Jake leaned back on the old kitchen chair, tilting back on the back legs like his Mamma had always told him not to do. The legs all showed loops of baling wire holding them together, from the front to the back, five or six wraps that had been twisted together with a sixteen-penny nail to tighten them up. The chair held, like it always did when he sat back and put his feet, and his big muddy boots up on the rail. Jake, or John, or Johnny, Joe, JT, Big Jake, Jay-boy .........well, he'd been called lots of things on jobs he'd worked . It sort of depended on how many fellows with the same name had turned up to work and who got there first. Most places when the boss called for Jake or John he didn't want half the crew turning around and laying off their shovels or picks. The mud from today's job was still on his boots when he leaned back and propped them up. Of course, there was something else, too. In the toe of his right boot was a brown spot, right out there on the very end of the heavy sole. Different than the mud, it looked more like a finger size spot of molasses, and that's just what it was. Jake had daubed the molasses there with his little finger, then wiped the finger on his overalls, and put the cork back in the jug. That was important. If he left the cork out, then flies got into the jug, attracted by the sticky richness of the molasses, and that's exactly why he had daubed it on his boot. About the the time the first big blue fly found his boot Jake had put six new brass cartridges in his .22 revolver. The old H&R had seen lots of use and even more mis-use, being carried around in the bib overalls in all sorts of weather, in the dust and the mud and the rain. There was still some of the original factory blue in the protected nooks and crannies, but most of it had worn off through the years. Even the grooves on the cylinder, all nine of them, showed wear. Jake had taken it to a buddy who re-blued the pistol one time and that lasted for a year or so. Then, he got a bottle of the stuff himself and he had touched up worn spots till the hounds had tipped the bottle over, spilling it. Now Jake just oiled it, there was plenty of oil in his world. He could always find an open can or wipe some motor oil off a funnel in the crane on the job. A good wipe down with an oily rag and the old revolver didn't rust too bad. He was more careful with the chambers and the bore and made sure that the internals of the weapon were shiny and clean, no matter what. Just enough oil, not too much. The grips were that hard black plastic and he liked that. Wood grips probably would not have survived the wet and dry that the old piece had seen. There were three little notches side by side near the bottom. He didn't know what they were for. They were there when he had won the gun in a card game. He pulled the pivot pin and rolled the cylinder over, checking to see if every chamber had an unused round in it. When he was satisfied that everything was ready, he reached over and got his drink, some local 'shine in a tin cup and took a drink. It burned, and he liked that, all the way down. It tasted way better than the drinking water on the job. Probably was safer, too. Setting the cup back down, he noticed that there were three of the big blue flies interested in his boot now, Hard to shoot the little bastards out of the air, so he waited till one landed and buried it's sucker mouth in the molasses. Then, KAPOW! He clicked off a round, missing the fly by an inch probably. He didn't usually get the first one on the first try. But, it was Friday, and there was still a couple hours of daylight left, and God made lots of flies. He'd get the next one, or the one after that, he wasn't shooting very far.