Free The Last Confederate by Gilbert Morris Page A

at you. I saw your face when they did that. Now, if you can do this thing, I’ll give you the two hundred dollars—and more than that, you’ll show those fellows you’re a man!”
    Thad looked at Wickham with glowing eyes. “Well, it’s your money. I’ve always been able to hit anything with a rock—maybe I can do it.”
    Wickham was a little hopeful—for the first time, really. He had started it all to give Beau a bad time, but as he looked at Thad’s face, he saw a look of such determination that he cocked his head and thought, He’s got spirit—maybe Beau will get a surprise in the morning!

CHAPTER SIX
    THE SHOOTING MATCH
    “Here’re the rifles, Thad,” Wickham said. “This is a Springfield .58—a sweet-shooting gun.”
    Thad shivered in the cold and fervently wished that he’d never gotten into the affair. He had risen before dawn and come to the barn far away from the Big House to meet Wickham. Then they had walked about a mile through the snow, carrying the heavy rifles. Now the first light splintered the darkness and the brilliance of the snow hurt his eyes.
    “To start with, I’ll show you how to load,” Wickham said. “Watch me carefully, because you’re going to have to learn. First, you put the powder in.” He pulled a paper cartridge from his side pocket and after biting it open, poured the fine powder into the rifle barrel. “Now put the bullet in.” He pulled a conical slug from his other pocket, wrapped it quickly in a small piece of cloth, set it in the muzzle, then pushed it down firmly with a ramrod he’d removed from a mounting under the barrel. Next he pulled a small cap from his shirt pocket and put it on the tube leading into the base of the barrel. Finally, he pulled the hammer back with a click.
    Carefully he handed the Springfield to Thad. “Ready to fire,” he said. “I can load a rifle in twenty seconds, and some can do a lot better. Now, you just raise the rifle and look down the barrel. Put the bead at the end of the gun right on that target. Then—and this is the most important thing of all—you just squeeze that trigger. Hold your body as still asyou can. Don’t move a muscle except that trigger finger. All right—go ahead.”
    Thad looked down the long barrel of the rifle and put the tiny round bead on the piece of paper Wickham had put on a huge walnut tree fifty feet away. The bead wandered off, but he pulled it back and froze, holding the rifle steady for a moment—then carefully squeezed the trigger. There was a loud crack, a puff of smoke that got into his eyes and nose, and a kick of the Springfield to his shoulder.
    “A hit!” Wickham cried in delight. He gave Thad a glowing smile. “Here, try it again.” He passed him the other rifle.
    Thad raised the weapon and with more assurance let the shot fly, and this time he saw the round dot on the paper not an inch from his first shot.
    Wickham stared at the target, saying nothing. His face was a study, and he looked again at Thad with a strange expression in his eyes. Finally he said, “All right, let’s move back.” They retreated fifty yards. “That’s a pretty good distance. Load the gun and take your shot, Thad.”
    Thad could not explain it, but somehow the rifle felt natural in his hands. It had been the same with the slingshot he’d picked up when he was ten years old. He never practiced, but it seemed as if he couldn’t miss. In the gang fights that sometimes took place on the east side of New York, he had gained such a reputation that the older boys always took him along. After a time, just the sight of Thad Novak reaching for his slingshot was enough to cause the other gang to take to their heels. “How do you do it, Thad?” his friends would ask as he popped bottles and cans without taking aim. But he could never explain; it was just like pointing his finger.
    Now that same feeling was in his hands. He simply swung the rifle up and pulled the trigger, almost in a single motion, and