John's love of hunting began when he was eight. His great Uncle Samuel, who owned a ranch in Wyoming, had sent him a brand-new Red Rider BB gun for Christmas. He was elated when he unwrapped the long, skinny striped box. He knew it!! He'd been dreaming of having a gun to take around with him when he was out in the woods. A gun would make him feel like he could go anywhere and do anything, and he could use it for play or for real.

He rummaged through the garbage all day in search of cans and bottles for target practice, and ran around, setting them farther and higher, then stacked, then along the fence. "PING . . . PING . . . PING!" The sound of metal BBs connecting with tin cans brought happy shouts and loud laughter from the proud marksman.

He finally fell asleep with the small rifle laid out beside him, ready to spring into action at the crack of dawn.

Jed was no hunter. He owned a .22 for basic protection, but only took it out once a year to test its accuracy, then give it a cleaning. He took no joy in firing the weapon, and hoped he never had to get it out more than the yearly duty demanded.

But now Johnny had his own little gun and he seemed to take to it. Jed wondered if he would feel pressured to teach the boy about hunting. He supposed that would be the natural progression of his intense interest. He could probably ask a few of the guys at work about tips on hunting deer, or hunting rabbits even.

The thought elicited no real excitement in Jed, though, so he was greatly relieved when he realized that his son disappeared into the woods each morning tightly holding the rifle across his chest, obviously ready for anything that might come his way, and seemingly content to figure things out for himself. He never did approach Jed for advice.

Soon enough, John was seeking out live targets�specifically birds. One of the first casualties of the Red Rider was an obnoxious magpie that kept landing on Louise's clothesline. John sat on a small hill about fifteen yards away getting a bead on it each time it flapped over to the taut wire. Unbeknownst to the mini-mighty hunter, his mother had a bead on him as she washed dishes, looking out the kitchen window. When she saw the bird teeter, then fall to the ground, she dried her hands on her apron and walked outside.

John's victorious feeling vanished the instant he saw Louise's stern face standing above him as he crouched on the ground inspecting his prey. She ordered him to skin it and give her all of the meat. It turned out to be just a miniature breast, no larger than his big toe and tougher than shoe leather, he would soon find out.

She fried it in her tiny cast-iron skillet with a pat of butter, then set it in front of him.

"Don't kill what you're not going to eat," she told him firmly as he chewed it and chewed it and chewed it. And from then on, he didn't.

-Chapter 3