The Frontiersman’s Daughter by Laura Frantz Page B

made her a tall woman. The rifle was lighter than Pa’s own, the stock made of hard maple and blackened with soot. Best yet, she could ready it for immediate use, though learning to load it in good time proved a challenge. She’d watched Pa countless times measure a charge from his powder horn into the muzzle, then ramrod the bullet to the bottom of the bore. She recollected how easily he primed the lock with a little powder before closing the pan cover and cocking the lock, readying it in under a minute. He was the only man she knew who could reload on the run.
    “I bet you can’t shoot that thing,” Ransom said sleepily, watching her from the loft.
    The cabin was quiet save the two of them. Ma had gone visiting and now, left to themselves, they could say what they pleased.
    “Pa showed me how when I turned twelve,” she said. “But I’ve hardly fired one.”
    “I heard tell Jane McFee can stand up to a gun hole good as any man.”
    “You heard right.” Truly, Jane McFee, now approaching sixty, had a man’s hand with a gun. Lael longed to be like her, though she didn’t know if she could shoot to kill.
    “I reckon you could pick off a painter pretty quick.” Ransom scratched his head as if thinking. “Maybe a bear too.”
    She took up a rag and began polishing the stock. An animal was the least of her concerns, but she didn’t say so.
    Ransom rambled on. “You see Simon? He come in just today, but you was gone. He disbelieved me when I told him you were on one of your rambles.”
    Simon? Here? Getting up, she stepped to the shutter and looked across the common to the Hayes’ blockhouse where a window was etched in yellow light. How did Simon and Piper Cane fare in the same cabin? she wondered. Piper hadn’t yet come out of seclusion. Ma Horn said she sat silent in a chair with nary a word to anyone. Lael pitied her plight. Would Simon amuse her, make her laugh? No matter. Simon was safe within fort walls, and she’d no doubt see him come morning.
    At dawn the militia drilled then took a brief rest before again picking up their guns. A line of men snaked across the cold common, each bearing a rifle. At the end of the line stood Lael, at first merely curious about their marksmanship. She noted the various men, their different weapons and how each was handled. Simon, ahead of her, seemed oblivious to her presence.
    Several men hooted when old Amos, the fort fiddler, rolled out a charred keg of whiskey. So this was the coveted prize, she surmised. Colonel Corey set up a target just outside the fort’s gates, facing the river. Here the riflemen could be heard and seen by any enemy. Yet at the first sign of trouble, the men could easily slip back into the fort.
    “Now, watch this, little miss,” said the grizzled woodsman ahead of Lael. “Colonel Corey can put nineteen bullets out of twenty within an inch of a nail. Not a man can best ’im but your pa.”
    Indeed, in addition to Colonel Corey’s fine manners, he was good with a gun. He hit the nail on the head nearly every time, finishing and taking his place behind her in line. When he saw her, his eyes registered surprised pleasure, and he swept off his hat, taking her cold, callused hand and bringing it lightly to his lips. She smiled a rare smile, revealing even white teeth, then placed her hand back into her pocket beside the blue beads.
    “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Click?”
    “To your fine marksmanship, Colonel,” she said simply, untried at the art of flirtation.
    “The noise of the guns does not annoy you?”
    “Nay, I’m afraid I’ve been hearing them my whole life.”
    His eyes fell on her rifle. “Would you care to try your weapon? I can assist you.”
    “Aye, thank you kindly.”
    His eyes lingered on her face—a tad overlong, she thought. Behind them now, Simon stewed, his face a study of anger and disbelief. Anger at the colonel’s attentions? Surprise at her presence?
    The men no longer kept to single