{Firefly] "How I Can Just Kill a Man"(R)
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic's "Firefly, Mal, The first time he killed a man" WARNING: Violence and gore
Ma had taught Mal how to handle a gun proper-like and to shoot it as soon as he was old enough to understand the responsibility it entailed and as soon as he was big enough to handle the recoil. He'd made himself useful around the barnyard, shooting black snakes and rats in the granary. One time when he was thirteen, he shot a coyote that had tried getting into the calving pens.
But then came the day when he was sixteen and out riding fences with Garm and Huin, two of the older hands, when they spied three men ducking under the fence, the heads of several lambs peeking out of the deep pockets of their tattered coats and the ends of their bedrolls.
"Hoy there, them ain't yers!" Garm shouted, spurring his horse after the intruders.
The rustlers fled, but one of them turned, drawing a pistol from his belt and firing at Huin. The bullet clipped his hat, but the older man kept his seat.
Almost on autopilot, Mal took down the rifle from his shoulder, leveled it at the gunman and fired. The man went down as if he'd been pole-axed. The body twitched once or twice, then lay still. The three of them rode up to it, Huin calling their dog to round up the scattered sheep.
Mal stared down at the body. This had once been a man, and now the body lay sprawled in the dust, half the chest blown open, blood mixed into the dirt.
Garm turned to Mal, a grim smile crossing his leathery face. "Son, y' just made yerself a man."
"Ky-otes kill people but that don't make 'em men," Mal replied, a quote from scripture coming to mind.
"Ain't killin' that made y' a man: it was protectin' yer family," Garm replied.
Since that day, Mal killed to protect whomever he considered close enough to call family...
Ma had taught Mal how to handle a gun proper-like and to shoot it as soon as he was old enough to understand the responsibility it entailed and as soon as he was big enough to handle the recoil. He'd made himself useful around the barnyard, shooting black snakes and rats in the granary. One time when he was thirteen, he shot a coyote that had tried getting into the calving pens.
But then came the day when he was sixteen and out riding fences with Garm and Huin, two of the older hands, when they spied three men ducking under the fence, the heads of several lambs peeking out of the deep pockets of their tattered coats and the ends of their bedrolls.
"Hoy there, them ain't yers!" Garm shouted, spurring his horse after the intruders.
The rustlers fled, but one of them turned, drawing a pistol from his belt and firing at Huin. The bullet clipped his hat, but the older man kept his seat.
Almost on autopilot, Mal took down the rifle from his shoulder, leveled it at the gunman and fired. The man went down as if he'd been pole-axed. The body twitched once or twice, then lay still. The three of them rode up to it, Huin calling their dog to round up the scattered sheep.
Mal stared down at the body. This had once been a man, and now the body lay sprawled in the dust, half the chest blown open, blood mixed into the dirt.
Garm turned to Mal, a grim smile crossing his leathery face. "Son, y' just made yerself a man."
"Ky-otes kill people but that don't make 'em men," Mal replied, a quote from scripture coming to mind.
"Ain't killin' that made y' a man: it was protectin' yer family," Garm replied.
Since that day, Mal killed to protect whomever he considered close enough to call family...