Moments were passing, as moments were made to do. The sky was finally darkening, the clouds cooperating in such a way that the light was going from the slate gray of a German summer to a ripening orange. Duncan walked in a perfectly straight line in his Hyer boots, two-tone, stamped with sunflowers and Jayhawks, a memento of Kansas City, the elevated heels of which made to his ear a particularly noble sound as they struck the ground. There were racks of simple Winchester ’73s on an oak stand beside which young Edmund and Edgar stood, ready to reload. His shadow behind him was ten feet and growing.

Duncan wore a holster slung over his right hip in which there was a Colt New Army and Navy Double Action revolver with a six-inch barrel, and under his left armpit was a.44-40 Colt Single Action Army revolver, and just below it, in a custom calfskin holster braced against his ribs, a.22 spur-trigger Suicide Special, and in his right boot was a pearl-handled, rosette-inlaid Remington over-and-under.41 rimfire-caliber Derringer with an inscription from someone named Laura to someone named Hedy.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Small children. I—am—drunk.” His eyes blazed with pride. He drew his double-action Colt, aimed it, and blew a clay pigeon into cinders. Only then did he remember he had forgotten to tell Edmund to release it. The boy looked into his now empty hands with knock-kneed wonder. He made a brief chirping sound, turned tail, and ran.

There was polite applause.

Watching the boy disappear, Duncan sighed. He waved with his revolver, beckoning Edgar to come fill in for his vanished brother. Edgar shook his head no. With determination just shy of annoyance, Duncan used the barrel of the gun to indicate where he wanted Edgar to stand. Having given up all hope, Edgar obeyed. Duncan looked toward the reviewing stands. “Pull!”

Edgar hurled six blue glass balls in the air, throwing himself into the dust behind the nearest cover, a steamer trunk, as Duncan fired the double-action Colt six times.

As the report echoed across the low and level arena, all eyes swept about in search of what exactly had happened: all were broken, but had that happened in the air? Perhaps several had collided on their own—it was hard to tell.

There was a low mutter through the stands. Princes Eitel Friedrich and Adalbert shared their surprise: Sechs? Ja, sechs. Alle Glaskugeln. The repetition of the number six transformed it from suspicion to fact to the first footsteps of a legend: Duncan had shot and shattered all of them.