“It’s a Lancaster,” his father explained. “I think probably the only one of its kind. I thought about buying you a Hawkens in St. Louis, but they only make heavy rifles that fire heavy balls. When I talked to Mr. Lancaster, he said that a smaller caliber was more accurate, and with just a bit more powder, gave as much power as a big ball. Oh, the bullet mold, percussion caps, and powder flask are still in Mr. Peterson’s wagon.”

Francis could do nothing but stare at the rifle. Its stock, going only halfway up the barrel and bound to the metal with hand-forged brass bands, was of burled walnut. The lock, hammer, and trigger had been case-hardened in new oil, so they looked like etched marble instead of steel, and the barrel was the deepest, richest brown he had ever seen. The whole weapon had been made smaller than a full-sized rifle—just right for a fourteen-year-old boy. Even the sights, full elk-horn design for easy sighting, seemed to be in miniature.

“You mean …” Francis hesitated. There was really no way he could express enough thanks. “Did you really have this made just for me?”

“Then you do like it,” his father said, smiling again. “I was worried about that. I thought maybe you wouldn’t think too much of owning a rifle.” His eyes crinkled. “I’m sure there must be a couple of thousand things a boy would rather own than a rifle—”

“I don’t know about other boys,” Francis interrupted. “But there isn’t even one thing I’d want before a rifle. I’ve been wanting a rifle of my own ever since Mr. Ballard took me out and taught me how to shoot his buffalo gun.”

They laughed, both of them remembering how the first shot Francis had taken with the scout’s big .60-caliber gun had knocked him back on his rear.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about getting knocked over with this one,” his father assured Francis. “This is only a .40 caliber. Mr. Lancaster said it was fast, but wouldn’t kick too much. The only way to find out is to shoot it, I guess. Why don’t you go over to the Petersons’ wagon and get the mold, caps, and powder? There’s also a bag of lead balls already molded. Then when we pull out, you can drop back of the last wagon and practice shooting buffalo chips.”

“Alone?” Francis asked.

“I don’t see why not. You know how to handle a weapon—I watched you the other day with Mr. Ballard. Just make sure you don’t shoot toward the train. It wouldn’t do to break somebody’s prize punch bowl.”