Into the Light Read Online Free Page A

Mannie Ascher had gone so far as to purchase an old buffalo gun like Caleb’s, and Ascher had practiced with it for months. Not that it did him any good, he’d missed his target in the fourth round.
    Other towns had contests with elaborate rules and ways of scoring shots and determining the winner by the total score, but Hubbell kept things simple.
    Paper targets hung on nails pounded in tree stumps. The first time a man missed his target, he was eliminated. Shooting started at a hundred yards, and the successful contestants moved back twenty yards after each round.
    Deborah counted eight shooters on the field. Behind her, men placed bets on how many of the eight would make it to the second round. Mannie Ascher’s father sat directly behind her, and Deborah could hear every word of his conversation with Mr. Lawson, who was behind Miriam.
    “Last fall he bought one of those Mauser rifles the Spanish used in the war,” Mr. Ascher said. “They’re supposed to be the best, but I told him it’s not the gun, it’s the eyes. Sutton was just born seeing distances better than most men. It’s a gift.”
    Deborah fought the urge to turn around and enlighten Ascher. Eyesight alone wouldn’t win this contest or any other. Strength and steady hands entered into it. And practice.
    Caleb didn’t let his Sharps hang on the wall unused more than a few days at a time. He’d let Deborah hold that buffalo gun once. It was heavy, and in this contest a man had to heft his rifle. Contestants could shoot from any position, but they couldn’t use a tripod or any other support.
    “Yep, not one of them down there is going to beat Sutton,” Lawson said. “They ought to just give him the trophy and cash now and save time, but I reckon when you let a man enter a contest, you have to give him a chance.”
    Deborah stopped listening as she scanned through the spectators. She had watched all morning, but she never saw anyone who could be her mysterious stranger.
    She didn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment. Her stranger wouldn’t be back in town, and if he was, did she really want to see some callow youth who wouldn’t fit that voice?
    She spotted an unfamiliar face, not in the audience but among the shooters. Her breath caught for a moment, but he couldn’t be her stranger. The man on the field needed a cane to walk and had to lean on it heavily just standing there.
    A man like that wouldn’t stroll through town in the evening for pleasure. She doubted he could walk very far unaided. Not only that, he was her own age or even older, no college boy.
    The men behind her started talking again. They recognized the stranger even if she didn’t.
    “Well, I’ll be.... Look who’s down there,” Ascher said. “You got to give him credit for nerve. He looks like the recoil from a .22 would knock him over.”
    “He looks like a strong breeze would knock him over,” Lawson said, “but I guess that’s an improvement. I heard when he crawled home this spring he was on crutches. I don’t see nothing but a fancy stick now.”
    How exactly could a man crawl on crutches? Deborah studied the man with the cane.
    Most of the others, like Caleb, wore work clothes for the contest, but the man she watched had on gray flannel trousers and a white shirt. Tight around his skinny middle, his belt divided his body into two distinct halves. Someone should make him a gift of suspenders.
    When he pulled his hat off and mopped his face with a handkerchief, she saw the bones of his face angling out sharply under pale skin. Only a thick, unruly thatch of medium brown hair showed any sign of vigor.
    She tried to imagine him healthy. Handsome, she decided. Handsome in that elegant way some men had. A rifle hung from his right hand. He leaned on the cane in his left. The fancy stick.
    “Webster Van Cleve is a right bastard, but even he doesn’t deserve a son like that,” Ascher said, “begging the pardon of any ladies who heard my lapse