I was 11 years old.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;

&ldquo;Randell!&rdquo; my dad yells after his day at work. This day was different though. &ldquo;Come outside, will ya?&rdquo;

&ldquo;Yes Sir&rdquo; I grab my thick raccoon fur coat and run outside. The cold, thin, Colorado, November air scraping the inside of my nostrils.&nbsp;

&ldquo;Come here.&rdquo; Dad says, muffled through a freshly lit cigarette. He pats the spot next to where he&rsquo;s sitting on the back of our wooden wagon he uses to carry the carcasses of the dead game he catches. My dad was a fur tradesman. He once came back with a dead bear bigger than Whiskey, my father&rsquo;s biggest stallion, in the wagon. I hop up next to him on the wagon. &ldquo;Listen boy. You&rsquo;re gonna be a man soon and you&#39;re going to realize that the world is an evil place.&rdquo; He sighs. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll have to learn how to defend the things that are most important to us.&rdquo; He pulled out a blanket wrapped object and laid it on my lap. It&rsquo;s heavy and long.&nbsp; I look at the object then look back at my dad. &ldquo;Well, come on now&rdquo; He says. I peel the blanket off slowly. Revealing first a barrel then the lever and the trigger and finally the glossy wood stock.&nbsp;

&ldquo;Woah!&rdquo; I exclaim with a grin ear to ear. My dad hops up and jogs inside. A moment later he comes out with a rifle of his own and boxes of ammunition. He promptly throws them in his satchel and starts walking to the brink between our house and the forest.&nbsp; He gets to the tree line then looks back and waves for me to follow. I run to catch up.&nbsp;

&ldquo;Watch.&rdquo; He starts loading his rifle as we walk. When he finishes he hands me the box of ammunition and says &ldquo;your turn.&rdquo; my dad stops me &ldquo;Be quiet.&rdquo; He looks deep into the forest. That&#39;s when the war cries echo through the once solemn forest. &ldquo;Fucking Injuns! Run Randell! Go find the sheriff.&rdquo; I&rsquo;m frozen. He pushes me and the ammunition flies out of my hand. &ldquo;GO BOY!&rdquo; I grab the rifle off the ground and sprint back towards the house.&nbsp; The ring of the dad&rsquo;s rifle pierces my ears.&nbsp;

When they went back they found him scalped with his eyelids cut off. 10 years later, the memory still haunts me.