Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/433799
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 6 1 B "Who taught you to handle a gun like that?" "My dad. He said once a hammer drops on a live round, there's no taking it back." "My dad taught me that too," Mr. Harden mused. It was hard for Jack to think Mr. Harden ever had a father. "Only he said it a little differently. He said you can't bring back a life once it's dead . . . unless you're Jesus." The old man chuckled and then continued counting. Jack returned the gun to the showcase. "What's it like to shoot a deer that big?" he asked, pointing at the ten- pointer whose blank stare had greeted customers for as long as he could remember. "There's a pleasure and a regret to it." Money counted, Mr. Harden stood and slid rubber bands around the bills. "You'll see." "Thank you for letting me handle the gun, Mr. Harden." Jack turned toward the door. "Good luck tomorrow, Jack. I hope you get the one you're supposed to." "Same to you," Jack said. B y 11 a.m. a bluebird sky floated swollen clouds and framed an Indian summer day of soft breezes rustling among leaves left unplucked by autumn. By the time the frost melted Jack had eaten most of his lunch. He'd counted six chickadees, two blue jays, three squirrels, numerous flocks of crows, geese, and ducks, and no deer. He'd lost count of gunshots near and far that echoed over the landscape from other hunters, who reduced his odds of taking a buck from slim to none, he figured. Discouraged, he threw the apple his father had packed with his lunch across the creek where it stuck in the mud along the bank. Five hours of sitting had dimmed his enthusiasm. It was nothing like he'd imagined. By 2 p.m. his attention flagged to occasional glances down the shooting lanes he'd cut and trimmed with such high hopes that summer. Stiff from sitting, he stood often to relieve himself of the thermos of coffee he'd drunk most of the morning. His mind wandered to girls, school, and some of what Mr. Harden had said. The Model 94 never felt farther away. His eyes drooped in the afternoon sun that warmed his face. Unbuttoning his wool coat, he dozed and his head bobbed and jerked, startling him awake each time his chin nicked the compass pinned by his father to the collar of his coat. Hours later Jack felt the temperature cool as the sun slid down the sky and ignited on the horizon like a bonfire before dwindling toward dusk. Shadows gathered as the gold of day gave way to the blue of night. Jack buttoned his coat against the chill, in some ways glad the long day neared its end, when suddenly a badly injured deer hobbled into view on three legs. Struck by a bullet, one limb dangled like a puppet leg detached from its string. When the yearling turned to stare across the stream, Jack froze and his heart galloped before he noticed the broken leg and the buck's three-inch horns. Nearly a nubbin buck, he thought, not wanting to waste his tag and his chance to win the rifle when the real trophy waited for him. Thoughts of Perry's ridicule made the choice even worse. Yet he was sickened by the animal's plight and knew in his heart the right thing to do, what his father and Mr. Harden would do. The lure of the Winchester pulled at him, though. Pausing, he again followed the little yearling's gaze to the far bank where the buck of a lifetime stared back, still chewing the muddy, red apple. Breath ragged as a long distance runner, Jack cocked the hammer, aimed true, and fired, killing one deer instantly while the other melted into the woods. "Once a hammer falls on a live round, there's no taking it back," he whispered, shaking badly. It was a shot that would make all the difference for the rest of his life. stockbyte/thinkstock