hoisted the gun up against his shoulder and squinted through the round glass end of the scope. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That target looks as if it’s right on top of me.”

“Well, it’s a telescope, you know. What else do you see?”

“Two tiny cross hairs that intersect at right angles just about in the center of the circle.”

“Right. Now what you want to do is line up the intersection of those cross hairs with the target. Got that?”

Sandy nodded and, shifting his aim slightly, he focused on the exact center of the bull’s-eye. “I’m on,” he said, holding the position as best he could. “Okay,” Mr. Cook said. “Shoot.”

Sandy took a deep breath and curled his finger slowly around the trigger. He braced himself for the blast and recoil, every muscle poised and tense, concentrating on the circle of red that filled the sight.

Suddenly he felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. He jerked around to find Mike’s grinning face staring into his.

“Hate to bother you, Daniel Boone,” Mike said apologetically, “but you’ll do better with that thing off.”

“What thing?”

Mike reached out and flipped off the safety catch. “Okay, sport,” he said. “Fire away!”

Sandy gave an embarrassed grunt and nodded. He brought up the rifle a second time and tucked it into the hollow of his shoulder. Resting his cheek against the curve of the stock, he closed down gently on the trigger. The rifle bucked and roared in his hand. Sandy threw the bolt and pumped another shell into place.

“How did I do?” he asked.

Mr. Cook peered at the target through a pair of field glasses. “About five inches off center. Try again.”

Sandy brought the rifle up. “Want me to allow for it?”

“No, no,” Mr. Cook said quickly. “Aim for the target.”

Sandy spread his feet a little farther apart and took a comfortable stance. “Here goes.”

The rifle barked again. “Same place,” Mr. Cook announced. “You sure you were centered?”

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