"Want to try?"

"You've got a BAR?" Henry almost yelled.

"Something even better." Doyle turned to Max. "Melton's will take us whenever we get there. You aren't starving or anything, are you?"

"We got lots of time."

"Then I'll be right back." Doyle Patterson set off for the clubhouse at a brisk walk. In the next few minutes, Max was congratulated by more shooters, and his nephew was peppered with questions about shooting clays with a high-power rifle. Henry Bowman remained unaware of his uncle's wager on his shooting.

"Here we go, Henry. Pull 'er on out of there." Doyle had returned with a gun case and a G.I. .50 caliber ammo can. He slid the zipper down on the side of the vinyl gun case and Henry withdrew the weapon. The receiver's famous silhouette was instantly obvious, but a pistol grip protruded from below, and the slender barrel had a large slotted device on the muzzle end.

"A Colt Monitor!" Henry exclaimed. The Monitor was the police version of the BAR that Colt had introduced several years after World War One had ended, in an effort to make use of a few of the countless surplus parts the factory had left over from unfinished wartime weaponry. The gun had no bipod, was several pounds lighter than the military BAR, and had a separate pistol grip for a more comfortable hold. It also had a Cutts Compensator attached to the muzzle. The Cutts reduced recoil and completely eliminated the weapon's tendency to climb under full-auto fire.

"Ever seen one before?" Doyle asked, impressed at the young man's knowledge.

"Just pictures." Henry retracted the bolt and threw the sixteen-pound automatic rifle to his shoulder. It balanced well, and wasn't as awkward as he had expected. He pulled the trigger, and the bolt slammed home. "It's definitely going to be different shooting aerial targets with this one," Henry said immediately.

Doyle opened the ammo can, revealing fifteen magazines neatly arranged on end in three rows of five. He handed one to the boy. Henry retracted the bolt again and took the proffered magazine in his free hand. He did not insert it into the weapon, for to do so would render the gun 'hot' and ready to fire full-automatic.

Henry walked back to his spot on the sixteen-yard line and slid the magazine into his right hip pocket, behind his wallet. He upended the Monitor and poked his thumbnail in the ejection port to reflect some of the fading sunlight into the barrel from the back. He looked down the muzzle to make sure there were no obstructions. The bore was clear. Henry pulled the magazine from his pocket and examined the top cartridge. The tip of the bullet was painted black, and the headstamp said LC 44. 1944 Lake City armor piercing .30-06. Probably gets it from Charley. Henry snapped the magazine into the weapon and once again threw it to his shoulder. He drew a bead on a yellow and black fragment of broken clay bird lying on the ground thirty yards out.

When Henry squeezed the trigger, the Colt emitted two thundering blasts. Got to get off the trigger a little faster Henry silently admonished himself. The gun's report sounded louder than Henry's .375. This startled some of the spectators, but not the shooter. The Cutts Compensator was designed to redirect muzzle gases to reduce a gun's recoil. In so doing, the device increased the noise level for anyone behind the weapon. After the .375, the Monitor's recoil felt mild.

The first bullet struck the ground in front and slightly to the right of the clay fragment that had been Henry's aiming point. Bolt inertia makes it hit low and a bit right when you shoot it from the shoulder this close up. He fired a second time at the same spot to make sure, this time releasing the trigger as soon as he felt it break. Henry then slid the rear sight to the 300 yard setting and tried again. Dirt flew just to the right of the piece of compressed clay. He touched off another single round while holding on the left edge of the target. The broken target vanished in a black cloud of dust and flying dirt. He moved the rear sight up one more notch and tried again on another fragment, this time holding slightly under it and even with the left edge. The results were the same.

"Let's give it a try," Henry said over his shoulder to Doyle Patterson. "Pull!"

Henry Bowman threw the Monitor to his shoulder and loosed a round at the departing clay. It continued its journey. Got to get my swing started sooner Henry thought. This thing weighs almost twice as much as my .375. He swallowed and stood at the ready.

"Pull!" The gun was coming up to Henry's shoulder at the same time as the word came out of his mouth. Another miss. Maybe I need to hold a little more left. They're further out than those shots I took for practice.

"Pull!" The bird disintegrated.

"Son of a bitch," Hayden Burke said softly but with feeling.

"Amen to tha-" Neal Steadman started to say, but his comment was drowned out by the muzzle blast of the Colt Monitor as Henry powdered another bird. When Henry called for the next bird, Doyle Patterson hit the 'doubles' button on the trap control. Henry broke both birds.

"It would appear that the kid's got his swing down," Max said dryly.

"Son of a bitch," Hayden Burke repeated.

"This thing shoots great, Mister Patterson," Henry said happily. "Real smooth, once you get used to the open bolt. Okay if I keep going?"

"Have at it, Henry. You want singles or doubles?"

"Let's see, I've got...eight shots left in the mag. Count off 'one thousand one, one thousand two' and let me have eight birds spaced a second apart at my signal."

"You got it."

"Two to one he breaks at least half," Charlie Potts said to the men watching. No one took him up on his offer.

"Pull!" At Henry's call, Doyle Patterson started pressing the button at one-second intervals. The powerful machine rifle boomed out a cadence as Henry swung on each of the clays flying out of the trap. On the eighth shot, he turned the rifle on its left side and looked in the ejection port. The magazine was empty. He had broken five of the eight clays.

"I think I'm getting the hang of it," Henry said to Doyle. "Okay if I shoot it some more? I can pay you for the ammo, and I'll clean your gun. I know this wartime Lake City stuff has chlorate primers." "Henry, you can finish out the can, if you want." There were fourteen more magazines loaded, each holding twenty cartridges.

"You don't think they're all ready to go eat?"

"Hey, all of you!" Doyle yelled. "Henry here's going to shoot some more trap with the BAR. Anyone wants to eat right away better head on over to Melton's now. We'll catch up after we're out of '06."

None of the men assembled at the trap range turned to leave.

Conversation at dinner revolved around the shooting that both Max and Henry had done that day.

"I cannot imagine swinging a gun of seven kilos for two hundred birds," the man next to Henry said. It was the shooter from Barcelona.

"It was getting heavy, towards the end," Henry admitted, as he took another bite of barbecued pigeon. "I was missing a lot by then." Henry's average, which was running over 80% by the third batch of twenty, had dropped to about 50% by the time he had fired ten magazines at the clays.

"Hitting a lot, too," Doyle Patterson observed. "You like that Colt Monitor, huh?" the man asked pointedly.

"I sure do." The last eighty rounds Henry had fired on full auto, from the hip, at individual clay fragments on the ground. He had hit most of them, and his hipshooting skills had further impressed the audience. "You paid the $200 NFA registration tax on it?"

Henry asked of their host.

Doyle laughed. "Hell, no. Bought that one as a deactivated gun. I keep the guts out of it when I'm not shooting it, so it's legal except when I'm out pulling the trigger. No federal boys around this area, and if any of 'em ever do show up while I'm out having fun, I'll pay the two and register the damned thing, if I have to." Doyle saw Henry's worried look and went on.

"Cops don't care, son. Hell, every cop around here has at least one machine gun in his closet, and most have a lot more than that. No one pays any attention to that crazy federal law, unless someone makes a stink about it. Then you pay the tax, if you want to keep the gun shootable." His smile turned into a frown. "This thing they got coming up now, though..." His voice trailed off. "That pig from Texas is going to fuck us good before he slinks off to his ranch."

"You got that right," Hayden Burke threw in immediately. "I'd be afraid to show my face back in Texas, was I him."

"You want that Monitor of mine, Henry?" Doyle said suddenly.

"What? No, I-"

"You ought to have it. I never shoot the damn thing, and from this evening, I'd say John Browning designed it just for you. Max, can Henry have that Monitor he was shooting tonight?"

"Sure, if you're getting rid of it. What do you want for it?"

"You said you were buying dinner, and I got a bunch of other machine guns, we'll call it even." He turned to Henry. "Just make sure you strip it when you got it in your car. Cops here in Nevada don't give a shit, but they might farther east."

"Speaking of paying for things," Hayden Burke said as he laid down his steak knife and reached into his pocket, "I'd best give you this afore I forget." He turned to Max Collins and held out a roll of bills wrapped with a rubber band.

"Give it to Henry. It's his." Burke swung his arm over towards the boy without hesitation. Henry looked puzzled. He made no move to take the money. "What's this for?" he asked his uncle.

"Made a little wager with Hayden here on your behalf. Looks like we both made some pocket money today." Max was grinning broadly. Henry looked bewildered as he tentatively took the roll of cash.

"There's ten thousand dollars here!" Henry exclaimed in a shocked whisper after he had counted the ten large bills. "What did you bet on?" he demanded of his uncle. For a moment, he had forgotten about the Monitor and that there were other people at the table.

"Hayden gave me ten-to-one you couldn't hit a clay pigeon with your .375 from the sixteen-yard line, so I laid a grand on you." Max was having a good time with this.

Henry swung towards Hayden Burke. "You came to a live pigeon shoot and gave ten to one odds I couldn't hit one clay bird?" he demanded, with a look of utter disbelief on his face. Max Collins was really enjoying himself now.

The men around the table, who had expected Henry to be surprised that his uncle had wagered a thousand dollars on one shot, immediately saw the logic of Henry's incredulous reaction. The men erupted into laughter. For the first time since he could remember, Hayden Burke was embarrassed.

"Henry assumes everyone here could do just as well with a rifle," Max explained in between gasps for breath.

"Well, they all could, if they'd practice it a little," Henry said defensively. He still could scarcely believe what had happened.

"There you have it, Hayden," Max said with a look of pure delight on his face. "Anyone can do it."

"Hell, yes!" Charlie Potts threw in. "I been thinkin' 'bout gettin' rid a my engraved Browning trap gun, an' replacin' in with a Springfield," he said, naming the surplus World War One bolt action rifle that could be had for twenty dollars. "Rifle bullet won't glance off the clay, way some a that puny old bird shot will do."

"Me, I think I'll go with a thirty-thirty lever action," Neal Steadman added, warming to the game. "Lots lighter'n my twelve-gauge, and holds more shots, too."

"Henry here may be a strong young fella, but I'm getting on in years," Doyle Patterson said. "Sixteen-pound Monitor doesn't swing so easy, like it used to. I'm going to get an AR-15 for my wingshooting. They only weigh six and a half pounds. Glad I convinced Henry to take that old boat anchor off my hands." He turned and looked at his guests.

"Now, Gravestock, here," he said, giving a nod to a man from Wichita Falls, "he's from Texas. Down there, they got almost as much good taste as a band a drunk Mexicans. I figure Larry, now, he ought to switch from his Perazzi to a Weatherby. Since he came in fifth today, I think he needs a bigger gun. If a .375 is right for someone in high school, Larry, I think you should shoot a .460." The .460 Weatherby was the largest American-made rifle on the market.

"Yeah!" Britt Robinson said immediately. "A .460 with one a them square stocks with the slanty forend tip and all the white line spacers, and checkering that looks like a bunch a leaves and acorns. That'd be perfect for Gravestock. Maybe even a gold inlay on the receiver, of a one-eyed whore sittin' in a outhouse takin' a crap. Somethin' tasteful, and all." Britt was a friend and neighbor of Gravestock's. They both hated the styling of Weatherby rifles.

Soon everyone at the table was engulfed in laughter at the idea of selling their trap and pigeon shotguns and competing instead with hunting rifles and machine guns. Henry had been embarrassed at first, but the men made him feel like he was one of them.

The man from Barcelona grinned like a fool. He thought the Americans were crazy. It was one of the reasons he loved visiting the United States.

"Got anything in mind for your winnings, Henry?" Neal Steadman asked finally.

"Ten Gs ought to go a fair ways, 'less you got a girlfriend, or plan to go to the Mustang Ranch," Joe Devers offered.

"That's God's truth," said Doyle Patterson. "Just ask your Uncle Max." This comment broke up everyone at the table.

"Well," Henry said, in answer to Neal's question, "I guess I'll use some of it to buy a few more cases of ammo, and probably another Star loading tool, and some more components. I don't shoot as much as the professional trapshooters here, but it seems like I'm always just about out of ammo." His mind was on something else that he wanted, also. Something he'd wanted for nine years.

"You ought to check out the gun show tomorrow morning," Doyle broke in. "Always some good things at the Reno show, particularly for a man who likes fine rifles."

"Do you think there might be a 4-bore for sale there?" Henry asked immediately.