Tale of the talking six-gun: most of us have said, "if only this gun could talk." The author seems to have found one that won't keep still

Guns Magazine, August, 2003 by Glenn Barnes

The rambling tentacles of an errant north breeze assaulted my senses, bringing with it the taste and smell of snow. Morning sun and cold temperatures had quickly been replaced with gunmetal gray skies and the promise of an even colder afternoon. It was a day to stay home and cogitate in front of the fire with a good book, a cup of coffee, and a warm blanket. Unfortunately, my journey was carrying me in the opposite direction from these simple luxuries.

The craggy peaks of snow capped mountains filled my windshield with beauty, so I decided to stop for a rest and enjoy the scenery in a small town just off the interstate. Driving through the narrow streets, I noticed a weather worn sign that stated simply: Guns-Buy-Sale-Trade. I angled my truck into the parking lot and decided to see what they had to offer.

If first impressions mean anything, my chances of finding something interesting were less than zero. The front of the building was in an advanced state of disrepair so chances were the inside was not much better. Pushing open the heavy door I stepped into the shop. The interior was not much larger than an ordinary one-car garage, but in contrast to the outside, it was clean and neat.

A man in his early fifties, wearing overalls and a ball cap greeted me. He emanated the appearance of someone who preferred others to assume he was not overly intelligent, when in fact he was very capable and shrewd.

Sixgunner's Dream

Long gun racks filled with a little bit of everything lined the walls. Wooden shelves underneath held ammunition in practically any caliber you could imagine. Four or five steps carried me in front of his handgun counters. To my surprise, I had wandered into a sixgunner's dream.

The first counter held a mixture of Colt New Service, old Detective Specials, Pythons, one Banker's Special, and one as-new Official Police. Counter two was filled with a variety of large-frame S&Ws and old model Ruger single actions. Counter three quite obviously held a variety of handguns the old gentleman deemed not worthy to include with the others.

As I walked back to the first counter to examine one of the New Service Colts, a voice interrupted.

"Over here, come back!"

Thinking the salesman was speaking to me, I asked, "Did you say something sir?" "No," he replied as he glanced up from his newspaper, "but if you need anything, just let me know." Dismissing the voice, I continued looking at the husky Colt through the glass.

"Come over here. I'm in the last counter. Hurry!"

The salesman continued to read his paper, so clearly he had not said a word. Thinking I was losing my mind, I walked over to the last counter and looked in. Nothing unusual stared back at me.

"I'm the S&W Model 28, lying beside the old Iver Johnson."

Shaking my head with disbelief, and glancing around to assure myself no one was watching, I replied softly, "Look, I'm not crazy. Six-guns can definitely not talk, so what's going on here?" By now, I'm sure you hold the opinion that yours truly has lost his mind, or is at least telling one of the biggest lies of the century, hut it really did happen just as described.

"I've been stuck in this counter for over a year waiting for someone to carry me home. Everybody picks me up and checks me out, but no one wants me. I know I'm not much to look at -- I've got a few scratches and scars -- but I shoot pretty good, and I have lots of life left. I'm rugged, dependable, and to be frank, we deserve each other. Buy me and let's go home."

By now, I'm pretty sure I've lost my mind. The old man behind the counter was still absorbed in his paper, so he had not heard me speak to the Smith. If I was destined to hear a handgun talk, why couldn't the voice have emanated from one of those crisp New Service Colts, or better still, something custom made, or engraved? Why did it have to be a trail worn S&W Model 28?

"Alright, I'll buy you, but you better be as good as you say, or I'll trade you off so fast it will bulge your chambers." I pulled the old man away from his paper long enough to conduct the transaction. It was obvious by his manner that he considered me crazy for buying the worn Smith, instead of one of his better handguns, but I had no other option. How often does a firearm talk to you?

Good As His Word

We often lovingly refer to handguns as she, her, or perhaps my baby. This 'Smith considers itself a he, and is quick to correct you should you make a mistake. Whatever it is, my Smith Model 28 was true to his word. He is rugged, dependable, and shoots very well indeed. While not a tack driver, or target gun, he does manage to group everything under two inches at 25 yards.

Neither is he picky about what he's fed. Stuff the chambers with a combination of factory and handloaded .38 special and .357 Magnum ammunition, and he'll still group under two inches. My 'Smith is not much to look at, but he possesses the qualities everyone desires in a faithful friend -- he's rugged, reliable, never lets you down and he's a straight shooter. What more could you ask?