The gun had been her brother's, a gift to him from her father when he left to fight in Cuba. The silver plate on the stock read "Elisha" in the script they used for their family silver, and then stamped out under it in small block letters, "repeating rifle," a mark of how proud her father was of his gift. Annie stuffed the magazine full of the cool, round-headed shells, then sighted at the cans, a hundred yards away across the draw. She fired and levered, fired and levered, until all the cans were knocked down and when they were, she fired at the holes she'd made in the dirt until her magazine was empty. Then she walked around to set the cans up again. Annie moved in a trance. The noise of the shot, the recoil in her shoulder, the puff of dirt, the lever. Over and over again. Then the walk, not exactly in thought but in stillness. Her head empty of worry and no pain in her gut, no tightness in her chest and back. Annie repeated the operation until all the shells were gone but one handful. She filled the magazine again and realized she had three extra. She looked around for something to shoot at.

On a low dead branch of one of the cottonwoods a meadowlark watched, his bright yellow breast puffed out like an opera singer's chest. Annie sighted in on him. Shooting was her gift. She had never been good at other things. She was clumsy with her hands, which were too big for most women's work. The amazed smile on her brother Jacob's face the day he taught her to shoot was the lone moment of affirmation from above in Annie's life, the one time she'd felt pure pride and recognition. She blinked, took a deep breath, then lowered the sight until it was a solid dash across the birds neck. Annie shot with both eyes open, and pulled the trigger the moment the sight and the target merged in blurry superimposition. She'd feel them blend, hook up to her sex organs, and at that moment she exhaled and squeezed. It was what people call dead aim. The meadowlark disappeared in a puff of feathers. Annie lowered the gun, and walked toward the cottonwood. There was not much left of the bird. Its blood, a few yellow feathers, a brown and white husk. Some of the bird's blood had fallen onto one of last year's leaves. Annie picked it up, crumbled it between her fingers, and pressed the mixture to her lips. Something came loose in her, whatever had made her so angry, and she started to cry. She cried so hard she dropped her gun and sat down. She gulped for air and the more she breathed the harder she cried. She cried until she threw up and she threw up until she couldn't anymore.

When she was done crying Annie Quinn found Spider and rode back to the ranch house. Noreen was pretending to be busy in the kitchen, and Tom was hunched over a big plate of biscuit and milk gravy, his arm curled jealously around the plate. He tipped his hat between bites when Annie came in.
"I'm going to town," she said. "You need anything?"
Noreen turned.
"I thought we were going Saturday."
"I'm going now. I need more bullets."
"You'd think we were at war."
"I'm not taking the cart. You need anything or not?"
"We'll be alright until Saturday," Noreen said. "Thomas, would you like anything from town?"
Thomas shook his head and took a huge mouthful of biscuit. Noreen liked to go to town on Saturdays, when it was full of people.
"Thomas, you mind staying til I get back?" Annie said.
"No."