“You’re right on,” he announced. “But a little high.”
“Good,” Mr. Cook replied. “We want to be high.”
“How come?” Mike demanded.
“Bullets don’t go straight forever,” Mr. Cook explained. “Gravity forces them to curve down until they hit the ground. This rifle shoots a little high at fifty yards. But it’ll be right on target at two hundred and fifty—and that,” he pointed out, “will be about as close as you’ll get to an elk.” He patted the gun with evident satisfaction. “She’s all set,” he said. “Let’s get busy on the others.” Now that the boys knew what they were doing, the work went faster. An hour and a half later, they were finishing with the last rifle.
“One more shot, Dad,” begged Mike. “I’m still not happy with this one.”
His father shrugged. “Suit yourself. I think she’s fine.”
“You watching, Sandy?” Mike called out, slinging up the gun.
“Go ahead,” Sandy called.
Mike had just put his eye against the sight when Sandy yelled out a warning. “Hold it! There’s somebody coming down the hill.”
“He sure is running fast, whoever he is,” commented Mr. Cook. “Take a look through your glasses and see if we know him.”