d.

"Oh, Don," he said. "Didn't expect you for a couple of days. There's no
holiday down there right now, is there?"

Don shook his head. "I made a new one," he said. "Permanent type."

His father bent over the rifle action, examining it. Then he stepped
over to place the weapon in a rack. Finally, he turned, to look
searchingly at his son.

"Permanent?"

"Afraid so, Dad. I guess I sort of blew up."

"Want to tell me about it?"

The older man motioned Don to a camp stool and pulled one over for
himself. As Don talked, he listened intently. At last, he nodded.

"So that's all of that, eh?"

"Guess it is, Dad. Looks as though I'll have to start working for my
keep. Won't be any police official in the family after all."

"Could be." Kent Michaels got up and reached out to the weapons rack.

"Got one more shot on this target. Then we'll talk it over, hm-m-mm?"

He stepped up to a line inlaid in the floor. Deliberately, he placed a
cartridge in the rifle and closed the action. Then, he raised the
weapon, seated it on his shoulder, and brought it into position with a
twisting motion.

Don watched, smiling in spite of himself, as the front sight rose and
fell with his father's breathing. That routine never changed. From the
time the Old Man picked up his weapon till he laid it down, you could
predict every move he'd make.

The motion stopped and for endless seconds, the man stood motionless,
the muzzle of his rifle probing steadily toward the lighted space
downrange. Then the front sight jumped upward, settled back, and
steadied again.

"Looked good." Kent Michaels let the weapon down, opened the action and
checked it, then racked the weapon. He touched a button near the firing
line and waited for the target to come in to him.

Deliberately, he unclipped the sheet of paper, laid it down, and
clipped another in its place. He touched another button, then picked up
the fired target and bent over it, checking his score. Finally, he
looked up.

"Ninety-seven," he said. "Four X's. Think you can beat it?" He walked
back to the rack and picked out a rifle. After glancing into the
action, he held it out toward Don.

"Zero hasn't been changed since you fired it last. Want to take a
couple of free ones anyway, just to be sure?"

Don looked at him indignantly.

"Good grief, Dad," he objected. "This is no time for a rifle match."

"Good as any, I'd say," his father told him. "Go ahead. There's a block
of ammo at