“Now just imagine that you’re lying on a hillside three hundred yards from a deer down on a plain that—”
“Four hundred yards.”
“Sorry?”
“The deer is four hundred yards away from me. And from where I’m standing there’s a fifteen-degree angle.”
“Sure, but let’s take the example with three hundred.”
“No,” I said.
Jim looked a little confused now; he’d lost his place. But I could see his brain searching for a way to continue playing a game he knew to perfection.
“I don’t recommend that a beginner start by shooting at something that’s over three hundred yards away,” said Jim. “At three hundred you’re already flirting with what we call maximum point-blank range, doesn’t matter what ammunition you’re using. Farther than that and the bullet will be affected so much by windand weather that the beginner will just wound the deer or frighten it off, and you don’t want that, Tomás.”
I took off my sunglasses. Our eyes met.
“Four hundred yards,” I repeated. “All I need to know is whether my calculations are correct or if there’s something I haven’t been taking into consideration.”
He took a breath. Blinked. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, pushed his cap back and concentrated, his jaws moving around like he was chewing grass.
I waited. I was in no hurry.
He rolled over on his side and pulled out his phone. Tapped the calculator.
“Okay, four hundred yards,” he said. “You have to aim as though the distance was four hundred yards.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Good. What d’you say, Tomás, shall we try a few shots at the target on the left down there?”
I shrugged. “What are the numbers?”
He gave me the distance and the angle, and I told him I didn’t need the cosine, I already knew it for every angle. And I didn’t need any calculator to work out how much to adjust the sight. I looked at the flags on the front of the store behind me. Lay out on the mat, loaded, adjusted the sight.
“Shoot when you’re ready,” said Jim.
I took a breath, held it. Saw Cody Karlstad’s face in front of me the way it looked in the picture. A target on his forehead like that Donald Duck. Pointing a gun at me, my wife, my children. I fired. Loaded. Fired. Loaded. She was so pretty when she laughed, and when her heart broke, my heart would break too. And my heart broke often, because hers could break over the slightest little thing, it could be some stranger she felt pity for, or the way light fell, reminding her of a time she would never get back again.
“It’s empty,” said Jim.
“What?”
“The magazine. It’s empty. You can quit squeezing the trigger.”
“Sure.” I put the rifle down and stood up.
We walked down the incline to the target.
“Not bad,” said Jim.
All five shots had hit within a radius of five to six inches.
“Could be better,” I said, noting that the spread was more horizontal than vertical. “Any advice?”
“You could work on your shooting position and your breathing, but you have a fine natural trigger action. Hang this up at home, Tomás.” He took down the paper target, rolled it up and handed it to me. I guessed that was something he did with all his customers, gave them a trophy, something to take home from the hunt.
We headed back up the slope. Jim watched as I packed my rifle back in its bubble wrap.
