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Finn took the gun with gratitude. “I’ll put it to good use. I did have a great teacher after all.” His old man didn’t ever really spend much time teaching him how to use one, but he was there nearly every time his father cleaned, loaded, and shot his. Finn had always been very observant. On top of that, his father had let him practice on a rusty old Paterson he had picked off of a dead Buffalo soldier. It had a little too much play between the barrel and the cylinder, but heck, it was a gun, and for years it was the only toy he had until it finally quit on him.

“If I ever find myself backed into a corner, I want you to have my back. You'd better not forget.”

If there was anyone in the all the West with an impeccable memory it was Finn Badfinger. Even the most minute and unimportant details of people, places, and events were indelibly etched in his mind. No, his memory was anything but lacking, and he would prove it.

"I won't forget, Paw!" Weasel took the revolver, put it back in the holster and fastened the belt on his waist. Then, with a swift action, he pulled it out, pretending to point it at an invisible adversary. He threw it into the air, grabbed it again, twirled it on one finger and put it back in place in one quick movement. The award for his performance was the back of a hand square in the jaw. The boy found himself on the floor with a red, swollen cheek and a puffy lip.