My father collected guns. Vintage Western pistols. He sold most before he died, but kept one – a Colt Peacekeeper. My mother hid it in the hallway closet where we kept his things.

One afternoon while we were supposed to be napping, my big brother and I slipped away to find it. "I'm the man of the house now," he whispered. "The gun's mine."

Standing on his toes, he ran his fingers along dark cardboard shapes until he settled on a small wooden rectangle at the back of the shelf. Holding his breath, he brought down the container, creaked it open, and angled a shiny blue barrel toward the dim light filtering in from the living room window. As I reached for it, our mother swung open the door.

The pistol wasn't loaded, but she wouldn't stop crying.

The next day, with my brother in grammar school, my mother and I drove to Doc Holiday's pawnshop. I remembered the outlaw's name and the bars on the windows.

I pushed the door. A silver bell tinkled. Two men behind the counter stopped talking and looked at us. The tall one elbowed the short one and smiled. They always smiled. The mailman. The butcher. The gas station mechanic. My mother squeezed my hand.

At the register, she squared her shoulders, set the wooden box on the counter, and opened it. The tall one stroked his beard. The short one whistled through his teeth. While they talked, I stared down at the glass cases of man things, hunting knives and fishing knives, handles carved from antlers, handles carved from bone, blades bright as mirrors.

*

On the way home, the wooden box empty beside her, my mother dabbed tissues under her Jackie O sunglasses. I stood on the backseat and touched her shoulder.

"Don't worry. I'll protect you."

Blowing her nose, she glanced in the rearview and tried to smile.

In the black ovals of her eyes, I saw myself.