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He stood on the street corner in downtown Mercer, Wisconsin. It was hotter than Hades. His grandma - God rest her soul - liked to say on days like this that it was hotter than two hamsters farting in a wool sock.

He heard that Mercer was the place to find a gun with no questions asked. Stepping off the curb, he made his way across the empty street to the Wampum Shop. The word on the street was that the store's owner liked to make money, and he had trouble remembering customers - reassuring words to a guy looking for a gun on short notice.

Thankful to get out of the oppressive heat, he jerked the shop's old aluminum door open and stepped inside. The door banged closed and he was instantly met by the overwhelming smell of cedar and cheap incense that walloped him like a prizefighter with a roll of nickels in his glove. The other thing worth noting was the big Indian standing near the entrance of the store. His arms were crossed and he didn't look like he was in a very good mood. The Indian's eyes seemed to follow him all the way across the room to where the owner stood behind a counter.

"I need a piece and some ammo. I heard you're the man to talk to." The man behind the counter looked down, sizing up his customer. "What sorta gun you lookin' for, stranger? I got all kinds. You got a big job to take care of? Maybe you need a big gun, eh?"

"No," the customer replied, shaking his head. "I need something small and light. Something I can keep in my pocket and not worry my pants will wind up around my ankles when I'm on the move." Looking in the glass case, he spotted just what he needed. "That one. I'll take that one, the pearl-handled revolver. And gimme a few boxes of ammo and throw in a pack of cigs while you're at it, too. I'll take a box of Kings if you got 'em."

The stranger left the shop, happy to be done with his business, and maybe even happier to be out from under the watchful gaze of the big Indian, who hadn't so much as batted an eyelash the whole time he was talking to the shop owner. Ducking under an awning that offered some shade, the stranger hung a fresh King off his lower lip. He blew some chalky dust into the hot July air and thought about what he planned to do later in the day.

To keep his mind sharp on the ride back to the cabin, he kept an eye out for Volkswagens, and silently played the alphabet game. He got hung up on the letter J. The letter J was always a tough one to spot. He opened the box of Kings and was somewhat surprised to see that he'd gone through nearly the whole pack. Once he started it was tough to stop.

Later that evening his big brother, Anders, made Augie close his eyes and count to twenty while he dashed off around the corner of the cabin to hide: "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...ready or not, here I come!" Augie checked one last time to make sure his gun was properly loaded as he cautiously began to stalk his opponent. Augie was good. He was only seven, but not too many could play the game any better than him.

A pair of tennis shoes betrayed Anders' position behind one of the parked vehicles in the driveway. Augie silently crept around the back of the pickup truck and squeezed off a bunch of shots - Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The new six-shooter, gleaming in the sunlight, flawlessly fed red paper caps up and out of the breach. Smoke hung lazily in the still air and there was the sweet smell of gunpowder. It smelled like...victory. "I got you!" Augie yelled triumphantly. Anders never saw his little brother coming.

Augie only had one candy cigarette left in the box. He was saving it for this occasion. He shook out the last "cavity stick," crunched it in half with his teeth, and then wiped a few smudges off the nickel finish of his new cap gun with the corner of his dirty t-shirt.

He didn't know when they'd get back to the Wampum Shop. Soon, he hoped. A northwoods trading post was the only place a kid could get great stuff like cap guns, candy cigarettes, fake barf, and trick chewing gum that made your mouth turn black. Maybe Mom and Dad would take them tomorrow if the weather was too crummy to swim or fish. As usual, the store's Wooden Indian would be there to greet them.

If you have comments for Dan or story ideas contact him at e-mail [email protected].

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