racetrack. He could hit it square on, but he wouldn’t. He’d nick it a few times to gain the respect of the men. Then he’d miss it a few times to keep from being a threat.
Doc clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Go get you a beer, son. We’re about to start.”
The men lined up watching as the judge stretched prone on the ground and fired, hitting the target dead to rights with a loud ping. The steel disc swung back and forth.
A murmur of admiration rippled through the group. Those closest to the judge pulled him to his feet. The man grinned, his natty goatee reaching clear down to the vee in his waistcoat.
The milliner stepped up next, a hard, wiry man with a pitch-black mustache. He loaded his Krag with factory ammunition. The members exchanged knowing looks. Factory cartridges were usually four or five grains off. That might be fine for sporting, but not for precision shooting where every little variance made a difference.
Luke had carefully measured his powder and packed his cartridges before arriving. That way, the only variance he had was the wind, the outside temperature, and himself.
“You aimin’ for the plate there, Ottfried?” the banker asked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Well, pull down on it just a little; it’s about two or three—”
Bang. He completely overshot the target.
Cocking the action lever, Ottfried shot again and again, never allowing his muzzle to cool and only nicking the target once. Swearing, he pushed to his feet, grabbed a beer, and tilted it straight up toward the sky, downing half the bottle.
“Look who’s here, fellas,” Doc said.
The men turned. A tall man with a commanding physique swaggered toward them. His overalls were in worse shape than Luke’s, if that were possible, and his boots had seen some hard living. The 1895 Winchester .30-40 Krag he carried was the exact model Luke and the milliner used. In the hands of a competent shooter, it would stand up to any of the expensive, single-shot target rifles the other men carried.
“Arnold Necker, where you been?”
“Necker, you devil, you haven’t been to church in a month of Sundays.”
“Finally, I’m gonna get some competition.” This from the judge.
Necker smiled, giving a fancy bow. “Somebody’s gotta work around here. Cain’t be leaving the farm ever’ week just to hear the preacher tell me ’bout something I done already read three times over.”
The men laughed, put a beer in his hand, and walked him to the front of the line.
Stopping along the way, he looked at Luke. “Who’re you?”
“Luke Palmer, the new troubleman.”
Necker nodded, recognition touching his eyes. “I seen you stringing wire out near my place the other day. I nearly shot you fer a monkey.” He turned to the judge. “You oughta see this feller climb a pole. He’s up that thing quicker’n a flea hopping outta danger.”
In the two weeks Luke had been stringing line, his pole-climbing skills had improved a hundredfold. So if Necker had seen him at ease with the task, the man farmed north of town. It also meant he hadn’t shown himself when he’d observed Luke. A bit peculiar for such an amiable fellow.
“You know how to use that Krag?” Necker asked him.
Luke lifted his hat, then resettled it on his head. “I’m not the marksman some of these fellows are, but I get by.”
Necker handed him his beer. “Well, let me show you how it’s done, then.”
Luke held the bottle while Necker stepped to the front. Had Teddy Roosevelt joined the group, the men couldn’t have been more energized. Smiles were exchanged, elbows were nudged, and eyes were alight.
Necker didn’t lie down, nor even sit, but braced his legs like a sea captain and took the Winchester to his shoulder. He cocked the hammer, squeezed one eye shut, aligned the sights, and pulled the trigger.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng.
The men roared, surrounding Necker, pounding his
Doc clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Go get you a beer, son. We’re about to start.”
The men lined up watching as the judge stretched prone on the ground and fired, hitting the target dead to rights with a loud ping. The steel disc swung back and forth.
A murmur of admiration rippled through the group. Those closest to the judge pulled him to his feet. The man grinned, his natty goatee reaching clear down to the vee in his waistcoat.
The milliner stepped up next, a hard, wiry man with a pitch-black mustache. He loaded his Krag with factory ammunition. The members exchanged knowing looks. Factory cartridges were usually four or five grains off. That might be fine for sporting, but not for precision shooting where every little variance made a difference.
Luke had carefully measured his powder and packed his cartridges before arriving. That way, the only variance he had was the wind, the outside temperature, and himself.
“You aimin’ for the plate there, Ottfried?” the banker asked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Well, pull down on it just a little; it’s about two or three—”
Bang. He completely overshot the target.
Cocking the action lever, Ottfried shot again and again, never allowing his muzzle to cool and only nicking the target once. Swearing, he pushed to his feet, grabbed a beer, and tilted it straight up toward the sky, downing half the bottle.
“Look who’s here, fellas,” Doc said.
The men turned. A tall man with a commanding physique swaggered toward them. His overalls were in worse shape than Luke’s, if that were possible, and his boots had seen some hard living. The 1895 Winchester .30-40 Krag he carried was the exact model Luke and the milliner used. In the hands of a competent shooter, it would stand up to any of the expensive, single-shot target rifles the other men carried.
“Arnold Necker, where you been?”
“Necker, you devil, you haven’t been to church in a month of Sundays.”
“Finally, I’m gonna get some competition.” This from the judge.
Necker smiled, giving a fancy bow. “Somebody’s gotta work around here. Cain’t be leaving the farm ever’ week just to hear the preacher tell me ’bout something I done already read three times over.”
The men laughed, put a beer in his hand, and walked him to the front of the line.
Stopping along the way, he looked at Luke. “Who’re you?”
“Luke Palmer, the new troubleman.”
Necker nodded, recognition touching his eyes. “I seen you stringing wire out near my place the other day. I nearly shot you fer a monkey.” He turned to the judge. “You oughta see this feller climb a pole. He’s up that thing quicker’n a flea hopping outta danger.”
In the two weeks Luke had been stringing line, his pole-climbing skills had improved a hundredfold. So if Necker had seen him at ease with the task, the man farmed north of town. It also meant he hadn’t shown himself when he’d observed Luke. A bit peculiar for such an amiable fellow.
“You know how to use that Krag?” Necker asked him.
Luke lifted his hat, then resettled it on his head. “I’m not the marksman some of these fellows are, but I get by.”
Necker handed him his beer. “Well, let me show you how it’s done, then.”
Luke held the bottle while Necker stepped to the front. Had Teddy Roosevelt joined the group, the men couldn’t have been more energized. Smiles were exchanged, elbows were nudged, and eyes were alight.
Necker didn’t lie down, nor even sit, but braced his legs like a sea captain and took the Winchester to his shoulder. He cocked the hammer, squeezed one eye shut, aligned the sights, and pulled the trigger.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng.
The men roared, surrounding Necker, pounding his
Similar Books
