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!”
    Evidently all had been in the Army at some time, because they dressed their four-man line properly, went to port arms, and then to inspection arms.
    One of the shooters, short, square-headed, and built like a stump, rattled open the bolt of his carbine. He was coatless and wore a tie and lavender sleeve garters.
    â€œWhat’s your name, soldier?” Henry asked.
    â€œLeo Lucas—sir!”
    â€œI want you all to watch as I perform the manual of arms, Black Jack Logan version dated 1885, per A. R. twenty-seven dash eighty-nine. I expect each and every one of you to be able to do it word-perfect tomorrow....”
    He smacked his palms up under the weapon to lift it off the stableman’s hands, whirled the stock into the sky, and peered through the barrel, catching a circle of amber sunset. He tipped it this way and that to make the light run through the steel tunnel like a cleaning patch. The gun looked clean enough, but the barrel was slightly pitted. Henry worked the bolt rapidly, and the man grabbed at the fat brass shells as they flew.
    Then, while they watched, he did his manual of arms, using the weapon as a drum major’s baton, twirling and spinning it and finishing by throwing it high in the air and catching it. Then he smartly returned it.
    â€œDetail—at ease !”
    They burst into laughter, and Lucas pounded him on the back while introducing the others. “You know Budge Gorman—you left your horse at his stable. That’s Elmo, the bean pole with the ’95 Winchester and the beard, and the Model 90 takedown is Arnie. Henry, are you really the son of Captain Black Jack Logan of the Second Cavalry?”
    â€œYes, but I don’t trade on his gifts. I’m my own man, Leo.”
    He gripped each man’s hand, looking into his eyes as iff or something important he had been seeking. Then he would smile briefly, pat his shoulder, and move on to the next.
    â€œWell, gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to meet some serious sharpshooters,” he said. “But I’m flabbergasted that the marshal allows shooting in the streets.”
    â€œHe don’t! And we don’t allow bragging, either!” Budge shouted.
    â€œA disgusting habit,” Henry agreed. “Who’s been bragging around here?”
    â€œYou!” the stableman shouted, poking a finger at him. “Ben Ambrose says you call yourself—you claim that you— How’d it go, Leo?” He squirmed with eagerness or a need to relieve himself.
    â€œYes, I was just reading it,” Henry said “Your ed. and pub. seems to be a bit shell-shocked. What I told Ambrose was that I was a gun smith —not a gun man .”
    â€œBut you’re looking for a killer, ain’t you?”
    â€œNo. Simple telegrapher’s mistake. But how Mrs. Parrish’s telegram wound up in the hands of the newspaper editor, I don’t know. That astonishes me.”
    â€œIn this town,” Leo Lucas said, “you have to come to grips with your astonishment. Word does get around. So you’re a gunsmith, Henry. Don’t you shoot at all?”
    â€œOh, indeed. I believe I’m a fair shot, and sometime when the light’s better, let’s tear up some targets.”
    Then he brought them to attention again and asked Budge: “What kind of gun you got there, trooper? I don’t remember ever seeing anything quite like it....”
    Henry saw Elmo nudge Arnie, who was standing next to him, as Budge roared, “This here’s a Remington Creedmoor, idiot! I paid fourteen seventy-five for it!”
    â€œThat’s about right. What I meant, though, it’s been altered.”
    He put his hands out and took the man’s gun. Budge’s face had reddened and he looked like a humiliated schoolboy as Henry inspected the Creedmoor.
    â€œI’d be careful with that gun,” Henry said, returning it.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with it?” Budge