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Somebody's Gun: the Story of Danny California

Dust blew into Jake's eyes as he huddled behind the rocks. He winced at the pain, but thanked God at the same time, as it hid him from the three hulking brutes interested in what little food and water he was still carrying. Four days to the rail line in a place everybody called Famine County, South Dakota. Now he knew why. Caught out by the dustbowl, farmers struggled at best with the weather, and when you factored in the bandits, it was a death trap. Still, pulling a raft up the James River was if not the fastest, the safest way to get to the next town, on the rail line. Or it was, until these guys showed up. He just wanted to get back to his sister, and try to make something of himself, but it's a long way from Washington, DC. Now he just wanted to get out of here. He'd already had to abandon most of his provisions with his raft, and he sure wasn't left with much now. On the bright side, before the dust blew in, he could see the tracks in the distance. If he could get to them, he could jump a train; even if it was the Legion, it's better than giving it up to these guys. Should be close enough to town for the train to be slowing down...

The sound of rumbling metal on metal interrupted his thoughts. Train. Train! They wouldn't hear him moving as the train got closer, and the dust covered his break for it. He ran for the tracks, the dust stinging his eyes and lungs. He saw the train as he got closer, breaking through the dust, parting it like Moses parted the sea. The westbound train made his heart sink; so deadset on his destination, he didn't even think of it. Doesn't matter; it goes somewhere else, and that's better than getting shot. He kept running, closing his eyes for a moment to block out the dust, shielding his face with his arm. Too fast! The train was going too fast, there was no way he'd be able to jump on! He knew enough about jumping trains that trying was a good way to get killed, slammed into the side of a car, or between them, and shook his head. Run. Just run. Nothing else to do but run. Along the tracks he ran, as hard as he could, as long as the dust and the noise of the train covered his escape. He couldn't hear the bandits, either. Good for him, he guessed?

Stumbling along the rail line, trying to catch his breath as the dust continued to beat him down. He was out of ideas; he had no idea how far he was from town, or the river, or which way to go to reach what little civilization he could find. He at least managed to get a bandanna over his face, keeping himself from sucking down more of the stinging dust, as he shambled forward, praying for salvation, a weathered wooden rosary clutched in his left hand. He thanked god as he saw the shadow of a building start to form ahead of him, even some shelter from the dust. As he approached, he saw a small shack along the rail line, bearing a Mississippi Coach Company sign; a waystation. He didn't have money for a coach, but he could at least try to wait out the storm. Those bandits weren't like to follow him, were they?

Jake slumped down against the low wall of the shack, catching his breath, out of the dust, and squinting. His eyes hurt with grit. On the bench he wouldn't dare sit on, lest it leave him more exposed to the elements, his eyes caught something, as they started to open again. A leather bag? No, a holster? He reached out for it greedily, hungrily – a gun might just be a piece of salvation, out here. The black leather holster was beautifully handmade, the decorative engraving looking like wispy clouds of smoke, but what was inside was even more astonishing. The grips of the pistol were hardwood, and well finished, but worn. Drawing it out, Jake saw the gun itself, a model 1911 .45 automatic pistol, long barreled, finished in jet black, engraved with rolling clouds of smoke, matching the holster, as if to flow down its barrel. Along the slide reads “California Rest in Peace”. He opened his mouth for the first time since the bandits attacked. “God, what hath you given to me...”

It took Jake a good few minutes of looking over the weapon to familiarize himself with how it worked, as he finally released the slide, finding an empty chamber, but the glint of a brass cartridge in the magazine. Loaded. “Thank you Lord.” he whispered, and released the magazine, checking how many of the preciously rare smokeless powder cartridges he had left. Three rounds. Better than none. He reloaded the magazine with the three rounds at the top, and a few black powder .45 autos he had found along the way, hoping they would be better than an empty gun*.

Jake sat there, waiting out the storm, and looking over his new possession, whispering to himself, and wondering why God, or fate, or whatever luck would grant him such a strange gift. Eventually, his eyes drifted back to the holster, and he found the bulging pocket semi concealed behind it, containing a small book. “A journal?” he thought to himself, as he read through it.

“To Danny California, whoever finds this gun. You needed a weapon, you needed a name, you needed a chance. Here you go.

Signed,

    • Danny California”

He read on. Little stories, or notes, of adventures, of robberies, lives saved, and taken. This gun had been in the hands of so many. This NAME had been in the hands of so many. Danny California. He'd heard the name of that highwayman...adventurer...hero before. He instantly realized why it was so controversial – there was never one person behind it. He read for a while longer, as the sandstorm passed, and belted on his gun. No sign of the bandits...but not a lot left to get him to the next town, not on foot. He could wait for a train, if the eastbound hadn't gone by yet, or...he paused, hearing the familiar sound of horses. He could hop a coach. He sat down on the bench, looking as if he was getting off the train that just passed, knowing the coach would stop for him. If it was unguarded...he looked down at the gun on his belt, and put his bandanna back over his face.

As expected, there was only the lone driver manning the coach. He stepped to the side, as the driver got down to take his money, and the driver immediately knew what was coming. He threw his hands up. “I don't have a damn thing! We just take passengers to the river line!”

Danny smiled under his bandanna, appreciating how easy this was. “I need a ride east and something to eat. Looks like you were going back empty anyway. How about you bring an extra guard and we don't have to call this a hijacking, si?” The driver nodded. “I guess being robbed for my lunch isn't so bad. Get on back, stranger.”

“The name's Danny. Danny California.”

The driver gulped. “Well I'll be a lucky son of a bitch...” as the coach rode off.

Author's note. Being the same cartridge, they WOULD fire, but the lower pressure of the black powder would likely prevent the weapon from properly cycling. .45 Colts would be too long to fit in the magazine, so he couldn't load them even if he wanted to, and a shorter .45 Schofield (which MIGHT have made a comeback in popularity in this setting) would fail to feed from the magazine, and be too short to seal the chamber, making them dangerous to fire. Revolvers in .45 ACP did get made, the M1917 being the most popular, and such a double-action would likely be one of the more common big bore pistols in Iron Legion.

(By Riley)