![]() ![]() Now, if Ethan had remarked that she looked fine today or some such pretty thing, she’d have been flustered. “Thank you kindly.” Gert accepted praise for shooting as a matter of course. When Cyrus Fennel had arrived to pick up his repaired rifle, Ethan had sat down on the chopping block to watch Gert demonstrate the gun. He’d come by earlier to see if Hiram would help him string a fence the next day. “That’s mighty fine shooting, Gert,” said Hiram’s friend, rancher Ethan Chapman. She picked up the shawl she had let fall to the grass a few minutes earlier. Hiram would be embarrassed enough without her watching. This was the part her brother hated most-taking payment for his work. “Thank you, Miss Dooley.” He shoved his hand into his pocket. She didn’t particularly like Fennel, but he always paid her brother, the only gunsmith in Fergus, with hard money. ![]() “I’d say your shooting piece is in fine order.” She lowered the rifle and passed it to the owner, Cyrus Fennel. The Spencer rifle she held cracked, and the red cloth fifty yards away shivered. Gert Dooley aimed at the scrap of red calico and squeezed the trigger. ![]()
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