Skullpopper

He pulled something out of the hip pocket of his faded jeans and waved it before Josh’s eyes.

“This is Uncle Waymon’s favorite skullpopper. He was the black sheep of our family. Ugly as a pan of worms! Went to being a lawman, he did. Deputy over in Garland County. But he come out of it and got himself straightened out.”

The pride of Uncle Waymon was a black leather object obviously designed for hitting people over the head. Reb slapped it against his palm with a satisfactory whack.

“About ten ounces of lead in it,” he confided professionally. “One tap, and they sleep like babies. Might wake up with a little headache, but that’s all.”