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toward the pharmacy, Brodie put both hands under himself and swung over onto his own horse. They pulled up in front of a small shop with a large window announcing “Gullman’s Pharmaceutical Parlor,” with a rendering of a mortar and pestle under the lettering.
    â€œHey, Doc,” Tallman called out.
    â€œYes, sir,” came the answer from inside the store, and Gullman stepped out.
    â€œHow about bringin’ us three strawberry soda pops? Put ’em on my tab.”
    â€œGood enough,” the owner answered. “They’re good and cold; Jesse just come back from the icehouse.”
    â€œGood, throw some ice in a small bag while you’re about it,” Tallman said.
    Gullman returned quickly with the three sodas and a paper bag of ice.
    Tallman wheeled the roan around and headed toward the ocean, with Ben and Brodie following. They tethered their horses to a tree at the edge of the beach and hunched down Indian-style on the sand. For a change, the sun was out. The sky was cloudless. It was so clear you could see the waves breaking at the entrance to the bay, almost two miles away.
    Brodie dug some ice out of the soggy bag and winced as he pressed it against the welt on the corner of his eye. Water dribbled down the side of his face.
    â€œYou’ll be goin’ back East soon, won’t you, Ben?” Tallman said.
    Ben nodded. “Papa and I are going to Boston in a month to get me set up. Soon as school’s out.”
    â€œYou gonna marry Isabel?”
    â€œWell, she’s going East to school, too,” Ben said, his face reddening. “But it’s too early to be thinking about getting married.”
    â€œHow about you, Brodie? What are you gonna do?”
    Brodie picked up a handful of sand and watched it stream from his fist. “Haven’t thought much about it,” was all he said.
    Tallman was mentor to the two boys, had taught them how to stand in the stirrups at a full gallop to take the load off the horse’s back; how to draw a gun in a single, fluid move, skimming the hammer back with the flat of the hand, pointing the piece—like you would point a finger—before making a fist and squeezing the trigger, all the while without changing expression. No hint of a move in the eyes or jaw muscles. No giveaways. And stay loose, don’t tighten up, concentrate on the eyes and face of your foe.
    â€œTheir eyes’ll tell you when to squeeze off,” he had told them. “It’s a look you never forget.”
    â€œLike what?” Brodie asked.
    â€œPlenty a things. Fear, hesitation, a little twitch of the eye, anxiousness. It’s a giveaway look for damn sure. You’ll know it, if ever you see it.”
    The talk didn’t mean much to Ben, who loved a shotgun and the hunt, while Brodie loved pistol shooting.
    â€œSo who’s the best shot you ever knew?” asked Brodie.
    â€œPhoebe Moses is the best shot alive,” he said without hesitation.
    â€œA
girl
!” Ben said incredulously.
    â€œC’mon,” Brodie said.
    â€œPhoebe Anne Oakley Moses. You boys know her better as Annie Oakley. I met her a few years ago when Bill Cody’s Wild West Show was in Chicago. She shoots over her shoulder with a rifle better than me, Wyatt, Pat Garrett, or her husband, Frank Butler—who was damn good himself—can shoot with a pistol. You could toss a playin’ card in the air and she’d put a dozen shots in it ’fore it hit the ground. Her and Frank are still with the show, far as I know.”
    â€œHow about that abalone shell down there,” Brodie said suddenly.
    â€œWhat shell?” Tallman asked, casually looking down the beach.
    Brodie looked down the beach. A red abalone shell was lying at the edge of the surf about fifty feet away. He had to squint to see it clearly. “The red one. Down the beach there.”
    Tallman didn’t need to ask what Brodie wanted him to do.