Free Montana 1948 by Larry Watson Page B

that from Grandmother. It was often said that she was “nervous,” a term that did not merely mean, as it does when it is applied to someone today, that she fidgeted, bit her nails, or worried too much (though she did all three); no, it meant that Grandmother had a condition that could strike her down at any time, as if a virus lived quietly in her but could suddenly run loose on a moment’s notice if something upset her. Everyone knew the importance of shielding Grandmother from shocks of any kind.
    Before I left the dining room, my grandfather stopped me. “Hold on there, David. Wait up a minute.” He got up from the table and went into his den.
    He came back in just a moment, and he was carrying a gun, a Hi-Standard automatic .22 target pistol and a box of cartridges.
    â€œGoddamn coyotes,” he said. “They’re getting worse than ever. You see any out there, blast away.”
    Like almost every kid in Montana I had my own little arsenal—a .22 for plinking at prairie dogs and snakes; a .410-gauge shotgun for hunting pheasant, grouse, ducks, and geese; and a 30-30 for hunting deer. But in my case, all were single-shot. My father believed there was nothing worse than sloppy marksmanship and wasting ammunition. Having only one shot was a great incentive for learning to make that shot count. The theory was a good one, but it did not prove out in my case. I was never a very good shot but I was awfully quick at reloading.
    Handguns were different, however. They were somehow not serious, not for bringing down game but for shooting as an activity in and of itself, and therefore slightly suspect.
    I looked eagerly at my parents for their permission. My mother didn’t care for guns of any kind but she had long ago seen the futility of trying to keep them out of the hands of a Montana boy. She simply shrugged. My father might have been troubled by my having both a pistol and a gun that could burn so much ammunition, but he only said, “Coyotes. Just coyotes.”
    I took the gun and shells from my grandfather and walked slowly out of the house, but once I was outside I ran to the stable. Within minutes I had saddled Nutty and was riding at a brisk trot out to some sagebrush hills and rimrock ravines where I often played. I didn’t actually think I’d see any coyotes out there, but I’d be far enough from the ranch that I could fire off as many rounds as I wanted without anyone hearing.
    I shot up that entire box of bullets. There was so much gunfire out there that afternoon that the ground glittered with my casings and Nutty became so accustomed to the shots that he grazed right through the barrage. After a while his ears didn’t even twitch at the continual pop-pop-pop.
    The .22 had very little recoil but after firing clip after clip, my hand and arm felt the effects. My hand tingled as if a low-level electrical current was passing through it, and my arm felt pleasantly loose and warm from the wrist to the shoulder.
    I could have used all that ammunition to improve my marksmanship, aiming carefully at my targets and slowly squeezing
off one shot at a time, but I didn’t. Instead I tried to see how fast I could fire off a whole clip, shooting into the ground just to see the dirt fly. When I had a target (pinecones, branches, knotholes) I often fired at it from the hip or threw a hasty shot as I was whirling around. Most of the time I missed.
    But once. I shot and killed a magpie.
    He was teetering on a branch, his black feathers glistening like oil and his long tail wavering to steady him in the wind.
    Less than forty yards away, I brought the .22 quickly up to shoulder height and snapped off a shot with no more care than pointing my finger.
    The bird toppled from the branch, but in the instant of its fall it had enough life left—or perhaps it was only the wind—to open its wings and in so doing slow its descent.
    To confirm my kill I walked over to where the