Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (30 page)

Not knowing what else to do, James sat beside him. He couldn't help himself. He massaged his shoulder. Come morning, he figured, there'd most likely be a bruise.

“One thing you should know, James,” his uncle said, “is that this rifle”—he tapped the image on the page—“is gonna kick a whole lot harder than my carbine.”

James immediately lowered his hand.

“What caliber do you fancy?”

“Uncle Jimmy . . . I was—”

“I'd say the .45-70.”

Millard sat down. “Jimmy, I think that's too much gun. Besides, he's—”

“Come on, Mil,” Jimmy shot out, voice animated, though maybe not angry. “We were shooting when we were Jacob's age. Besides, the railroad might be pushing through, but this country isn't civilized yet. Not hardly.”

“Is that why you come, Uncle Jimmy?” Kris asked from the doorway.

Behind her, Jacob clapped his hands. “You chasing varmints? To fetch them back so they can swing?”

Jimmy started to take in a deep breath, stopped, finished, and blew it out. Shaking his head, he laughed. “I came to visit my brother and his brood. Even Judge Parker and Marshal Carroll have been known to give a good deputy time off . . . on occasion.” He slid the catalog toward James and put his finger on the drawing of the rifle. “Round barrel or octagon?”

“What's the difference?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some say one's more accurate, others say it's the other. Round's harder to make, or used to be. But you saw mine. Octagon's heavier. Doesn't heat up as fast as a round bore. More metal makes it stiffer, too. So, some folks will argue that makes it shoot more accurately. But others disagree.” He sipped coffee again.

“Here's what you need to know, kid. It ain't the rifle. It ain't never the rifle. It's the fella shooting it.”

James let that sink in.

“A .45-70's a big slug. My carbine holds twelve rounds. This here '86 will hold nine. And that's a rifle. It'll be”—he looked back at the page—“six inches longer and heavier than my carbine. This what you want?”

“I guess so.” James was hesitant, but it was absolutely the rifle he longed to hold.

Jimmy looked across the table at his brother. “I can get one of these when I get back to Arkansas. Might not be brand-spanking new, but it'll be cheaper than what Montgomery Ward sells them for. But I don't want to do nothing that'll go against your and Libbie's wishes. So is it all right for me to get James here a rifle?” He winked. “In case y'all get attacked by a herd of dragons?”