Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 29 Boy paused. I could see him actually begin to tremble. It had been two long years since we were parted, but we sensed each other instantly. "He walked to me, lifted me from the rack, knew. Checked for my serial number. Gone. Took me apart. There it was, intact still, on my fore-iron and receiver inside. The Boy was shaking so I was afraid he would drop me. I was ecstatic. "The shop owner came from the back. 'Let me sell you that gun,' he said. "'Call the Sheriff,' the Boy said gruffly. The man's face turned whiter than a sheet in a snowstorm. "The Sheriff traced me back through seven hands, but lost the trail between there and Johnston County. I had to remain in court custody, as evidence, and for the short time it took the Boy to prove ownership. No problem. We had pictures of ourselves, galore. "We parted again, most reluctantly, for the time it took to get me to Larry Del Grego, and refurbished almost as good as new. "Six weeks later, I was back in the Boy's hands, and have never left them again. "For the second time in my life, I was reborn. It was the blessing I had prayed for. pillar to post. Almost incredibly, passing several hands out of Johnston County to a sometimes shady gun character called "Shotgun" Hammer in Randolph. The county seat of Randolph was Asheboro. "Hammer sold me to a nearby n'er-do- well. He, to a small gun shop in High Point, 20 miles distant. By then, I was totally forlorn and hopeless. "A week later the Boy was working in Asheville, when he got a call from home. 'A man called today, a Sam Crawford from the Randolph Heath Department,' his wife said. 'Said, there're two Parkers at a gun shop in High Point. Said, one of them kinda sounds like yours.' "The Boy thought to stop by there on the way home, never believing, of course, that it could possibly be. At that moment, 161 miles away, I was brooding on a gun rack in that very same store with the other gun, banged loose, battered and defiled. About as dejected as a gun can get. Knowing I would never see the Boy again. "When, incredibly, he walked in the next day, his searching eyes glanced immediately to the gun rack. I was the lower gun. Astounded, the "Early the next morning, after filing the serial number from my trigger guard, he sold me to the white trash that fenced stolen goods in the country store down the road. He, to someone else. That one to another, and another. All white trash. I never knew their names. I had fallen on the hardest of times, and I feared I would never recover. "When the Boy came back, with a tractor and a chain, that is what he found. Christmas was ungratefully sad that year. For us both. "The Boy spent three months looking for me. Bartered with everything he had: time, money, newspaper ads, flyers, whiskey, self- investigation, law enforcement. Uselessly. I was gone. Finally, all hopes exhausted, we both gave up. "But do you believe in miracles?! "Sometime afterward the Boy happened to be working in Asheboro, coincidentally, with Samuel Crawford, a Sanitarian with the County Health Department. Who was also a gun collector. He had a gun stolen too, a Winchester, gallery .22. 'I'll look out for yours,' they each promised, 'you look out for mine.' As if, impossibly, it could happen. "Meanwhile, I was bartered and battered,