“Yes. He drowned in the river just below here, not long after I was born.” “I don’t remember much o’ mine, either. Killed when we took Quebec in ’59. Shooting shoulder to shoulder with the British then we was, and now we’re shooting at ’em.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “Well, I’d sure like to borrow your daddy’s gun, if your mother don’t object none to the idea.” “My mother’s dead, too, and Granny would likely make a fuss, but I don’t think we’ll ask Granny.” Kitty had finally made up her mind. “Come on,” she said, flicking her fingers lightly against his sleeve. His fingers were not light when they gripped her arm. They were sure and steady. Together they walked up Fish Street and turned right to pass the Frog Pond and the new training green. He strode proudly along with his head up, but he did not talk to her. Instead he whistled a plaintive air she had never heard before. When they got to Gran’s neat clapboarded house, she guided him through the front gate and along the garden path, half screened by lilac bushes growing thick and tall. A small whitewashed barn stood at the rear of the property, but Granny kept no livestock any more, and the inside of it smelled clean and musty like an attic, with no scent of dung or hay. The loft had two tiny windows set high under the eaves, but no other light, and it took Kitty a few minutes before she could make out the old gun hanging on the wall between a moth-eaten lap robe and a long wooden fork for pitching hay. “There it is,” she murmured, pointing, breathless and a little proud. He strode forward and pulled down the short, thick-barreled gun. When he spoke she caught a note of dismay in his voice. “An old blunderbuss,” he murmured. “An old blunderbuss! Looks like the one Adam must ha’ carried when they driv’ him out o’ Eden.” He peered into the flaring muzzle. “Might shoot, at that. Don’t believe I’ll try it in here.” Groping around on a shelf, Kitty found an empty powder horn, which he took a little more gratefully. “There’ll be powder enough where I’m going,” he told her, “and I better be getting there.” The rain tapped steadily on the shingles overhead, but the tiny window that faced westward showed a streak of blue sky. Carrying the old blunderbuss carefully, he moved toward the ladder that led below. Uncertain what to do or say, Kitty stood and stared at him. He paused and turned toward her. “I’ll take good care o’ this,” he said, “and I’ll see you get it back when I don’t need it any more.” He took a step in her direction. Suddenly her throat began to hurt, and she felt as if she were going to cry. He took another step. “I’ll make sure of it,” he said. “When I get to camp and can set down for a spell, I’ll cut your name and the town where you live--right here on the butt.” He tapped the end of the thick gun. “And then, maybe somebody else will send it home if I don’t--come back this way.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly on the mouth.