Mr. Grimes nodded. “It’s this way. You’re holding that thing like it was an old rag. Your arms are loose, you’re slopping your cheek against the stock, you’re grabbing with your hands—and that’s all wrong. You’ll hit once or twice that way, if you’re lucky. But the real trick of shooting a decent gun is to be able to put about four out of five balls in the same place, or nearly so. Now, Mr. Tucket, we’ll see if we can’t do a little reshaping of that crippled body of yours …”

He wasn’t fooling. In the next five minutes Francis felt as though both his arms had been broken. Mr. Grimes pulled Francis’s right elbow up so high the shoulder popped, and he jerked the left elbow down, directly beneath the barrel of the rifle.

“And don’t grab with that left hand on the stock. Just make a baby cradle with your fingers and let the rifle sleep in it.”

Francis nodded. It hurt, standing that way, but he could see how it made for more consistent shooting.

“All right, Mr. Tucket, load up and fire again.”

Francis didn’t start hitting right away, but at least his shots were falling in the same general area. He turned after four shots. “How’s that?”

Mr. Grimes nodded. “All right, but you’re taking too long to reload.”

“What do you mean, too long? It was just a couple of seconds between shots.” Actually it was more like a minute. But that wasn’t what Mr. Grimes meant.

“It’s this way, Mr. Tucket. What would you do if Braid came riding up the creek right now?”

“Why, I’d …” Francis blushed. He was standing with an empty rifle. If Braid, or any other threat, for that matter, came riding up the creek, Francis knew it would take him at least thirty seconds to load.

“That’s right, Mr. Tucket. You’d be tied like a cow before you got powder down the bore. Every time you shoot, no matter whether you’re shooting at buffalo chips or buffalo, you load as soon as the ball leaves the barrel. Carrying an empty rifle is about like carrying an empty water skin. When you get really thirsty, Mr. Tucket, you can’t drink air.”

Francis smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’ve got a lot to learn, haven’t I?”

“Ayup, Mr. Tucket, you have a lot to learn, but you’re coming along. Now let’s clean that little shooter of yours and try some rapid firing. That’s what really separates the men, or boys, for that matter, from their scalps in this country—not being able to shoot fast.”

Cleaning the rifle was easy. Francis just cupped creek water in his hand and poured it down the barrel, swabbed it with a piece of patch on the end of his ramrod, then greased the bore.