It was the tail end of February 1939 in Hereford, Texas, and except for school, there was little to occupy me and Joe Bishop. Hunting season was long past, and our fishing gear wouldn't be coming out of storage for a couple of months. My scuffed old football lay in disuse in my closet, and neither of us liked basketball.

Saturday was the bright day of the winter week. A dime apiece gained us admittance to the Star Theatre, and this particular Saturday found us in the front row, inhaling big nickel bags of popcorn and watching a Ken Maynard western three times. We always watched the matinees three times, making sure we got our money's worth. Three times was no chore because we liked the way Ken Maynard handled his sixgun, and we especially liked the dashing way he rode his horse Tarzan, who was some horse.

Blinking as we walked into the bright afternoon sunlight, I asked Joe, "Whaddaya want to do next? We got two hours to kill before supper."

"Let's drop into Streu's and see what's new," suggested my skinny sidekick.

Streu Hardware was just a couple of doors down Main Street. Me and Joe got as much entertainment there as we did at the Star since Streu's had a large rack of new and used rifles and shotguns, along with a good variety of ammunition. For some reason, Streu's didn't sell handguns.

Mr. Streu knew me and Joe were not able to buy anything more than the occasional box of .22s or shotgun shells, but he was invariably obliging when we wanted to handle one of the guns on his rack. On that day, after greeting the merchant, we simultaneously spotted a handsome new rifle on the rack. We pointed and, speaking at the same time, asked, "May I see that?"

Mr. Streu reached for the gun and handed it over. Deeply blued, with varnished, figured stock and fore-end, it was a flat-sided, sleek .22 Long Rifle automatic. It handled beautifully. It was a dream gun. It was a Model 63 Winchester. Charlie Burke, our rancher friend, had an old, blue-worn 63 Winchester he'd let us shoot, and we liked it, but the hardware store rifle was the first new one me and Joe had ever seen. It was irresistible.

"How much?" I asked, dreading the answer. Mr. Streu silently pointed to the price tag looped to the trigger guard and ruined my day. The blue crayon mark read "$40."

The price was astronomical. In our part of the country in 1939, you could hire the services of a good man for two weeks for $40. To a pair of 12-year-old youngsters, this was an impossible sum. Might as well have been $4,000.

Reluctantly handing back the little Winchester, we thanked Mr. Streu and left the store, walking for our homes.

"I'm gonna have one of those someday," Joe said grimly.

"Me, too," I responded, with what I hoped sounded like conviction.

A brief talk with my mother that evening confirmed there was no way the family coffers could yield up $40 for a .22 rifle. After all, hadn't it been only the previous fall that she'd paid $12 for my good, used .22 Remington pump? What did I need with two rifles?

My argument fell on deaf ears. Maybe I could get a job. No, grown men were going without jobs. Besides, I had to go to school. I could sell newspapers, but the local Hereford Brand was only a weekly. It would take two years to make $40. I was stymied, but I couldn't get the little Winchester off my mind.

The next day, Joe's dad drove us to an abandoned caliche pit where he and his friends sometimes gathered for informal shoots. The pit was empty when we arrived, but before we could unlimber our .22s, C.C. "Rock" Roden and his son Tom, a boy our age, showed up riding bicycles. Both were physical fitness enthusiasts and exercised constantly. Then came Charlie Burke and Jimmy Stocks, a pair of cowmen who liked to shoot.

We had a quorum and immediately paired off, shooting at rocks and tin cans. Big Joe--Joe's dad--shot a new Colt Match Target Woodsman with odd, skirt-like stocks. Charlie shot his venerable Model 63, and Jimmy had a short High Standard pistol. Rock Roden fired a newish-looking Colt Woodsman--the sport model--and his boy Tom used a Remington single-shot bolt-action rifle to good effect. Me and Joe plodded along with our old guns, mine a Remington Model 12 pump and his an antiquated, worn-out Stevens single-shot pistol with a detachable shoulder stock.

Tom Roden was a good shot, but me and Joe could beat him. We could also beat all the men--except Joe's dad, an ex-Texas Ranger who was deadly with a pistol.