Echo Burning

part is the bullet, and the rest of it is the powder in the shell case. Not a very big bullet, and not very much powder behind it. So it’s not necessarily going to do a lot of damage. Worse than a bee sting, but one shot isn’t going to be enough. So you need to get real close, and you need to keep on pulling the trigger until the gun is empty.”
    “O.K.,” she said again.
    “Now watch.”
    He clicked out the magazine and fed nine bullets into it. Clicked the magazine back in and jacked the first shell into the breech. Took out the magazine again and refilled the empty spot at the bottom. Clicked it back in and cocked the gun and left the safety catch on.
    “Cocked and locked,” he said. “You do two things. Push the safety catch, and pull the trigger ten times. It’ll fire ten times before it’s empty, because there’s one already in the mechanism and nine more in the magazine.”
    He handed the gun to her.
    “Don’t point it at me,” he said. “Never point a loaded gun at anything you don’t definitely want to kill.”
    She took it and held it away from him, cautiously.
    “Try it,” he told her. “The safety, and the trigger.”
    She used her left hand to unlatch the safety. Then she pointed it in her right and closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun twisted in her grip and pointed down. The blastof the shot sounded quiet, out there in the emptiness. A chip of rock and a spurt of dust kicked off the floor ten feet away. There was a metallic ricochet whang and a muted ring as the shell case ejected and the horses shuffled in place and then silence closed in again.
    “Well, it works,” she said.
    “Put the safety back on,” he said.
    She clicked the catch and he turned to look at the horses. He didn’t want them to run. Didn’t want to spend time chasing them in the heat. But they were happy enough, standing quietly, watching warily. He turned back and undid his top button and slipped his shirt off over his head. Walked fifteen feet south and laid the shirt on the rim of the gulch, hanging it down and spreading it out to represent a man’s torso. He walked back and stood behind her.
    “Now shoot my shirt,” he said. “You always aim for the body, because it’s the biggest target, and the most vulnerable.”
    She raised the gun, and then lowered it again.
    “I can’t do this,” she said. “You don’t want holes in your shirt.”
    “I figure there isn’t much of a risk,” he said. “Try it.”
    She forgot to release the safety catch. Just pulled on the unyielding trigger. Twice, puzzled why it wouldn’t work. Then she remembered and clicked it off. Pointed the gun and closed her eyes and fired. Reacher guessed she missed by twenty feet, high and wide.
    “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Pretend you’re mad at the shirt, you’re standing there pointing your finger right at it, like you’re yelling.”
    She kept her eyes open. Squared her shoulders and pointed with her right arm held level. She fired and missed again, maybe six feet to the left, maybe a little low.
    “Let me try,” he said.
    She passed him the gun. It was tiny in his hand. The trigger guard was almost too small to fit his finger. He closed one eye and sighted in.
    “I’m aiming for where the pocket was,” he said.
    He fired a double-tap, two shots in quick succession, withhis hand rock-steady. The first hit the shirt in the armpit opposite the torn pocket. The second hit centrally but low down. He relaxed his stance and handed the gun back.
    “Your turn again,” he said.
    She fired three more, all of them hopeless misses. High to the right, wide to the left. The last hit the dirt, maybe seven feet short of the target. She stared at the shirt and lowered the gun, disappointed.
    “So what have you learned?” he asked.
    “I need to get close,” she said.
    “Damn right,” he said. “And it’s not entirely your fault. A short-barrel handgun is a close-up weapon. See what I did? I missed by twelve inches, from fifteen feet. One bullet went left, and the other went down. They didn’t even miss consistently. And I can shoot. I won competitions for pistol shooting in the army. Couple of years, I was the best there was.”
    “O.K.,” she said.
    He took the gun from her and squatted in the dust and reloaded it. One up the spout and nine in the magazine. He cocked it and locked it and laid it on the ground.
    “Leave it there,” he said. “Unless you’re very, very sure. Could you do