Chapter 4-4
1196 Words
The boy’s hand flashed down and he drew the gun from its holster and pointed, but he found himself looking into the hole of Uncle Chad’s gun, which was pointing dead centre at Chris’ heart.
“Bang, boy, you’re dead!” the old man said grimly.
The boy just stood there, staring agog at the gun pointing at him.
“I’d be doggoned, Uncle Chad, who are you?” he whispered in awed tones. “No one can be that fast!”
“Your lessons in gunplay shall be deemed complete the day you beat me to the draw, boy!”
Beating Uncle Chad to the draw had taken an extremely long time.
The boy practised countless times, but each time his gun came up, he found himself facing the levelled end of Uncle Chad’s gun.
“You can do it!” Uncle Chad thundered. “Concentrate, damn you! Concentrate!”
It was futile.
The days crawled to months, and then a year came, and still, the boy had not been able to beat Uncle Chad’s draw even once.
And then, one day, when the boy was just nearing his seventeenth birthday, it happened.
Chris Bawa, once again, came home and found his sister’s face swollen; she had been physically assaulted by their father that afternoon…again!
Ted Bawa had beaten up Ruth so mercilessly that her eyes were just mere slits, and her lips were broken and swollen so badly that Chris could barely recognize his sister.
Impotent tears came to Chris’ eyes!
How could a man do this to his only daughter?
His young heart boiled with absolute wrath as he fled from the house and saddled up his horse.
Chris Bawa rode to the rendezvous with Uncle Chad in a rage.
Uncle Chad knew his student was uncontrollably upset, but he said nothing. He watched as the boy paced the forest floor angrily, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles showed a bloodless white.
“Boiling roiling anger has been the downfall of many a foolish warrior,” Uncle Chad said softly as he sliced a piece of fresh apple into his mouth.
The boy stopped pacing and fixed his icy stare on his mentor.
“I ain’t in no particular mood for none of your oratories today, Uncle Chad,” he said evenly, his voice bristling with animosity and wrath.
“Indeed you’re a fool!” the old man went on, undaunted. “You listen to me good, laddie. Anger and all its ugly siblings are good, but it is bad to show your enemy that side of your nature.”
He pointed his knife at Chris.
“It is best to hold your anger inside and use it as a weapon, to unleash it in a way your foe isn’t prepared for. If you let it rattle you, then it will inhibit your brain, make you mistake-prone, take your concentration away for a split second…and, believe me, a split second is more than enough time for a man to die!”
“Oh, yeah?” the boy asked in a dangerously soft drawl, taking a step forward. “You feeling like you can prove that?”
They stared at each other.
The older man carefully put his knife and apple down and got slowly to his feet.
“Sure thing, laddie,” he said coldly. “Make your play!”
With a roar of anger, young Chris Bawa charged at his mentor.
His movements were stunningly fast, unbelievably brutal. The dry leaves on the forest floor crackled and flew as the two engaged in a battle so deadly that it would have stunned anyone who knew them.
The boy twisted, thrust, pounced, clawed...
He was a deadly machine let loose, his whole body singing a fine rhythm of cohesive harmony!
The years he had been taught by Uncle Chad now rolled into one, and Chris Bawa moved with the finesse of a matador, with fists flying and legs kicking, exhibiting an exhilarating pattern of combat that secretly impressed the old Uncle Chad to no end!
However, as swift as Chris was, as awesome as he was, he could not get to the old man, whose movements were as sinuous and as fluid as a mountain cat.
Uncle Chad parried, side-stepped, turned inward, pushed and simply avoided each attacking move. And then he stepped inside a slashing strike from Chris, and sent his open right hand surging toward the boy’s throat, fingers rigid and splayed, so that the space between thumb and forefinger smashed into the windpipe of Chris Bawa.
Chris emitted a strangled sob, and his whole body seemed to sag.
He grabbed his throat, making terrible choking noises. The sandwiches he had taken earlier that day came spewing out of his mouth in an arcing vomit.
He coughed, painful tears springing to his eyes as he fell down, curled up in the foetal position, his body trembling from the terrible pain that racked his body.
Uncle Chad then sat down.
His body was drenched in sweat, and he was panting.
The boy was young and strong, and keeping him at bay had sapped all the strength out of Uncle Chad’s body. He picked up his knife and apple again and proceeded to cut little chunks of the fruit and put them in his mouth.
“When you attack in anger, you aim to hurt and to punish, and by doing that you lay yourself wide open to your enemy’s counter-reactions,” Uncle Chad said at length when the boy stopped thrashing.
He chewed a piece of apple thoughtfully.
“I just showed you how dangerous it is to fight without controlling your fury, laddie.”
He stood up and looked down at the gasping Chris Bawa.
“You need to control your anger, laddie. Hide it right deep down in you, channelling its energy into your brain, and then attack. Your enemy might goad you, trying to make you angry enough to react foolishly. You might feel that anger, but you learn to hide it, to keep it sizzling in you, waiting for the right moment to unleash it.”
The boy listened wordlessly, but his eyes still burned.
Slowly he got to his feet, wiped his mouth dry, and began buckling on his gun-belt.
Uncle Chad watched him, noting that the boy’s hands were steady, his actions calm and deliberate. Uncle Chad nodded to himself and got to his feet again.
He also picked up his gun-belt and buckled it on, and then he faced the boy, his feet slightly apart, and his hand hovering near the butt of his Colt.
The boy moved back a few steps, and stood still, head c****d slightly to one side, left hand dangling beside him, right thumb hooked into his belt.
“Make your move,” he said, his eyes boring into those of his teacher.
Uncle Chad mentally counted to three, and then his hand swept down.
- Writer
