“Wouldn’t dream of going through those rapids, eh?” Mike muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he and Sandy walked over to the hill together.

Sandy grinned back at him. “What did you want me to say? That I do it all the time for laughs?” He watched Mike put down the straw bale and prop it solidly against the side of the hill. “Besides,” he whispered, “you know something?”

“What?”

“I’m afraid I may dream about it some night—and wake up screaming.”

“Come on!” a voice yelled. “You two fellows do more talking than a pair of old ladies!”

“Okay, Dad!” Mike shouted. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”

Quickly he helped Sandy drape the plastic cloth over the bale so that the concentric rings of the bull’s-eye faced Mr. Cook.

“Let’s weight it down with some stones,” Sandy suggested. “One or two shots and it’ll probably fly right off.”

“Good idea.”

“Boys!” It was Mr. Cook again. “Pace off fifty yards toward me.”

They did as they were told, and in a few moments they were standing beside Mike’s father, who was bending over the Remington .721. “There,” he said, after the last shell slipped into place. “We’re all set.” He held the rifle out to Sandy. “Care to try it?” he asked.

Sandy took the gun and ran his hand down the smooth wood finish of the stock. Checking to make sure the safety lock was on, he cradled it in his arms and turned to Mr. Cook.

“You know,” he said with a puzzled grin, “I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do.”

“Ever shoot one of these before?”

Sandy shook his head. “A .22 is about the only thing I’ve ever handled. How does this gadget work?” He pointed to a telescopic sight mounted on top of the gun stock.

“Just like a regular sight,” Mr. Cook explained. “It’s detachable, you see. If you’re shooting short distances, you take it off and use the notch sight right on the barrel. But if your target is—oh, let’s say 250 yards off, then you screw on this telescope. Take a look through it and tell me what you see.” Sandy 

 Prev. P 29/97 next