meticulously converted for cartridge use, the finest I'd ever laid eyes on or heard tell of, and it was mine for the taking.
His throat spat out a raspy warning again. When he spoke, it was like listening to someone shaking a box of scrap iron from far away. "I know what it is boy", the ancient stranger grunted. "But you ain't listening to me are ya? That there is what you call a 'BulletBack Snake'. You lay your greedy hands on that viper and it'll bite ya for certain. Maybe not right this instant, mind you. But when you least expect it. It's cursed I tell ya. It'd go better for you if you just leave it be."
"I didn't ask for your opinion gray-beard. And if I did, what makes you such an expert?" His very presence was unnerving. Where had he come from? And why was the air filled all of a sudden with the smell of stale earth?
"I've been around these parts for quite some time son. Why do you think no one else has stolen it off the cross marking that gravesite you're standing beside?"
An irrational anger rose within me whenever the weather-battered fool spoke. "Maybe I'm the first to see it old man. Did you ever think of that? It ain't like it's out here on the main trail to Denver or nothing." I was proud of myself and barked a harsh laugh, smiling in apparent victory until he hardened his gaze, spit some chaw juice on the stony soil and pointed. That's all, just pointed at the grave marker like he was the grim reaper himself, a mixture of sun and shadows playing tricks upon my vision in the form of his eyes glowing red in anger for a fraction of a second.
My eyes followed the direction of his finger, a reflex more than anything else since I'd have done anything at that point to look away from him. All this warning and pointing made my blood run cold. Sure enough, the cross he spoke of bore a date burned into it marking the death of the one buried at its feet. 1871. But that was fourteen years ago and the holster and pistol looked as new as if they were made yesterday, glinting in the bright sun as a wind set the belt to swaying back and forth like fruit ripe for the plucking.
And then he was gone. The crazy swindler smelling of must and mold and saddled with a voice only a deaf man could love must have ridden away over the hill while I read the date on the marker and did my own bit of calculating. I thought I was quick with numbers but he must have been quicker to leave, no doubt angry I'd reached this treasure before he did. I welcomed his absence. The old coot made my skin crawl. Ten quick steps brought me to his previous location, but he was nowhere in sight. Looking down, my experienced eyes observed nothing in the soil to indicate a rider had even passed my way. No hoof prints or disturbances on the trail, just a small stone wet with tobacco juice spit from a face as white as death.
A brief moment of sobriety invaded my thoughts, telling me to heed the stranger's warning and steer clear of the magnificent weapon. Greed followed the idea with a loud clamor, calling me a fool for even thinking of passing by the valuable piece of hardware within grabbing distance.
Acquiescing to a baser instinct, the leather and firearm filled my eager grip as I snatched them from their place of rest over an arm of the smooth cross. Its balance was perfect, the heft of precious metal overlaying iron complimented by a delicacy of form and design.
"BulletBack Snake. That's ridiculous." I mocked the old rider as the belt turned in my palms, sunlight flashing off burnished brass casings of .44 caliber bullets filling small loops attached to the leather. That must be what he meant by "BulletBack". Like the distinctive pattern giving a Diamondback Rattlesnake its name, the bullets created a pattern of their own along the back of this intricately carved hide.
Its golden clasp beckoned me to fasten it around my waist and, in preparation, I lost no time discarding my own gear to the dusty ground on my right. My own belt and weapon was a gift from my departed father but it was nothing compared to this, sentimental value be hanged. A strange urge overpowered me a moment, directing my hands to place my own abandoned gun and belt over the arm of the cross where this priceless pistol hung just moments ago. The forceful desire withdrew the instant I completed the task.
A thrill galloped through my chest in anticipation of strapping on my new acquisition. The length of it fit like it was custom made, circling my waist with the feel of a campfire on a cold winter's night or the warm embrace of a sensuous woman.
"Whooo-eee, this is some piece of iron." I stood in place, absorbing the extraordinary feeling it brought as dry thunder rolled across the hills of the prairie and the sun moved behind a thick cloud of black. A river of confidence I'd never known roared in my veins, foaming and rushing with the thrill of intoxication. I felt invincible, like I could shoot the eye of a diving hawk or the life from anyone I chose. With lightning speed, my gun hand pulled the Colt and blew apart flowering stems of half a dozen Yucca at two hundred paces on all sides. Wild laughter burst from my throat in recognition of my accomplishment. I was the fastest gun in the West. Just like that.
"No wonder the crazy old man told me not to touch it. He wanted it for himself." Flush with the excitement of my discovery, I made a decision to ride into the next town and test my skills where it counted-on anyone who crossed me.
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