“What’s your name, son?”
“Eddie Cantrell.” He paused, wondering if he should add “sir” to it, but it was too late.
Santee held his door open. “Come on in, Eddie. My name is Paul, but everybody just calls me Santee. It’s real neighborly of you to come out here to tell me.” He wondered if that sounded as hokey as it felt saying it.
They sat at Santee’s table and drank cold spring water. Eddie told about the tumultuous day of the Event, and the town meeting and what the people were doing to cope with the war they found themselves in. They were going to fight, of course. They’d sent him here, he said, because they were trying to find every American within the Ring and gather them in Grantville to help with defense. Santee didn’t betray any surprise, just kept listening and asking occasional questions. After awhile Eddie relaxed a bit and decided Santee was just trying to be nice, even if sociable chitchat came hard to him. At Santee’s subtle probing, Eddie explained that he was on his own now, since he was on a different side of the Ring of Fire from his home, including his father (who he said was “okay, when he had the time”) and stepmother (who he admitted he wouldn’t miss much).
The talk returned to more immediate matters. “How did you get here?” Santee asked him.
“I rode my dirt bike up that hill”—he pointed across the canyon—”and saw your smoke, and then your cabin. Lots of Germans running from the war around here, but they don’t make smokestacks like that. No way to ride here, so I just walked. Brush got thick in places, but no problem.”
“Good job. You must move pretty quiet when you want to.” Santee even gave him a brief, crooked smile. “None of my business, but what are you going to do? I don’t mean the town, I mean you.”
“Well, I’ve been drafted, I guess. Frank Jackson’s running the army; I’ll do what he tells me to. He’s a Vietnam vet.” Eddie sounded a little impressed at that. Then he looked at his watch and quickly stood up. “Uh, I have to get back. I’m late now. Thanks for the water and all. Hope to see you in Grantville…”
On impulse, Santee said, “Just a second, Eddie. You say there are armed Germans out there. Do you have a gun?”
“Uh, no. I had a .22 and a shotgun, but now…”
“Just a sec then. Be right back.”
Santee disappeared through a side door and came back in a few minutes with a pistol in a fully enclosed holster.
“This is a Russian Nagant revolver. Seven shooter, not the usual six shots. Damn ammo costs forty bucks a box, so the pistols are cheap. Uh, ‘were.’ Damn.”
Eddie smiled. “Everybody’s doing that. Weird for everyone.”
“Yeah. I suppose so. You know about gun safety?”
“It’s loaded. Don’t point it at anybody. Know what you’re shooting at.” Eddie repeated it mechanically; it had been drilled into his head a thousand times.
Santee nodded and handed the pistol to Eddie. “You know it; just remember it. Take this outside and dry-fire it a few times. Trigger pull is god-awful. Cylinder moves back and forth front to back; that’s normal. I’ll go round up the ammo.”
Eddie did as he was told and found that Santee was right. His forefinger got tired right away, the sights were terrible, and the gun was uncomfortable in his hand. But he was fascinated by the various moving parts and was peering closely at the mechanism when Santee rejoined him with the ammunition. Santee showed him how to load and unload the gun, then opened a box and took out some ear muffs and safety glasses.
“Ready to try it?” Eddie nodded. “Shoot at that metal gong by the woodpile over there. The hill will catch anything that misses the woodpile.”
Eddie shot seven times, and missed all but the last. The ringing gong made them both smile. “You’ll do.” was all Santee said to Eddie as they moved back toward the cabin.
Santee briefly showed him how to clean the revolver, and Eddie said again that he had to get back. It was going to be dark soon. “Thanks for letting me borrow this gun, Mr. Santee.”