I broke a nail loading my clip, my hair caught on the ear-protection hardware. I donned my pashmina against the prairie breeze and walked onto the firing range.
Larry of the God's country voice was patient; I didn't know a revolver from a semi-automatic handgun, and I came from Boulder -- the other trainees sniggered sympathetically.
Yet when I took my power stance and gripped my weapon -- a .22 revolver/9-40-45 calibre semi/12 gauge shotgun -- and fired off my six bullets per and hit my 5-spot target paper within the kill zone, Larry shouted :
"Boulder Girl's got stones!"
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