Robbie Kellerman sat on the top step of the back porch. He watched the silent, unsmiling man who leaned against the porch railing.

"When I'm a man", the boy boasted, "I'll wear a gun, like you."

The man swung his lean body away from the hardness of the railing and asked,

"When is that, sonny?"

"Well," replied the boy, "You're a man, Mr. Tucker."

"Yeah, I'm over twenty-one," he said, and stepped down from porch onto the ranch yard. "How old are you?"

"Ten, almost."

Tucker moved out of the shadows into the waning, but still warm October sunlight. He withdrew a sack of tobacco and papers from the pocket of his soiled, white shirt. And while surveying the rock-rimmed approaches to the Kellerman ranch for what seemed to Robbie as the fiftieth time, Tucker rolled a neat, brown cigarette with his left hand.

That makes me bout' fifteen years older. An' if living in places like that beauty across the ridge makes a man then I'm one. But," he shrugged, "who really knows?"

Robbie hunched forward, eager for Mr. Tucker to continue.

That did it! Tucker stamped his unlit cigarette into the dry ranch yard dust which spurted upward. He watched the fine, red particles settle on his boots. The dust particles fluttered like the memory of unscheduled meeting yesterday with Pratt and some of his crew. After an angry accusation, Pratt's 'top hand', Tip O'Donnell started the action.

Then, the crash of gunfire and cries of hurt followed by quiet. Two men down. Tip with a smashed shoulder and another of Pratt's riders bled from a .44 slug in his belly.

And afterward, the long, fast ride over Sangre ridge into the Kellerman ranch late last night. Then, with the kid watching as Tucker wearily asked for a place to rest over night. And the kid, watching him unsaddle his tired pony. And the kid, watching him un-strap and stow his gun belt and holster—just like the kid watched him now.

Maybe, thought Tucker, there's a way to "straighten" out this kid so he'll have an idea about the real meaning of a tied-down Colt, night riding and always watching back trails.

"Before you get any more wrong ideas, sonny, let me tell you a few things."

Tucker reached for his Colt .44 only to remember he'd left in his saddle bag to please the Kellermans. He asked Robbie to fetch it. The boy ran to the barn. He knew exactly where to find it. Last night he risked his father's anger by hovering around the late arrival like a prospector on the trail of a mother lode. Robbie had never been this close to anyone like Mr. Tucker. He was fascinated by the easy, yet precise manner Mr. Tucker unbuckled and stowed his Colt. Rummaging among the scant contents of the saddle bag the boy found the Colt holstered and wrapped in its wide, oiled leather belt.

As he emerged from the barn, tie-down thong dangling from his tightly clutched burden, Robbie saw his mother had come out of the kitchen. She and Mr. Tucker were talking.

"Remember, Mr. Tucker, if that is your name, our bargain. Jim, my husband, and I don't approve of guns—"

Genuinely amused, Tucker laughed. "An' the likes of me? Is that what you want to say, Ma'm?"

Embarrassed, she nevertheless replied coolly, "You know exactly what I mean. He'll learn," she glanced toward her approaching son, "all too soon about your so-called man's world. She lowered her voice, asked him to be careful and added, "Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour. When Jim comes home."

Tucker took off his hat, bowed from the waist and assured her, "When I am through he won't never want to look at a gun again Ma'm."

As if he momentarily expected the gun to shoot by itself, Robbie carefully handed it to Mr. Tucker who deftly restored it to its accustomed place low on his right hip. He questioned the boy, "Ever see anyone get gunned down?"

"Last year when Pa and I were in town, the sheriff shot somebody. But," and he halfway apologized, "I didn't see it happen."

Tucker stood in a classic gunfighter crouch and concentrated upon the plan he rapidly formulated and proceeded to tell his eager listener more. "Imagine you are that man you talked about. An' you're wearing a gun," he paused to tighten his gun belt, "know you'll use it!"

Unexpectedly, Tucker drew his .44. The swift, blur of movement ended when the huge black gun muzzle pointed at the boy's stomach. Robbie drew back from his "teacher's" softly spoken warning, "This is DEATH boy. Anythin' you shoot will be destroyed!"

Robbie almost stumbled as he stepped away from the now sinister gunman who, without warning, turned and "fanned" five shots into a nearby sapling. Robbie clapped his hands over his ears and watched, disbelieving. The sapling, shredded to pulp some four feet above ground level, tottered and slowly fell over, raising a small plume of dust where it hit the ground.

The rhythmic click of ejecting shell cases punctuated Tucker's footsteps over to the well. His offer of a drink of water passed unnoticed. Robbie exclaimed, instead, "There's Pa coming in."

Instantly alerted, Tucker demanded, "How can you tell, in such bad light?" Robbie's face brightened. He welcomed the change of subject. "That's his horse and I know the color of his hat. Besides," he added with importance, "he always comes home from the mine aroun' this time of day."

As if caught up in the urgency of the moment, Tucker accepted the explanation, reloaded his Colt and continued, "There's more to handlin' a gun than quick hands. It's hard to explain but once you begin your play somethin' holds you to it."

Tucker positioned himself about ten paces from the boy and cautioned him, "We're goin' to settle this the only way we know!"

By now Robbie didn't know if Mr. Tucker was play actin' or not. He nervously looked over at his mother who had hurried out onto the porch. In the awful silence following the reverberating gunfire she understood what Mr. Tucker meant when he said, "he won't never want to look at a gun again!"

Robbie desperately wanted to run but that "something" wouldn't let him. Tucker's unsympathetic command, "Don't move." stilled the boy's impulse to wipe his sweaty palms. Tucker's final admonition, "Watch my eyes an' you'll know when I make my move," contrasting harshly with the quiet of the ranch yard.

Robbie's mother wanted to stop "the lesson" before it went any further. She started to run down the steps to her son. Instead, she stopped, overcome with relief when she caught sight of Jim's horse which stood ground-hitched by the barn. Strange, she thought. Jim always puts his horse in the barn when he comes home.

Instantly she realized it was not her husband. Whoever wore Jim's hat was stalking through the shadows toward Mr. Tucker.

Mother and son stood motionless. They watched the stranger walk toward them in the vague twilight

There is not another sound identical to the "snick" when a gun is cocked. This ominous sound prefaced the stranger's calm, evenly spaced words.

"That's good advice. But some better is never let anyone get the drop on you from behind. Now Tuck," he continued, "take off your rig and turn around real slow, with your hands high!"

Robbie watched Mr. Tucker's eyes. They were expressionless and somehow reminded the boy of two patches of blue showing through a cloud. Then Mr. Tucker, with a slight nod of his head, motioned the boy away from him and began to turn and draw his Colt.

The stranger waited a fraction of second and triggered two shots into Tucker's whirling body. Timed to find their mark in the side rather than the back, the impact of the tearing slugs struck an area no larger than a small boy's hand and slammed Tucker onto the ground on his side. Tucker somehow retained a tight grip on the .44 he'd been able to draw. He squeezed off two shots. One, as he struggled to his knees, droned off into the evening shadows. The other "whammed" into the ground, sending up a column of dust which began to settle on him as he pitched forward, inches from Robbie.

Mother and son stood motionless. They watched the stranger walk toward them, methodically reloading his weapon. In the vague light from the fading sun they saw the burnished, silver-like outline of a five-pointed star pinned high on the left side of his shirt.