The twin cities of Nogales, Sonora, and Nogales, Arizona, are hot in autumn, and this story started in the heart of the Mexican twin on a sweaty September day in 1951.
Stop for a minute and let a balding middle-ager recall that once upon a time a hasty shine on his spurworn boots, clean Levis, and a few silver pesos in his pocket were all that was required to enjoy a day and night in that friendly border town, and to relax at the end of a week of far riding on a U.S. Border Patrol broomtail. After cooperating with a slug or two of Jose Cuervo tequila bracketed by salt, I ventured forth this fall day to inspect the action around the big shady plaza.
The only thing moving seemed to be a plump traffic policeman, all brass and starched khaki. I lonesomely aimed toward him, figuring on practicing my Spanish.
All thoughts of linguistic betterment left me when I saw the sixgun at his hip. It was a short-barreled Colt single-action in almost new factory condition.
In my most flowery Tex-Mex I inquired if the officer’s sidearm was for sale. It was not. Many turistas had offered him much money for his gun, “but a police official must be armed, senor.” Would the Captain (he was a corporal) consider a trade?
His eyes were those of a Spanish conqueror about to loot a Mayan temple. Drawing himself erect and haughtily sucking in his belly, he proclaimed, “It would require a new .38 Special to exchange for my pistol–a new Smith y Wesson.”
I reached inside my shirt and handed him my gun so fast he probably thought I was throwing down on him. It was a brand-new Smith Heavy Duty .38-44, topped off with a fifteen-dollar pair of Lew Sanderson’s custom grips. No more conversation was necessary. A bargain had been struck.
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Originally Posted by Tom Givens
