Chapter 15
The command echoed down the line, sharp and clear through the morning air: “Shooters, you may commence firing when ready. You have ten minutes for ten rounds.”
Lucas didn't rush. While other rifles along the line began to crack in rapid succession, kicking up small plumes of dust and smoke, Lucas worked with methodical, icy precision. He chambered his first round with a smooth, practiced pull of the bolt, the metal clicking softly into battery. He brought the crosshairs onto the center of the target, allowing for a slight two-mile-per-hour crosswind drifting from the left. His heart rate slowed to a steady, imperceptible thrum, mirroring the quiet discipline his father had instilled in him during those long hours in the reloading shed.
He squeezed the trigger. The Remington barked, the heavy wooden stock driving solidly into his shoulder, and the first casing spun out into the dirt. Through the high-powered scope, he saw the tiny black speck punch clean through the paper right inside the ten ring. Without breaking his rhythm, he worked the bolt, settled his breathing, and fired the second round, then the third, maintaining a cadence of absolute focus that ignored the mounting tension of the competition around him.
By the time he fired his tenth and final round, the barrel of the rifle was hot, shimmering with a faint heat mirage that danced against the distant hills. Lucas engaged the safety, rose smoothly from the mat, and stepped back behind the firing line, leaving his rifle resting securely on the bench. He pulled out his earplugs, letting the roaring applause and chatter of the crowd wash over him as Arthur approached with the official spotting report from the target pits.
Arthur looked down at the scoring sheet, a wide smile breaking across his weathered face. “Ninety-eight out of a possible one hundred,” Arthur announced, his voice carrying clearly across the line. “With six inner-bulls at three hundred yards. That takes first place in the open youth division, son.”
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Across the range, Marcus walked over and extended his hand, his expression warm and unreserved. “Hell of a shot, Henderson,” Marcus said firmly, gripping Lucas’s hand in a strong, respectful shake.
Lucas looked past the two men toward the edge of the white tent, where his mother was standing, her hands clasped over her chest, tears of quiet pride shining in her eyes. The heavy burden of the past year hadn't vanished entirely, but as the American flags snapped in the crisp valley wind, Lucas knew they were going to be all right. He had found his place, honored his father’s memory, and proven that with patience, focus, and unwavering determination, even the poorest boy on the line could hit the absolute center of his world.
