Chapter 21
The afternoon sun slanted across the porch, warming the weathered boards. I sat in my camping chair with a cup of coffee, watching the shadows lengthen across the meadow. A red-tailed hawk circled in lazy spirals above the treeline.
Movement at the edge of the property caught my eye. Abner Flint emerged from the forest path, walking with that deliberate pace of his. He carried something bundled in leather under one arm.
I raised my hand in greeting.
"Abner."
"Thomas."
He climbed the porch steps and stood there for a moment, surveying the land the way he always did. Taking stock of everything.
"Have a seat." I gestured to the empty chair beside me. "Can I get you some coffee?"
"Thank you, no." He settled into the chair, the leather bundle across his lap. "I won't be staying long."
We sat in silence for a minute. Abner seemed content to let the quiet stretch. I'd learned not to rush him.
"That fire pit looks well laid."
"Thanks," I said. "It was fun to make and I've enjoyed having it. Makes sitting out here even nicer."
"Are those refractory bricks?"
"They are. Made to handle the direct heat."
"Well chosen."
We sat quietly, enjoying the afternoon breeze. Finally, Abner lifted the bundle and held it out to me.
"This is for you."
The weight surprised me when I took it. Heavy. Solid. I could feel the shape of something inside the rolled leather.
"What is it?"
"Open it."
I unrolled the bundle on my lap. Inside was a holster, the leather worked into a design I recognized from Abner's own belt. A flap covered the top, secured by a brass button. The craftsmanship was beautiful, with hand-stitched seams. The leather was supple but sturdy.
"This is for me?"
"It is. Open it."
I unfastened the brass button and lifted the flap. Inside sat a revolver, its stainless steel finish gleaming dully in the afternoon light. The grip was wood, worn smooth from handling. I held it in both hands. This was not a small weapon.
"Ruger GP100," Abner said. "Three fifty-seven Magnum. Six-shot cylinder. Four-inch barrel." He tapped the identical holster on his own belt. "Twin to the one I carry every day. Had this as a spare for fifteen years. I can testify personally to the reliability and accuracy of the model."
I looked up at him. "Abner, I can't take this."
"I assure you, you don't need a license to open carry in this state."
"No, I mean I can't take a gift like this."
"This is partial payment for the dental work." His voice was firm. "Not a gift. A settlement of debt between men of equal standing. Will you accept?"
I understood immediately. A gift would have implied an obligation, it would have tipped the balance between us in a direction that would have made him uncomfortable.
But a debt settled was a transaction between equals. It preserved his dignity while allowing him to express his gratitude.
"I accept," I said. "Thank you, Abner."
He nodded once. The matter was closed.
"You know how to handle a firearm?"
"Took a class once, a long time ago. Never owned one."
"Cylinder release is here." He pointed without touching. "Push forward to swing out the cylinder. Loads six rounds. This fires both three fifty-seven Magnum and thirty-eight Special. Start with thirty-eight. Less recoil. Better for learning."
I lifted the revolver from the holster, keeping it pointed away from both of us. The weight felt substantial in my hand.
"Trigger pull is smooth. Double action, so you can fire without cocking the hammer, or cock it first for a lighter pull and better accuracy." He watched me handle it. His expression gave nothing away. "Clean it regularly. Oil lightly. Store it dry."
"I will."
"Holster took some time to make. That's why I'm bringing it now rather than sooner."
I examined the holster more closely. The leather was thick but not stiff, worked until it achieved a perfect balance between protection and accessibility. The stitching was tight and even. It hooked onto a belt, but the shoulder strap worn across the body distributed the weight for all-day carry.
"This is beautiful work, Abner. Did you make all of this yourself?"
"Indeed. Tanned the hide myself from a buck I took two winters back. Brain-tanned the traditional way. It takes longer, but the buckskin is more pliable that way. Lasts longer too."
I ran my thumb along one seam. Every stitch was precise.
"You do fine work."
"A man should know how to make what he needs." He stood, brushing off his canvas trousers. "Liberty will be along shortly. She knew I was coming today."
As if summoned by her name, Scout appeared at the treeline. She walked toward the cabin with that easy stride of hers, completely at home in her body and her surroundings. Her own pistol rode on her hips with its shoulder strap support, the buckskin shiny from use.
She climbed the porch steps and stopped when she saw me holding the GP100. Her blue eyes held mine.
"Looks good on you," she said.
"Your father's doing."
"He pays his debts." She turned to Abner. "I brought thirty-eight Special. Box of fifty."
Abner looked between us. His gaze lingered on his daughter for a moment, then moved to me. Whatever calculation he was making, he kept it to himself. He nodded firmly.
"The clearing by the pond," he said. "Face the hills when you shoot. Safer that way."
"I know, Father."
"I'm heading home. Goats need tending." He stepped off the porch, then paused and looked back at me. "Listen to her. She's a better shot than I am."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the trees with that silent woodsman's walk.
Scout watched him go. When she turned back to me, she was smiling.
"Ready to learn?"
"Lead the way."
We walked down to the pond. The afternoon light was golden now, slanting through the trees and dappling the grass. Scout moved ahead of me, her ponytail swinging with each step. I tried not to notice the way her canvas pants fit snug over her hips. Tried and failed.
At the pond, she turned left and led me to a clearing where the ground was flat and open, facing a hillside that rose steeply about twenty yards away. At the base of the slope sat an old stump, gray and weathered, about three feet tall.
"This is the place," Scout said. "Anything we fire goes into the hillside. No risk of a stray round going somewhere it shouldn't." She pointed at the stump. "That's our target."
I looked at the setup. It made sense. The natural backstop of the hill would catch anything that missed the stump.
"Looks good to me. You know what you're doing."
"Father taught me when I was eight." She turned to face me, all business now. "What do you know about firearms?"
"I took a class years ago. I thought about getting a concealed carry license but decided against it."
"Why did you decide against it?"
The memory surfaced. Sybil's face when she found the class certificate in my jacket pocket. The argument that followed.
"My wife got angry when she found out I took the class. She told me she wouldn't tolerate a gun in her house."
Scout's head tilted slightly. "You mean your house? Both of yours?"
I could only shake my head. "It was a difficult time."
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Recite the commandments."
"The what?"
"The rules. The commandments of handling a firearm. You said you took a class."
I thought back. The instructor had been a retired Marine, gruff but patient. He'd made me memorize a few lines. I was surprised they came back to me so quickly.
"Treat every gun as if it's loaded. Never point the gun at anything you're not willing to destroy. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Uh, let's see now... Oh, right! Know your target and what's beyond it."
Scout nodded with approval. "Good. Most people forget at least one. You remembered all four."
"The instructor was memorable."
"It seems so. Those rules will keep you alive. Break any one of them and someone gets hurt or killed." She stepped closer and held out her hand. "Let me see it."
I handed her the GP100. She checked the cylinder with practiced efficiency, confirmed it was empty, then held it up so I could see.
"This is the cylinder release. Push forward like this." The cylinder swung out smoothly. "Six chambers. You load from this side, unload from this side. Always check all six. Never assume."
She demonstrated the loading process with imaginary rounds, then handed the revolver back to me.
"You try."
I mimicked her movements. Push the release. Swing out the cylinder. Check all six chambers.
"Good. Now close it."
I pushed the cylinder back into the frame. It clicked solidly into place.
"Never slap it closed. You'll damage the mechanism over time. Just push it firmly until it locks, then give it a little twist to make sure it is seated well."
We went through the basics for the next twenty minutes. How to hold it, how to stand, how to breathe. Scout was patient, specific, and technically precise. She never talked down to me, never made me feel stupid for not knowing something. She simply explained and showed and corrected.
"All right." She pulled a box of ammunition from her pocket and a pair of foam earplugs. "Time to shoot."
She handed me the earplugs. I rolled them between my fingers, compressing them before inserting them into my ears. The world went muffled and distant.
Scout loaded the revolver with six rounds, then took a stance facing the stump. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Both hands wrapped around the grip, arms extended but not locked.
She fired.
Even with the earplugs, the report was sharp and loud. The stump kicked up a spray of wood chips.
She fired again. And again. Six shots in steady succession, each one finding the stump. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, she lowered the weapon and turned to me.
"Your turn."
I took the revolver to reload. I fumbled the first round, nearly dropped the second, but got all six into their chambers without too much embarrassment.
"Take your stance."