The color in the sky had changed from its bright blue to a pale orange as the evening crept up on the Smoky Mountain Sanctuary. A fresh mountain breeze swept across the slopes of the Sanctuary, shaking the chimes on porches into their tunes, brushing the trees into a low hiss of the leaves, and cooling Calvin Baird’s face as he waited.

  He was instructed to wait by the well in the center of the little town. A Plaidshirt named Jimmy Becker waited with him, offering some lemonade he had managed to pry off of the cafeteria ladies. Jimmy’s freckled face puckered a bit as he tasted the lemonade.

  “That Miss Tiana don’t use nearly enough sugar for me.” Jimmy’s slow Tennessee drawl painted his words with Southern charm.

  “I think it’s pretty good” Cal sipped from a glass bottle, “I got a thing for the sour stuff, I guess.”

  “They got sour sticks at the general shop.” Jimmy nodded, “You’d like em. Sour Watermelon flavor is good.” He looked down at his own bottle, “I ain’t never had a watermelon was sour before, so I don’t know how they got to the idea.”

  The two were interrupted by steps resounding along the dirt road. Cal lifted his head, anticipating the arrival of his promised trainer. He was met with the figure of a tall Six-Gun. This man didn’t wear a poncho, like Louey, instead he had on a very long black watchcoat which shaped his profile. Cal found the look of him very intimidating, but he was still hoping that this was his trainer.

  “You the kid I’m supposed to take on?” The Gun asked him in a gruff voice. He was holding a steel flask, gesturing with it towards Calvin.

  “That’s me!” Cal hopped up, “I really can’t wait to get started!”

  “Come on, the Trial.” The man barked, turning away from him. He waved the flask to beckon him.

  Cal, a little taken aback by the cold response, blinked in contemplation.

  “Comin’, or not?” The Gun’s voice lacked Jimmy’s southern twang.

  Watching Cal hop after him, Jimmy sipped more of his lemonade. He made a disgusted face again. “Not enough sugar…”

  Without a word, the Gun in the watchcoat stepped down the dusty road. Cal stumbled in an attempt to catch up. He watched the Gun closely, searching for some kind of acknowledgement on his face. He did not find it.

  “So, uh, what’s your name sir?” He held his hat to his head as he rushed along.

  The Gun didn’t answer him. He simply kept walking. His eyes ahead, it was as if he hadn’t heard Calvin at all.

  “You know,” Cal grinned, “I can NOT wait to get my pistol! I have been literally dreaming about this.”

  The Gun promptly stopped in his tracks. Cal, caught off guard, took a few more steps before turning back.

  “Let’s get a few things straight, kid.” The Gun’s brown-eyed gaze tore through Cal, straight to his soul, “Until you pass the trial, you’re no brother to me. You’re not even useful yet, like the Plaidshirts. You’re nothing, a civilian at best.”

  Cal swallowed, in shock at his statement.

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  He continued, “And I know who you are, Calvin Baird. Don’t think that’s going to color my opinion of you or change how I treat you. The fact is, I don’t like your father. He’s an asshole. So, until you pass the Trial and show me you actually got a pair of nuts, we have no reason to speak at all.”

  With that, Calvin lowered his head and shut his mouth. His mood deflated, he didn’t speak until they reached the stables.

  “We’re taking horses, kid.” The Gun barked, “Grab yours. It’s about a three hour ride.”

  “Gotcha.” Calvin was still a little surprised by his tone. One of the Plaidshirts, the stable boy Thomas, trotted over to them. Thomas always wore a smile, it was clear to everyone that he loved working with the horses and helping the Guns.

  “How’s it going fellers!” Thomas leaned on the post. Closer to Calvin’s age, he didn’t smoke just yet. In place of a cigar, as his dad would have, Thomas kept a piece of strawgrass in his lips.

  “Can you ready Kilhorn?” The elder Gun asked, his tone much softer. Calvin noticed the distinct difference in how the man talked to him and the Plaid. “And whoever the kid rides” He cocked his head in Cal’s direction

  “Chip!” Cal butt in, “Chip is my boy.”

  Thomas nodded to them and set off to saddle the horses. After a few minutes, he brought out a tall black Bay, who Cal knew must have been Kilhorn. The majestic creature, his coat shining, nudged the elder Gun’s hat in greeting. Then Thomas led out a shorter brown Morgan. Cal smiled; this was Chip, arguably his best friend at the Smoky Mountain Sanctuary.

  A year ago, Calvin had graduated from the practice mules the boys learned to ride on and found himself in need of a more permanent horse. As with all companions, the aspiring Six-Gun was meant to be selected by his horse, not the other way around. Members of Grady’s Posse had to prove their worth in all things, as with the Witches, the horses, and even their pistols. Nothing was given to them, everything must be earned. The witches and horses had lives too, an inadequate Six-Gun might get them killed. Their pistols, each one a sacred tool of destruction, were meant to only be carried by those who had learned to control themselves. Such a responsibility was too much for the undisciplined, and so the trial Calvin was about to undertake would prove his worth.

  As for his horse, Calvin had initially struggled to find himself a friendly steed. Every day for a week he took a different horse down the mountain to the path called the Rat Run. Six-Guns from the Sanctuary took their horses to this bumpy, winding path to see who could outride who. Their horses enjoyed the interesting run down the mountain, and the riders would often compete for time and race one another directly. For Calvin, the Rat Run made the perfect testing ground for potential horses. In the mornings he took out a different horse, but by lunch he had been bucked off by each one. After nearly ten tries, Cal was beginning to think he was better off walking everywhere. That was, until he met Chip.

  They called the brown Morgan “Chip” on account of the prominent chips he always made in his front hooves. Chip had thrown little temper tantrums, unsatisfied with this or that, and every time he got worked up he took to stomping his front hooves on the ground. He especially liked to do this on the roads, where his hooves would make a nice loud clopping. The farriers had developed a grudge against him, as he kept throwing his shoes from stomping on the pavement.

  It wasn’t until Chip met Calvin that he started to calm down. He found Calvin moping near the stables one day, on his tenth day of trying out horses, and decided that it wouldn’t do to leave the young Gun alone. Chip trotted right up to Calvin and greeted him with a firm, friendly headbutt. Calvin, unprepared to be attacked by a horse, fell over with the blow. He rubbed his head, glaring at his equine assailant. His harsh look softened when he saw Chip hopping and whinnying in delight. The Morgan actually thought it was funny.

  From then on, Calvin and Chip had been friends. Chip would often headbutt him, dancing around, but he never bucked him off. Cal took him out to the Rat Run and Chip cruised around the tight bends and down the steep slopes, unphased by his rider. The two had natural chemistry, Cal found he often didn’t have to make any command. Chip would intuit how to ride. Calvin spent a lot of time with Chip in the year preceding his sixteenth birthday, the two had become inseparable.

  When Chip saw him that evening, he bounced a bit and stomped a hoof. Calvin chuckled, “Are you good to go buddy?”

  Chip clopped over to him and smacked his head with his own, forcing Calvin back. Wiping at his forehead, Calvin had to laugh a bit. This display did not amuse the elder Gun.