“Jesus, Dad,” Jack said as he stared through the field glasses.
“Not bad for an old fart, ay?”
Dad was down on his right knee, left elbow resting on his left thigh, eye glued to his scope.
“Not bad? It’s fantastic!”
Earlier he’d watched with amazement as his father’s wrinkled old hands disassembled the M1C like it was a tinker toy. He’d inspected the firing pin, wiped the scope lenses, cleaned and oiled all the works, scoured the inside of the barrel with a long-handled brush, then reassembled it with a precision and an efficiency that left Jack in awe.
Dad had explained that it was like riding a bike: Do it enough times and you never forget how. Your hands know what to do.
Then it was time for the test firing. Don had a two-hundred-yard rifle range behind his shop with acres of open country beyond it. Dad’s targets—large paper sheets with concentric black circles at their centers—were set against a rickety wooden fence.
His first shots had been grouped wide to the left, but as he made progressive adjustments on the sight, the holes in the target crept inexorably toward the heart of the bull’s-eye. He’d punched the last three shots through a one-and-a-half-inch circle.
“Not so fantastic,” Dad said. “It’s only two hundred yards.” He patted the stock. “Definitely worth the price.”
“A hundred yards is all we’ll need, I hope. And by the way, I’m paying.”
The Tyleski Visa had a five-thousand-dollar credit limit. Still plenty of slack there.
“Like hell.”
“No, the least a guy can do for his backup is arm him.” Jack extended his hand toward his father. “You’ve still got it, Dad.”
The flash of his father’s smile as they shook hands warmed him.