“Now this is how we’ll do it,” Mr. Grimes told him, fetching his own rifle from his saddle. “We’ll have a sort of contest. We’ll start at the same time, and the one who gets the most shots off while I count to ten will get out of working tonight—getting wood and cooking some of the jerky. Does that suit you, Mr. Tucket?”

Francis nodded. He didn’t see how he could lose, shooting against a one-armed man.

“All right, Mr. Tucket. Go!”

“But you don’t even have your rifle out of its case, Mr. Grimes,” Francis said. “You aren’t even ready.”

“Just giving you the benefit of a little head start, Mr. Tucket. Ready? Go!”

They both fired at the same instant. Mr. Grimes had just flipped his rifle and fired, one-armed, before its buckskin case hit the ground.

“One,” he said, starting the count.

Francis worked frantically. From his flask he poured powder into his cupped palm, then he emptied the roughly measured powder down the bore.

“Two.”

As Francis was placing the patch across the mouth of the bore, he heard the roar of Mr. Grimes’s Hawkens. He couldn’t believe it. He put the ball on the patch, and drew the ramrod from its cradle beneath the barrel. He started the ball down with his thumb …

“Three.”

… and put the ramrod on top of it. As he slammed the ball home he heard the mighty Hawkens roar again. Mr. Grimes had fired three to his one. Francis capped the nipple, raised the rifle …

“Four.”

… and fired. As his second shot tore a buffalo chip to pieces, the Hawkens belched fire a fourth time. It was too much for Francis. He lowered his rifle and watched Mr. Grimes.

“Five.”

Mr. Grimes raised his Hawkens and fired. Number five. Five shots in the time it had taken Francis to make two. Clearly, Francis had missed something.

“Six.”

Mr. Grimes lowered the Hawkens and held it between his knees. In one fluid motion he poured powder from the flask at his side down the barrel directly—without measuring—and brought the muzzle of the rifle up to his mouth. From his lips he spit a ball into the muzzle. Without a patch, it slid freely down, needing no ramrod. He slammed the butt of the rifle on the ground, to seat the ball, and from the space between his fingers pulled a percussion cap. It fitted quickly on the nipple, the Hawkens came up, and …

“Seven.”

… smoke again poured out over the grass. Mr. Grimes lowered his rifle and grinned. “I don’t guess I have to go all the way to ten after all.”

“But that wasn’t fair,” Francis said. “You didn’t patch your balls, or measure your powder—”