Gun Work

One individual in particular stood out, mainly because he was taller than most of the mourners; an American who had come to live in Mexico as Mano’s apprentice and heir apparent (despite Mano’s large and diverse family). This man is referred to by some as el hombre de las armas, the gunman, a large, quiet enigma with slender, exotic hands. No one knows his real name, or if he even has a name. After his arrival, Mano’s gem and jewelry shop was never again targeted by even the most desperate or stupid robbers. Several of Mano’s blood relatives now staff the establishment, for when the big man arrived he quickly acquired several vehicles specially outfitted for long excursions deep into the mountains and countryside. He and Mano would often disappear for days on these elaborate expeditions, which grew to possess much of the quality of a vision quest. Nearly always they would bring back some mineral find of rare beauty or astonishing complexity from some dry riverbed or hidden cavern.

They also became a fixture at local cantinas and family-run eateries, always welcome, persistently popular, in no small measure because the mere presence of the stranger was deemed a good thing for the entire community. In the face of indifference by constabularies to petty crime, he seemed to be a guardian angel, like a samurai or paladin, a stoic protector of silent strength who inspired an overall sense of healing. He was the sort of man who has seen enough of pain and suffering and emerged scorched, but not burned, from that crucible. Ordinary people fabricated entire mythologies about his possible past.

Now, with Mano gone, the stranger continues his habit of long treks into the wild, still returning with something compelling every time. He is a frequent visitor and honored backstage guest at Arena Coliseo, where he avidly watches the age-old battle between good and evil enacted by high-flying men in colorful costumes and strange masks, in a ring where alliances are fluid and betrayal is the essence of drama. Good guys, bad guys... and even the most normal person can have a secret identity, an alternate life.

At his workbench in the rear of Mano’s shop the stranger labors with a monk’s patience among stone tumblers and wax castings, refining the lessons taught by the genteel little man. There is another, larger station for gun work; it takes up an entire wall and features many arcane tools. He has become expert at custom modifications and special adjustments. He manufactures many of his own parts and loads his own special pedigrees of ammunition. In jewelry and stones, he is committed to learning a craft; with guns, he is turning a craft into an artform.

The ghostly entreaties said to be heard at night during the full moon on the Arroyo de La Llorona have been dormant for some time now.

The stranger’s odd hands no longer bleed.

Among his many friends are a special group found in the back of his workshop; his closest and most intimate friends, gathered there on the table. You probably already know their names, too: Remington, Ruger, Browning, Beretta, Kimber, Colt, Smith, Wesson, SIG.

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