The countryside was mostly flat as it spread away from a rocky hill known locally as Kudu Mountain, and it was a mixture of acacia, thorn and red dirt. Standing in the shadow of a large acacia, I watched Egyptian gees muddle in a waterhole two football fields long and half as wide. I knew a duiker with magnificent horns lived along the damn, and that warthogs polluted the area, often grunting and wallowing in the goo surrounding one of the few oases this side of the Orange Ri

It seems that time can be a tricky thing to master. I very specifically remember that when I was a kid, time was stubborn and had little to no interest in passing. It didn't seem to matter if I was waiting for the morning to arrive, or waiting for the summer school break. Time could not be rushed, and no amount of begging could convince it.

It was Thanksgiving day when I first asked the Gun Tales community to share photos of their favorite revolvers. I imagined we all shared the same purpose that at that moment—sit around and wait for the pie. I thought it would simply be a fun, short-lived moment on Facebook where a few loyal readers would share ten or fifteen photos.

Sometimes the wind blows like hell there. It blows the hardest when it comes from the west, across Devil’s Hole and the top of the South Branch Mountain, and then down the steep eastern slope into the bowels of Pot Lick Cove.