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At that moment, a small form catapulted down her own garden path, followed more slowly by a thin little man. Daniel had come out for his morning walk.
“What do you think he is about with that great gun?” Melisande asked idly.
Mr. Hartley had put down his gun again and now seemed to be peering into the barrel—a position that appeared inherently dangerous.
“Lord knows,” Emeline muttered. She had a great desire to abandon her very good friend and find some pretext to go into her garden. Wigeon! “Something masculine, no doubt.”
“Mmm. And Daniel out there so near to him.” Melisande looked at her over a cup of tea, her eyes amused. “A concerned mama might very well go out to see what her neighbor was doing.”
SAM WAS AWARE of the boy well before he actually saw him. The brick wall between the gardens was six feet tall, but the sounds of a boy could easily be heard—a skipping run in dry leaves, a panting cry to “come see!” and finally the scrabbling of boots on tree bark as the lad scrambled up a tree. There was a relative silence then, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing as the boy watched him.
Sam sat on a marble bench beneath the wall, his Kentucky rifle laid across his knees. He took a long piece of wire from his pocket and threaded it through the touchhole, working it back and forth to scrape out any corrosion. Then he blew into the tiny hole and sighted down the barrel.
The boy broke. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning my gun.” Sam didn’t look up. Sometimes an animal was braver when it didn’t think the tracker was interested.
“I have a gun.” There was the sound of rustling leaves as the boy shifted.
“Oh?”
“Belonged to my uncle Reynaud.”
“Mmm.” Sam got up and stood the gun on its butt. He slid the ramrod out from under the barrel.
“M’man says I can’t touch it.”
“Ah.”
“Can I help you clean your gun?”
Sam paused at that and squinted up at the boy. Daniel lay on a branch two feet over his head, arms and legs dangling. He had a scratch on one cheek and a streak of dirt on his white shirt. His blond hair hung over his forehead, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement.
Sam sighed. “Would your mother mind if I let you help me?”
“Oh, no,” the boy said instantly. He began inching out on the limb, closer into Sam’s yard.
“Whoa, there.” Sam set aside his rifle and went to stand underneath the boy in case he fell. “What about your tutor?”
Daniel craned his neck, looking back into his own garden. “He’s sitting on the bench under the rose arbor. He always falls asleep there when we take our walk.” He inched forward again.
“Hold it there,” Sam said.
The boy froze, his eyes wide.
“The branch won’t bear your weight if you go much farther out. Swing your legs down and I’ll help you.”
Daniel grinned in relief and let both legs dangle off one side of the branch, holding on by his arms. Sam caught the boy by the waist and lowered him to the ground.
Immediately, Daniel ran to the gun. Sam watched carefully, but the boy didn’t touch the weapon; he merely examined it.
Daniel whistled through his teeth. “’Pon my word, that’s the longest gun I ever did see.”
Sam smiled and hunkered down next to the boy. “It’s a Kentucky rifle. Settlers use it on the frontiers of Pennsylvania in the Colonies.”
Daniel glanced sideways at Sam. “Why’s it so long? Don’t that make it hard to carry?”
“Not much. It’s not that heavy.” Sam picked up the gun and sighted down the barrel again. “Aim’s better. Shot’s better. Here, take a look.”
