"Hey, that's right," Max Collins said. "You've been trying to find one of those." He shrugged. "Hey, have a look. You might run across one there."

"What's this, now?" Neal Steadman asked.

"A big English double-barreled rifle, throws about a one-inch diameter bullet,"

Henry explained. "They made them seventy or eighty years ago, and they weigh about twenty-five pounds."

"Henry's been trying to find one for sale ever since he was six years old," Max added. "We got a picture of one that a guy had in England, and that's as close as he's come."

"Christ! Doesn't the kick on those big rifles make hamburger out of your shoulder, Henry?" It was Charlie Potts speaking. "You were out there with that .375 Magnum in just a t-shirt."

"Feel his shoulder, Charlie," Max suggested. Potts reached across the table and squeezed the boy's shoulder.

"What the hell's under there?"

"It's a callus, Mr. Potts," Henry answered. "The doctor trims it when it gets too thick."

By now everyone at the table was staring at Henry Bowman. "Show Charlie your hands, Henry," Max said. Henry turned his hands palms up. The areas between thumb and forefinger of each hand had a thick callus. They were mirror images of one another. The end joint of each of Henry's index fingers were also callused.

"About a thousand rounds of .44 Magnum a week, on average," Henry explained.

"Left hand, too, I see." "

"Double action from the hip only, with my left. Trying to do aimed fire with my left eye was messing up my speed shooting, so I gave that up."

"You really like those big boomers, huh?" Neal asked.

"That's nothing, Neal," Max threw out. "Henry's dad got him a damn Nazi antitank cannon for his birthday last year."

"Your father shoots too, then?" Doyle asked. Henry smiled sadly.

"Dad died of cancer at the end of April. He didn't shoot much, but he liked to watch me. What he loved best was flying. He could make an airplane do things you wouldn't believe unless you saw it. Dad said as long as he was buying avgas for himself he ought to keep me in ammo." Henry smiled again, this time with genuine happiness. "Dad gave me twenty cases of ammo for my Solothurn cannon on the last day we went flying together."

"Then you ought to go out in the desert tomorrow with the BALLS group," Doyle Patterson said. "They're having one of their shoots. In fact, if Max has other plans, I'll drive you out in the jeep. Wouldn't mind seeing their show myself."

"BALLS is having a shoot here?" Henry said excitedly. "Can I go, Uncle Max?"

"What the hell is 'BALLS'?" Max Collins demanded. He knew he was risking being set up as the 'straight man' if this was a joke.

"The 'Benevolent Artillery Loaders and Loafers Society'," Henry replied immediately. "They're mostly from California, and they shoot cannons. Not just little 20mm ones, like my Solothurn, but big ones they haul around on trailers. 'Dangerous Dave' is one of them-Dave Cumberland. I get primers for my 20mm brass from him."

"Well, sure," Max said to his nephew. "I think I might enjoy seeing some cannon shooting myself." "Okay if I tag along too, or is this some private deal?" Neal Steadman asked their host. "No problem."

"Then count me in too," Charlie Potts added.

"Same here."

"I'll join you as well, if I may." "Don't leave me out of this deal, Doyle."

"Well, shoot. We'll all go, then. Two cars should do it," Patterson decided. "We better make it three cars, in case those BALLS folks let Henry shoot their cannons," Britt Robinson said quickly. "Why's that?" "We need to bring plenty of clay pigeons."

July 17, 1968 '" ''.

Henry and Max had spent the morning at the Reno Gun Show. No one had a 4-bore for sale, but Henry found a Rigby .577 Nitro 3" double rifle with 300 rounds of Kynoch factory ammo on a dealer's table. He returned to the dealer's spot after he had seen all the tables at the show.

"May I?" Henry asked. The dealer started to say he'd rather the gun not be handled by people who just wanted to see what an elephant gun felt like, but instead he nodded his head in assent. It had been a slow day, and this kid might be the son of some high-roller just down the aisle.

Henry lifted the rifle off the table and threw it to his shoulder. He turned the rifle sideways, held it up to the light, put tension on it, and tried to see between the back of the barrels and the face of the standing breech. He lowered the big gun and examined the stock for hairline cracks in the grip area. Then he pushed the top lever to the right and opened the breech. The bores were mint. Henry closed the rifle, swung the lever on the forearm iron to the side, and removed the forearm. Then he broke the gun open again and removed the barrels. He laid the buttstock on the table and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a piece of string and a plastic-handled screwdriver.

The dealer was surprised, but said nothing. Henry hung the barrels from the string by the forend lug and held the screwdriver by the blade in his other hand. He rapped the barrels sharply with the plastic handle, and they made a deep, ringing sound. Henry was checking to see if the barrels had become unsoldered. Many people, even dealers, were not aware of the simple test. If the barrels had been less than completely joined together, there would have been only a loud clunk.

"Tight as the day Rigby finished the gun," the dealer said unnecessarily.

Henry nodded. "Got the case for it?" he asked. Max had wandered over and stood a few feet away, watching the exchange.

"No, just the gun and sixty boxes of ammo."

"How much for the lot?"

The dealer smiled. "Son, this is an expensive rifle. The only thing bigger is a .600." In nitro calibers, you mean Henry thought silently. "I been asking eighteen hundred, but that's because most people have something they want to trade, and I need to leave some room for maneuvering, depending on what they got. If you know of a cash buyer who'll give me fourteen, I'll give you a $20 bill for a finder's fee."

The dealer paused and reflected for a moment. "Lot of fine shotguns here this weekend. If you bring me someone who ends up trading something for it, same deal. That sound fair?" The dealer glanced at Max, smiled, and nodded to show he recognized the winner of the Calcutta. He gave Collins a look to let him know he'd be there in a moment. Max waggled his hand to show he was in no hurry.

Henry looked down the table at the rows of guns. Most of them were fine English and Belgian shotguns. "Do you have any other double rifles that aren't laid out here?"

"Got a .465 Holland back at the shop that I'm holding for a customer, but I haven't seen any cash yet. That's the only one that isn't here," he answered quickly. The dealer assumed Henry was scouting for someone who didn't want the dealers to know he was around.

Henry nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his roll of cash, which was now considerably thicker since he had changed some of the large bills for hundreds, fifties, and twenties. He handed the man a thousand, three hundreds, and four twenties. "That do it? Fourteen hundred less the finder's fee?"

The dealer was startled, but he recovered quickly. He had seen stranger things than this. "Cash makes no enemies," the dealer replied as he took the money. "So let's be friends." Max Collins walked over to his nephew.

"Let me help you carry the ammo out to the car."

The dealer looked startled. "This your son, Mister Collins? I didn't know you were in the market for a double rifle."

"My sister's son, Henry Bowman," Max corrected. "And the rifle's his. He had to settle for something a little smaller than what he wanted, at least for now."

Henry handed the man a piece of paper. "Here's my name and address. I'm looking for a full-weight 4-bore, at least 22 pounds, barrels fully rifled, in good shape. Please drop me a card if you run across one." Henry had handed out several such notes that morning.

The dealer looked at the piece of paper. It had Henry's name and address printed on it, as well as a description of the rifle he wanted. "Haven't seen one of those in years, but I'll put this in my file. Here, let me help you with all this ammo," he said quickly as Henry picked up his new rifle.

Henry and the dealer were both smiling as they walked out to Max's Impala.

"Mr. Cumberland, you only know me through the mail. I'm Henry Bowman."

"With the Solothurn you reload for-from St. Louis-sure, great to have you out here." The slender man with slightly thinning hair shook Henry's hand.

"This is my Uncle Max, and some of his friends from the pigeon shoot. Uncle Max, this is Dangerous Dave."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Cumberland said, extending his hand to the big man. "Your nephew apparently shoots his Solothurn as much as we do out here-he's bought quite a lot of components from us in the last year or so."

"Hey, Dave."

"Doyle! You bring these folks out here today? Great!" He swept his arm around, indicating the people and cannons assembled out in the Nevada desert. "Welcome to the irregularly held, unofficial meeting of the Benevolent Artillery Loaders and Loafers Society. BALLS, as it were. We have a wide array of historic ordnance on display for your perusal and entertainment."

He indicated a man of indeterminate age thirty yards distant tinkering with a beautifully polished brassjacketed gun mounted on a tripod. "In this corner we have Dolf Goldsmith, our resident Maxim authority, toiling over an 1897 Argentine model he'll be warming up shortly. To his left is Ed Anthony, here from North Carolina. Ed is our visiting mortar expert, and he'll be demonstrating his skill by dropping some practice rounds into a 55-gallon drum from 200 yards away." Cumberland continued his master-ofceremonies act for the newcomers.

"To your right is our BAR division. They'll be shooting tracers at some long range targets out a quartermile or so. Ditching dynamite taped onto poles stuck in the ground. Makes a satisfying boom. "Behind that are our Hotchkiss enthusiasts. Check out the five-barrel 37mm revolving cannon when you get a chance. Made in 1895, and it's a beauty.

"All around you can see a wide array of larger ordnance, which we'll be shooting in an hour or so." He noticed that Henry had gravitated to a long, bipod-mounted weapon about the size of his Solothurn. It was a Finnish Lahti 20mm, which Henry knew fired the same cartridge as his gun. The boy bent over and was examining the scope mount on the big antitank rifle.

"Maynard Buehler prides himself on making a mount for anything the customer has. He knocked that one out for my Lahti. I've been experimenting with individually weighed bullets and segregated cases. It's a tack driver."

Henry nodded. The Lahti, while not quite as finely finished as the Solothurn, was gas-operated instead of recoil-operated, and did not have a quick-change barrel like the Swiss gun. In theory, its solid-breech design should give it an advantage in accuracy, but in issue form the Lahti was equipped with coarse metallic sights while the Solothurn had fine optics. Cumberland's scoped gun would be interesting to shoot at long range.

"Now here's the one I think you should add to your collection, Henry," Dave said, pointing to a small breechloading cannon on a wheeled mount. "Fifty millimeter Krupp Model 1902 Mountain Cannon. Disassembles in five minutes, designed to be transported on four horses or one elephant. The factory made fifty of them for Siam in that year, and I brought thirty-five of them into the U.S. in 1961. Still got a few left after seven years. Here's the round. Make the brass out of shortened 40mm Bofors cases." He handed Henry a stubby cartridge with a diameter of about two inches. It weighed about five pounds.

"Make yourselves at home, gentlemen," Cumberland suggested. "I've still got a few things to take care of before we start shooting." He excused himself and went over to one of the larger field pieces. "This is great," Henry said with feeling. The men around him laughed, but they knew exactly how he felt.

July 22, 1968 Henry Bowman had not been back in St. Louis for fifteen minutes before he went to his room and started digging through the pile of back issues of gun magazines which were stacked in the corner. After several minutes of riffling through several of the periodicals, he found the ads he was looking for.

Henry Bowman stared at the various ads. He knew that any gun that was 'Dewatted' could be made serviceable very easily, just like Doyle Patterson's Monitor had been. No use saving money Henry decided. He got out his pen and started to check off his next purchases. There were quite a lot of them.

August 2, 1968 "What kind of sodas you got in here?" Henry Bowman asked as he climbed halfway over the back of the front seat to get at the ice chest in the rear of the 1964 Olds F-85.

"Little bit of everything Have a look, and drag out a Coke for me," suggested David Webb without taking his eyes off the road. Henry dug a Coca-Cola and a Whistle orange soda out from under the ice He opened two slits in the top of each with the can opener blade of the Swiss Army knife he had earned every day for the last nine years, and handed the cola to the older boy. Then he settled back down in the passenger seat and unfolded the map.

"Where should we put in?"

"South of Pershing couple miles," David suggested after a moment's thought. "Shouldn't be too many other people 'round, not this weekend at least. Most everybody'll be on the Meramec Gasconade's not as easy to get to."

Henry turned sideways and leaned against the door, sipping his orange soda. He didn't really care where Henry turned sideways and leaned against the door, sipping his orange soda. He didn't really care where foot Grumman canoe off the roof, load their camping gear in it, and paddle down the Gasconade River until they either got bored, or ran out of time. They weren't apt to run out of river, it wound southwest for about 150 miles David Webb was eighteen, which made him nearly three years older than Henry, and had finished high school two months ago. He intended to start technical school in less than three weeks, unaware that he would be getting his draft notice two days before the first day of classes No one in David Webb's family had ever had any education beyond that offered by rural public high schools, and David's imminent entry into Ranken Tech was regarded by his parents in the same way that the Bowman or Collins family would view a Phi Beta Kappa key.