It occurred to Brad that if he shot one of the branches, he’d never know. Looking around the creek bank, he espied rounded stones lining its length. A few minutes later, he placed three fist sized stones on the lower branches, then returned to the golf caddy.
He looked down at the collection of weapons; so many to choose from. The shotgun appealed to him; the most devastating of all the firearms present. His father always said, “shartguns don’t miss.”
Brad didn’t even bother to sight the weapon at the stones, a hundred metres away. He pondered keeping it in reserve as a secondary weapon, but decided against the idea. Another firearm only made for more weight and he’d have to make room for the ammunition.
No, best to use one good rifle.
Checking “safe” and emptying the shotgun, he tossed it aside. Then reached for the only familiar rifle, a .22 calibre hunting rifle his father gave him for his tenth birthday. His dad said something about making a man out of him. When he opened the present, Brad’s face fell. He had hoped for a football or a video games system.
Brad disappointed his father on their first hunting trip together, probably more than he ever disappointed him before. Rabbits shifted within Brad’s sights, but he always managed to miss. His father accused him of missing on purpose and never took him on another trip.
He was right Brad thought as the creek bed of the present refocused into being.
Checking safe, he loaded the magazine and cocked the rifle. Flipping off the safety catch, he took aim. His rifle resounded across the field. All three stones remained on the branches. He recocked the weapon and aimed again; this time shifting one of the stones. Recocking the rifle, he aimed again, this time knocking it from its perch.
It time, he would learn to be proficient with the rifle, but didn’t relish shooting at something as close as 100 metres away. He took hold of the caddy handle and wheeled it back another hundred metres. This time, as he took aim, he had to largely guess at the position of the stones. Doing safety checks on the rifle and emptying it, he tossed it aside.
He needed something with a bigger bore, preferably with a scope. Only one existed in the caddy, a well worn weapon; his father’s favourite. His father had a love/hate relationship with the ex-military Aussie weapon.
“That’s one thing you Brits got right,” he said.
His father was ignorant of the world on a number of levels.
I’m about as British as you are Brad’s thoughts rang at the time.
If he’d have said his thoughts aloud, he would have worn a backhander from his father. Besides, the rifle he used was merely an Aussie variation of the Belgian weapon.
Brad did the safety checks, then loaded and cocked the weapon, aiming for the trees. With an adjustment wheel on the side of the scope, he brought the stones into focus. He flipped off the safety catch with his thumb and tensed on the trigger as he heard hustling in the grass.