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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 6 0 ever to redeem his father's trust and become the man he wanted him to be. She brokered a deal to make amends. Jack spent a month cleaning chicken coops and shoveling cow flop for the offended party. "Sometimes shoveling a lot of crap is the road to contrition," his mother had offered, hoping the penance would hold. Somewhere between the first shovelful and the last, it did hold, at least outwardly. Jack's recalcitrance faded, his epiphany taking on the sheen of pragmatism. There would be no hunting, he realized, unless he followed the rules. In time his father softened and forgave him, ready to welcome his prodigal son to the hunt given his seeming reformation. To confirm his trust in the boy, Jack's father left a box of Peter's blue slugs by Jack's plate one morning, signifying what was to come. Marksmanship, the final phase of an apprentice's training before earning the Stevens, started in earnest for Jack the summer before his expected debut. It was the ultimate test of a boy's stealth, skill, and determination to take a deer. Accuracy beyond 30 yards with the gun was improbable but within 30, possible. Jack knew this from the paper pie plates he'd practiced on to get a feel for it. Flinching from the recoil that staggered his footing and decorated his shoulder with purple epaulets, Jack rarely fired more than three rounds. Under his father's watchful eye, Jack's shooting was beyond dismal at first, but he kept at it, leaning into the gun, gritting his teeth and hanging on like Ahab to Moby Dick until tighter groups emerged. "I don't want you shooting beyond the gun's capabilities, you understand? Reckless shooting is a hunter's worst sin because it results in the wounding and wasting of life." Pausing, his father arched an eyebrow. "We've covered this ground before, haven't we? So you remember, a good hunter . . ." ". . . is a good man. I know, Dad," Jack finished. The final part of the challenge entailed a mock stalk where a deer silhouette was hidden somewhere on the property. Jack's first task was to locate, decipher, and select the correct set of tracks. Once found, usually partially obscured in brush or cattails along the creek, the deer presented a heart-shaped target taped beneath a foreleg. Prior to shooting, Jack was expected to evaluate distance and creep within 30 yards of the silhouette before firing a slug into its "heart." Two shots were allowed; Jack nailed it with one. The family toasted and cheered his success at a celebratory dinner that evening. Jack thought it mostly hokum but played along, even feeling a flash of pride when his father handed him the Stevens in front of his relatives. The significance of the upcoming hunt was not lost on him. L L ate afternoon before the November 15 opener, Jack tarried at the hardware for one last longing look at the Winchester before Mr. Harden closed up early for the day. Except for Jack, no customers remained. Everybody knew Mr. Harden was a hunter too even though he was nearing 80. Wearing a tattered apron and surrounded by all the clutter you find in a small- town hardware, he looked antiquated to Jack in the waning afternoon light, like a Dickens' character down on his luck. Men like Mr. Harden were a dying breed, his father used to say. "So, Jack, your father was in here yesterday and told me he's putting his trust in you this year and letting you go hunting." "Dad was here? How come?" "Promise you won't tell him I told you?" Jack nodded. "He bought you a new compass, one of these Marble's pin-ons. He's going to give it to you in the morning." Mr. Harden picked up a brass compass and handed it to him. "Oh." Jack took it, puzzled. "But I already have a compass." Mr. Harden locked the front door before opening the cash register to count the money. "Not with the meaning behind this one, you don't. Think of it as a moral compass. Your dad's teaching you a lesson. He wants you to remember what's important tomorrow." "He's always trying to teach me a lesson, Mr. Harden." Jack watched him lay the bills, mostly tens, fives and ones, in uneven piles, thinking of their "fireside chats," as his father liked to call them, like he was the Franklin Delano Roosevelt whom Jack had studied in history class. All that stuff about stewardship. Staying on the right side of wrong, doing what's right, taking less than allowed, respecting the game, honoring the past, caring about the future. "Living a hunting life is a special privilege, Jack. Your dad's just trying to teach you the religion of it, and like any religion, there's a litany to learn, a way of doing things. It probably seems like rigmarole to you, but it's not." Mr. Harden glanced up and smiled at Jack. "Why don't you take that rifle out of the case there and see how it fits you? Go on, rack it and aim at that deer on the wall there like you did before." Surprised by the offer, Jack was speechless. Taking the gun gingerly from the case with trembling hands, he worked the lever, held the cool, blued steel to his face, and sighted down the barrel. It was the most beautiful blend of metal and wood he'd ever touched. He steadied the bead on the mount but kept his finger clear of the trigger like Mr. Harden hoped. Then he lowered the gun toward the floor, eased down the trigger, and clicked it back to safety.