The pistol that wanted to go home

My parents have had this thing my whole life where they tell me something is mine – but I can’t have it. “You will get it some day.”

When I was about 12 years old, Daddy bought a new Ruger Bearcat .22 pistol. He showed it to me, said it was mine but I couldn’t have it now. For reasons I will never understand, he took the pistol to my grandparents. Grandad carried it in his pocket for years; so much in fact that the bluing was worn completely off the front site and end of the barrel. The line that appears around a cylinder when many rounds have been fired is quite noticeable. Later when Grandad stopped working away from home, Granny carried it in her pocket to discourage varmints. I have seen her many times sitting on a five-gallon bucket in her garden, holding that pistol loosely between her knees, waiting for an offending produce thief to show up.

Over 40 years went by and I finally got possession of my pistol. Worn or not, I was so happy and I loved that little gun. Of course I wanted to carry it and I did. It rode many hours horseback in my doctor bag with just the grips sticking out. I had the holster in my bag and the flap buckled, so it took a good pull to get the pistol out of the bag. I thought.

Over a year ago I was riding on Kendall McKissick’s cow operation. He has hundreds of acres on Pecan Creek. In fact, he has a beautiful pecan grove on the place. A lot of the ground is pretty wooly. On this particular day when I got home to unsaddle, my pistol was gone. I couldn’t breathe. Mike and I hightailed it right back to the ranch to look – but if the “needle in a haystack” rule ever applied, this was the time. I was sure I must have been in the brush and a limb pulled it out. I was sure it was too tight in my bag to fall out. I hadn’t been doing anything wild that day.

As soon as I could, I told Kendall and his feed hand about my pistol and asked them to help look. Every now and then I would run into one of them and each always told me they were looking for my gun.

I went back every day possible and tried to retrace every step I rode, but no luck. I concentrated on the brush I rode through, thinking it wouldn’t be beside the clear parts of the ranch road. Finally I resigned myself to the fact that I had lost my little pistol. When the leaves fell in the fall, I was sure it was gone forever.

Mike felt so sorry for me. He found a Bearcat in pristine condition and bought it for me (at ten times the price originally paid for my gun) as a replacement. He said he knew it was not like having the one I lost, but I would have one. This was also important because when Keith died, he left me his little Bearcat. So I had a pair; mine and Keith’s. And there’s the fact that now those little .22 pistols are rare and collectors’ items. Not many were made that only shot regular .22 shells. Ruger still makes a .22 Bearcat, but they are longer so they can also shoot .22 magnum shells. Parts for Bearcats like mine are difficult to find and pretty pricey.

A few days ago my neighbor Johnny McGlasson sent me a picture with the message “want to buy a pistol?” I couldn’t believe it. It was my Bearcat! Of course I called him. Johnny said he’d had it since the spring. He was on the creek when the sand bass were running in his side by side. He started home on the ranch road coming out of the pecan grove and saw something shining, partially buried in the dirt. My pistol. So he took it home, cleaned it well, and despite missing the screw that holds the ejector arm in, the gun was in pretty good shape. He said he never thought about asking if I had lost a gun. He asked the hog hunter and it wasn’t his. Johnny kinda forgot about it until the other day when he saw Kendall. That’s when he found out I lost a pistol.

Mike collected the pistol – very clean with tape holding the ejector rod in. Mike said that was not a problem, he could get another screw. We were amazed that except for the wooden grips being dry, the gun was in about the same shape as when I lost it.

Then yesterday, Johnny messaged me. “I guess your pistol just won’t be denied. I happened to glance at the gator floor and found that screw. I’d already looked several times. It showed up this time. Guess it was doing its best to get home.”

And so it is home. Right beside Keith’s. That pistol came home.