The bird was released from the trap second from the right, and Devers hit it about seven feet off the ground. As the wind carried the dead pigeon slightly towards the left side of the arena, Joe Devers centered the corpse with the shot pattern from the second barrel. It dropped directly in front of him.

"Joe's the fastest man I know on multiple shots-about as fast as Herb was with a Model 12, before he had his heart attack," Max whispered to Henry. "You should see him with a pump. I never could reliably get past four clays thrown in the air at the same time. Joe can hit five every time. He says I concentrate too much on the first shot. I need to get on to the next shot right away. That's why he's so fast on multiple targets."

Henry nodded. He knew exactly what his uncle meant. His own rifle shooting efforts faced the same dilemma. If you spent too much time getting a shot right, the next target would be on the ground before you could squeeze the trigger. If you hurried all your shots, you missed everything. The trick was to stay right on the edge of acceptable control, and gradually increase your speed.

Devers killed the next six birds well inside the fence. Though he shot each pigeon twice, only one of them had still been alive when the second shot charge hit it. Max, Henry, and the rest of the crowd watched intently as the man continued to score clean hits.

It finally happened on Devers' eleventh bird.

"Pull!"

The far left trap opened and the jet of compressed air launched the bird into the air. The pigeon was aimed upwards and started flying up and with the wind. Joe Devers swung left and shot the bird cleanly about ten feet off the ground. He pulled his Perazzi down out of recoil and fired the upper barrel. His second shot string hit the dead bird when it was four feet from the dirt. The impact gave it enough of a push that the bird landed three feet outside the fence. Reflexively, several hundred people sucked in a deep breath. They would spend the rest of the day debating whether or not the bird would have fallen inside the fence if Joe Devers hadn't fired the second shot.

"Missed bird," the official scorer called out.

"What happens if he only misses one, like you did, Uncle Max?" Henry asked in a whisper.

"Ties for high score split the first- and second-place prize money evenly, in this shoot." He looked over to where Devers was staring at the missed bird. Henry nodded. No one left on the roster could catch up, even killing 25 straight.

Henry and Max watched Joe Devers kill the next three birds well inside the fence, using a single shot on each one. Henry started to become anxious.

"Pull!"

The fifteenth bird was launched out of the extreme left trap. Just as Joe Devers swung on it, the pigeon regained its sense of orientation, pulled its wings in, and aimed its beak towards the ground to gain some momentum before starting to fly. The move caused Devers' shot string to go high. Two pellets connected with the pigeon, one in its right wing and one creasing its back. The bird, wounded but not dead, spread its wings and glided with the wind. As Joe pulled his gun out of recoil, eve ryone watched in fascination as the dying bird made a flared landing on the top wire of the short fence.

Henry knew exactly what was going through the shooter's mind. If Devers shot the bird where it sat, it was a virtual certainty that it would fall away from them, on the outside of the fence. The only thing to do was wait and hope that the bird, when it took flight again, came back inside the perimeter. Joe and all the spectators held their collective breath.

The pigeon was not up to flying, and it instinctively knew that the source of its troubles was upwind. It hopped off the fence wire and started walking west.

"Missed bird," the scorer called out. As noise erupted from the crowd, Joe Devers centered the wounded pigeon with the shot charge from his upper barrel.

The crowd watched with considerably less interest as Joe killed the final ten birds within the fence. He was now fighting to hold onto second place.

Everywhere they walked at the range, Max drew stares and comments from the people who had heard of the money he had won in the Calcutta. Pigeon shooters clustered around Henry's uncle to congratulate him, express their admiration, and in a few cases, conceal their envy. The purse was over forty-seven thousand dollars, and Max Collins did not have to split his half of it with anyone.

"You cost Hayden here over five Gs today, Max," Denny Marks said with a laugh. The crowd had dwindled to several shooting friends of Max's, and a few others.

"Like hell he did!" Hayden Burke shot back. "When I seen how Collins here was hotter'n a monk's dream, I laid off my share of Devers for sixty cents on the dollar and put some side money on my new favorite. I got me enough scratch off'n that little wager to convince one a them girls down to the Diamond that I'm Gary Grant, out slummin'. That is, if I get me one isn't too smart." All of the men in the group laughed at Burke's joke. There might be a few cocktail waitresses in Nevada casinos who did not know who Gary Grant was, but every single one of them would recognize Hayden Burke.

"But kee-rist, son, if I had lost the five it would have been worth every bit of it watching that run Collins here had. If he'd been on 'em any sooner they'd a still been in the traps."

"You got that right," one of the men added.

"Max, would you and your nephew like to join us for dinner? Hayden, me, and a few others, we thought we'd head to Melton's about eight, eight-thirty." Doyle Patterson was speaking. He was the owner of the skeet and trap range.

"If they serve rare steaks and good bourbon, and maybe a decent hamburger for Henry here, we'd be glad to," Max answered.

"I think they can take care of both of you. And since we give them our birds, maybe Henry would like to taste one of the ones you shot. They do a good job of barbecued pigeon."Henry nodded emphatically at the suggestion. "You going in the clubhouse now, Max?" Patterson asked.

"Not just yet, Doyle. You got a free trap field up on the north side?"

"Well, sure. Nobody's shooting up there right now." He grinned at the big man. "You mean you haven't had enough excitement for one day?"

"I been having all the fun today. Henry here doesn't shoot shotguns much, but he has a Model 70 he'd like to heat up, and there's nothing but desert north of here. Think the noise will bother anyone?" Max asked. Centerfire rifles were a lot louder than shotguns.

"We shoot cannons around here, sometimes, fella."

"Grab your gear, kid." Max Collins fished his car keys out of his pants pocket and threw them to the boy. Henry rushed off to where the car was parked.

The other men in the group were trap and pigeon shooters, and had no particular interest in watching a teenage boy shoot a bolt action rifle. They were having a good time, however, and walking along with the winner of the Calcutta and reliving the excitement of the competition was a very pleasant thing for each one of them. That was the reason that when Henry and Max reached the north trap range, Hayden Burke, Doyle Patterson, and four other men were right behind them.

"What you got there, :243 Winchester?" one of the men asked when Henry pulled the rifle out of its case. Henry figured that the man's guess was because his rifle had a thick barrel. The Model 70 of the vintage Henry owned had been made in a heavy barrel version in several of the smaller calibers for varmint hunters, and Henry assumed the man had made this inference because his .375 also had a thick barrel. He must think I shoot my groundhogs real close in Henry thought. Or maybe where this guy comes from, everybody puts 1 1/2 power scopes on their varmint rifles.

In point of fact, Neal Steadman had no idea that Winchester made varmint rifles in .243, and hadn't even noticed the barrel contour on Henry's gun. He had asked Henry if his rifle was a .243 Winchester because that was the smallest caliber that came to mind. He doubted the 15-year-old was using a .270 or .30-06, although he supposed it was possible.

"No, a .375 Holland & Holland. Uncle Max has been letting me shoot it."

"Shoot it-hell, I gave it to you, kid. It's yours," Max said with a shake of his head. Henry said nothing. It made him feel awkward when people gave him valuable presents. "What load you shooting today?" Max asked.

'Two hundred thirty-five-grain Speer and a case full of 4831. Stays under two and a half inches at two hundred. Manuals say it's going about 2850." He reached into an olive-drab pouch originally designed to carry a gas mask, pulled out a cartridge, and handed it to Max for his inspection. At least these people won't act like I'm crazy to shoot a .375 and start saying dumb things about my 'elephant gun' he thought as he turned away and put in his earplugs. Trap and pigeon shooters shoot more than I do. They probably all have .375s. Henry slid his shooting glasses on and walked up towards the sixteen-yard line. He did not see the looks on the faces of the five men who stood around his uncle, staring at the cartridge Max held.

Henry carried his rifle in his right hand. Slung over his shoulder and hanging at his left side was the makeshift ammo pouch. It was divided into two partitions and held about a hundred rounds of .375 H&H Magnum ammo.

The young rifleman assumed that many of the competitors he'd seen that day had started shooting at an earlier age than he himself had. Henry was possessed of a logical,

orderly mind, and he further assumed that any shooter good enough to compete in Reno's high-stakes live pigeon shoots would think it perfectly reasonable that a serious rifleman would want to sharpen his skills on moving targets.

Henry was right in his first assumption, and dead wrong on the second.

"He needs something to shoot at, Max. Want me to have one of the boys bring some cans from the clubhouse?" Doyle Patterson asked. The men watched as Henry picked up the aluminum control box that was at the end of the thick black cable and carried it with him.

"Why? You out of clays?" Max replied. Henry had walked to the sixteen-yard line. In regulation trapshooting, this was the firing position closest to the concrete bunker that housed the electric thrower. He looped the control box through the strap of his ammo pouch so that it hung below waist level on his left side. Henry transferred the rifle to his left hand and awkwardly reached into the pouch with his right. He withdrew four loaded rounds.

The Model 70 held three of the big cartridges in the magazine and a fourth one in the chamber. Henry loaded his rifle and threw it quickly to his shoulder a few times. He had mounted a Weaver Kl.5 scope on his .375. Most users of the low-powered optic were shotgun shooters who attached them to their slug guns in deer season. Henry liked the wide field of view the small scope offered. He held the rifle in his right hand at waist level and touched the button on the control box with his left thumb.

The clay pigeon sailed out of the trap house. Henry looked at its trajectory without making a move to raise his gun. He wanted to see how they were flying. He had sighted his rifle in at 25 yards. That was the first point where the bullet crossed the line of sight as viewed through the scope. Past that distance, the bullet would strike higher than the point of aim, until gravity pulled it back down and the slug once again crossed the line of sight at a little over 200 yards. I'm going to have to be awfully fast, or hold a little under them the boy thought. I'm 16 yards away from the bird before they even get out of the thrower.

"The kid thinks he's going to shoot trap with an elephant rifle?" Neal Steadman said in disbelief. The entire group suddenly realized what Henry intended to do.

"Ten to one against that shot," Hayden Burke muttered without considering the group he was with.

"Covered," Max Collins said in a loud voice as he pressed a bill into Burke's unsuspecting palm. As the others started to turn towards Max, Henry pressed the control button again and threw the rifle to his shoulder. The six men, none of whom were wearing hearing protection, snapped their heads towards the boy at the sound of the mechanical trap unleashing the clay pigeon. It flew straight away from Henry. A thunderous blast split the air and the clay bird disintegrated into black dust. As Henry rode the recoil, he racked the bolt and chambered a second round.

"Jesus! I never th-" Before Doyle Patterson could finish the sentence, Henry had sent a second clay sailing northwards and reduced it to fragments with another shattering blast. The men remained silent, held their fingers in their ears, and stared at Henry Bowman as he broke the next two birds as well.

As Henry was reloading his rifle, Hayden Burke suddenly remembered the bill that Max had pressed into his hand. He hadn't looked at it yet. The Texan lowered his eyes to his opened palm, and they grew wide. Grover Cleveland. Max Collins had bet a thousand dollars on his nephew.

"Didn't you always say you wouldn't give ten-to-one against the sun coming up in the morning, Hayden?" Max had a wolfish grin on his face. The others stared at the two men, wondering what would happen. Before Burke could answer, another blast made the men flinch. Reflexively, all eyes went to the trap field. Another hit.

Hayden Burke started laughing.

It took less than ten minutes for Henry to fire at forty-three clays from the sixteen yard line. Of the fortythree, Henry hit thirty-six. On the forty-fourth throw, no bird flew out of the concrete box. The trap needed to be refilled.

In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered around the men back at the twenty-five yard line. Several had come to see what was making the loud noise, and word of Burke's loss spread quickly. "While Doyle's refilling the trap, Hayden," Max Collins said pleasantly in a voice loud enough so that the men around him could all hear, "how about deciding what kind of odds you'll give me on one set of doubles." Max had no idea if Henry could hit two clay birds with a bolt action rifle, but he wasn't about to let the oilman know it.

Burke was in a much better mood than most men would be who had just lost ten thousand dollars, in front of witnesses, right after making an impulsive decision. "You call it, this time," Burke replied. The smile was just below the surface.

"Even money, until he either hits or misses both," Max said after a moment's reflection. "One broken, it's a pass."'

Burke considered this. "No bet," he said finally.

Henry walked back to the group, carrying his Winchester at the balance point with the bolt retracted. He was completely unaware of the money that had been wagered on his shooting skills.

"Henry, Hayden here wants to know if you can shoot doubles with your .375," Max said with a straight face.

"Boy, I don't know about that, Mr. Burke." And I'm not sure I want to try it in front of two dozen nationallyranked shooters. "With a Garand, no problem. Even a Mauser, yeah, at least sometimes." He looked at his Model 70. "But this gun's got more recoil, and I'm afraid I'd be too slow on the second shot. Be awfully far out. Not sure where to hold on that second bird, either. I'll give it a try, though." Henry turned and walked back to the sixteen-yard line.

"I'll run the trap for you, Henry," Doyle Patterson offered when he returned from the concrete bunker that held the throwers. He had seen fit to put a pair of plugs in his ears.

"Mr. Burke wants me to try to shoot doubles," Henry explained with more than a little embarrassment. "I don't know if I'll have much luck, but..." He left the sentence unfinished.

"All set?" Patterson asked. Henry nodded.

"Pull!" Henry threw the gun to his shoulder and snapped off the shot when the crosshairs hit the first bird. As the rifle recoiled, Henry's left eye caught a fleeting glimpse of clay fragments in the air. He slapped his right hand up, back, forward, and down. He did not bother to grasp the bolt handle, but rather knocked it up and back with the base joint of his little finger, and then slammed it forward and shut with the hollow in the palm of his hand. The Winchester's bolt knob was round and smooth, and perfect for the rapid maneuver. Henry found the second bird in the scope and fired his second shot just as the black disc was about to hit the ground. It missed.

"Just over the top of it, and late, I think," he said, staring out at the trap field. "It took me too long to find the second one." Maybe now that I've seen them fly, I can get on a little faster he added silently. The boy looked out at the trap field, trying to judge how far away the second bird had been when it hit the ground. Forty-five yards, looks like. Two and a quarter inches high.

"Pull!"

This time Henry leaned farther into the first shot, and he worked the bolt a tiny bit faster than on his first try. As he pulled the big rifle out of recoil, he swung it slightly to the right, knowing where the second bird would be. As the riflescope's crosshairs fell through the trajectory of the clay bird, Henry pulled the trigger, hoping that his estimates of the range and the space below the bird were both right.

They were close enough. The half-ounce lead and copper projectile, which was traveling at over twice the speed of sound, caught the second bird an inch from the edge. It shattered nicely.

"Got it!" Patterson yelled. "Damn, but that's strong."

"Mister Patterson," Henry said quickly, "I'm not sure I could do that again if we stayed here all night. In front of the crowd we got now, can I quit on that one-quit shooting doubles, I mean?"

"Sure thing, Henry. I got an idea-something else I want you to try. Come on, walk back with me and let's see if your uncle has taken any more of old Hayden's money." Henry opened his rifle, stooped over to pick up his fired brass, and hurried to catch up with the older man. He thought nothing of Patterson's last comment.

"I may be slow, but I do learn," Hayden Burke said softly to Max as Henry and Doyle approached them. "Fallin' off a cliff's one thing, but I wasn't about to climb back up and jump off it afterwards."

"Max, your nephew here reminded me of something I heard years ago," the owner of the trap range said after the men in the group had exclaimed about Henry's shooting. "You ever hear the story about how when John Browning wanted the U.S. Government to adopt his BAR, he got Ad Topperwein to shoot skeet with one in front of the guys who decided what guns got bought?" Patterson had the details wrong, but the basic story was right.

"Seems I heard Topp mention something about that, once, when I was over at Olin's East Alton range in- hell, must have been the mid-'40s."

"A BAR fires from an open bolt," Henry exclaimed immediately. His mind was already working out how to compensate for the heavy bolt lurching forward before the gun actually fired.

"Think you could do it?" Doyle asked, smiling.

"I don't know," Henry said finally.