San Joaquin Valley, California
Soon after Johnny and I “reset the clock” and cleared the tree jam in the creek, we found ourselves in another debate regarding which of us would teach Kinsey the proper methods for shooting a gun. We eventually agreed I would conduct target practice with Kinsey and, since it was his rifle she fired, Johnny would take on the responsibility of pointing out the recklessness of her decision.
I felt this was a fair deal. I enjoyed a long hot bath while my brother sought out our little pistolero plus, I was not the one handing down the consequence. Shortly before supper, I was clean, refreshed, and ready to be the hero.
~S.
“Did you and Johnny have a talk?”
Sitting down, Scott thought he already knew the answer as he watched his cousin snap beans as if she was snapping someone’s neck.
“Yes.” Snap. “However, I got to do very little of the talking.” Snap.
“I see.”
Snap. “I tried to point out when I saw you both fighting it was extremely upsetting to me.”
Snap.
“Kinsey, listen. Johnny and I argue. Sometimes it boils over to become more and you need to keep your nose out of it.”
Snap. “Honestly Scott, desperate times require desperate measures.”
“You said that to Johnny?”
“Yes.”
Snap.
“And what did he say?”
Snap. “He said when I fired the rifle without his permission it became a desperate time that now required a desperate measure.”
Snap. Snap.
“I see. How unfortunate.”
Snap. “Scott, is there something you wish to speak to me about? Or do you prefer to just sit there with a smirk on your face?” Snap.
Scott rose to offer his condolences. “I’m sorry Freckles. I’ve touched upon a sore subject…so to speak.”
Walking away the older cousin tossed out over his shoulder his imaginary fishing line. “We can talk about your shooting lessons another time.”
Snap. “Wait!”
The next afternoon Scott took his little cousin out to one of the ranch’s more isolated areas where he and Johnny did their target practice. Climbing down from the wagon, Scott reached up to help Kinsey and then grabbed a rolled-up blanket from the back.
Walking over to a makeshift table the brothers hammered together a few months ago, the teacher unfolded the covering to reveal an 1866 Yellowboy rifle. The Winchester acquired the nickname “Yellowboy” because of its receiver of a bronze and brass alloy. Scott had taken a few minutes to give the rifle a quick spit shine so the sun’s reflection sparkled off the gunmetal. His pupil was impressed.
“Extraordinary! Is this my rifle?”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “No. This is a rifle. This is not your rifle.”
“Oh.” Kinsey raised an eyebrow to match her cousin’s. “You own a rifle.”
“I do.”
“And I clearly established which rifle Johnny owns.”
“You did.”
“And Murdoch?”
“Murdoch owns several.”
“Tell me, what does Teresa shoot?”
“A rifle.”
“Maria? A rifle?”
“Kinsey, I see where this is leading. Now, we can do one of two things as we stand here under the hot afternoon sun. We can discuss women’s equality or I can teach you how to shoot a rifle; we do not have time to do both. You choose.”
With crossed arms, Scott decided to wait this one out with a stare. The older cousin sensed victory when the young lady blinked first. “I was thinking Scott, perhaps we could discuss firearm ownership another day.”
Nodding, the instructor picked up the gun and ventured to a grassy area; stopping several yards from where rusty cans and broken bottles rested on fence posts and old logs. His student followed closely behind. Handing over the rifle, the lesson commenced.
“It weighs about eight pounds so I want you to get comfortable holding it.” Scott crouched down in front of his cousin. “Now, plant your feet about…”
“Is it loaded?”
Scott glanced up. “No. It’s not loaded.”
“Where are the bullets?”
“In my pocket.”
“Shouldn’t the bullets be in the gun?”
“For now, they stay in my pocket.”
“How am I to shoot all those bottles if the bullets are not in the gun?”
Scott stood to reevaluate his thinking on the deal he struck yesterday with his brother. The satisfaction of feeling clean, refreshed and ready to be the hero was fading quickly.
“Kinsey, if you prefer, I can load the rifle and let you fire it like you did yesterday so you can land on your butt like you did yesterday and then we will have the same exact talk you had with Johnny yesterday.”
“How far apart should I plant my feet?”
Scott was pleased how quickly Kinsey caught on to his directions.
“Square your shoulders up, Freckles. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart.”
“Keep the buttstock center and high on the chest. Remember the recoil.”
“Keep your head up. Press your cheek firmly to the side of the stock.”
“Sight that notch to your target.”
“Gently squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. Don’t anticipate when the gun will fire.”
“And how do you treat every firearm?”
Kinsey smiled. “As if it was loaded. No exceptions.”
Retrieving the bullets from his pocket, Scott demonstrated how to load the Yellowboy. Letting his cousin finish the task, it was then determined the time had come to break a few bottles.
“Let’s see what you can do, little shootist.”
Scott smiled as Kinsey levered the first round into the chamber and assumed the perfect position, however, he moved slightly behind his cousin and braced for impact, just in case.
“Remember, Freckles, squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull.”
The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by the sound of exploding glass.
“By God, Kinsey! You hit it!”
“I was aiming for the bottle to the left.”
“Oh. Well…it’s still a good start.” Scott made a mental note not to venture too far to the right at any given moment.
As the afternoon grew long with Kinsey’s aim improving greatly, the teacher wasn’t surprised when ending the first lesson for the day was met with resistance.
“One more round.”
“You have been saying that for the last twenty minutes. Kinsey, your arms are going to be aching tomorrow and I’m certain you’ve earned yourself a healthy bruise where the stock has been kicking. No. Done.”
Surrendering the Yellowboy to Scott, Kinsey declared with great pride.
“Won’t Winnie be surprised when she sees me shoot?”
“Yes, she will.” Scott stopped. “Wait. Winnie?”
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