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square for the rifleman to aim at. The red-stripes

escorting each man then withdrew to the water's edge. Groups of Mutes,

responding to waves from the chief Iron Master, ran along the grassy

fringe of the beach and stood opposite each of the execution sites.

The stage was set. Steve could only make a guesstimate of the range

but, by comparison with the tint post, the second appeared to be some

two hundred and fifty yards away, the third around five hundred. The

guy standing alongside was little more than a dot on the landscape.

Without an optical sight the samurai would need assistance from someone

like Talisman to have a hope of hitting him.

The chief samurai barked out an order. The marksman raised the rifle,

pulled it hard into his shoulder, took aim and fired. There was a loud

bang. A tongue of flame leapt briefly out of the barrel followed by a

cloud of white smoke. The noise made by the gun was followed almost

immediately by a sharp explosive crack as the bullet smashed into the

post by the side of the first victim's head, sending a shower of

cream-coloured wood splinters into the air. The M'Calls standing

nearby saw the dead-face raise his head and square his shoulders. The

second shot pierced the straw mask, slamming him backwards as it blew

his skull apart.

'Heyyy-yahhh,' murmured the watching Mutes.

The rifleman adjusted the back sight, took aim, blew a hole through the

second post then felled the victim with a chest shot, the heavy bullet

passing through the centre of the placard. The small crowd responded

with another cry of approbation.

Steve turned to Mr Snow. 'I take back what I said. It's got real

knock-down capability but it's not the answer.

Too much noise and smoke. It'll give away your position every time you

fire."

'True. But first your people have to get into range."

'I wouldn't get too excited. Let's see how well he does with the next

one."

Taking careful aim, the rifleman fired at the third post.

Tile red-stripes standing opposite, by the water's edge, signalled a

hit. The samurai eased the rifle off his shoulder, breathed deeply

then cradled it again, drew a bead on the third dead-face and squeezed

the trigger.

Ba-boommm!

The man didn't go down.

There was a moment's silence then there was a curious breathy cry from

the watching Iron Masters.

'Hhhawwww!" Lowering the butt of the rifle to the ground, the marksman

turned to the chief samurai and bowed his head. His shoulders drooped

in mortification as his superior launched into a high-speed bunt of

abuse.

When it was over, the marksman bowed lower still, passed the rifle to a

waiting red-stripe, handed over his two swords to another, bowed again,

then ran off down the beach. Reaching the third post, he positioned

himself to the left, opposite the last defaulter.

Taking possession of the rifle, the chief assured himself that

everything was in order, took aim and fired.

The first warm-up shot split the post, the second took out the

defaulter, the third blew a hole in the unfortunate samurai.

'Heyyyyahhh..."

The samurai offered the rifle to Mr Snow, acknowledged his deep bow and

swaggered away with his red-stripes, leaving the other, lesser Iron

Masters to coach the M'Calls in the loading and firing of the

weapon.

'Do you want to try it?" asked Mr Snow.

'Later."

They walked along the beach to inspect the splintered posts and the

inert bodies that lay beside them. To Steve, the demonstration was

both sobering and highly instructive.

Despite his dismissive evaluation, the primitive rifle packed a

heavyweight punch and, in the right hands, could be fired with great

accuracy. It still had, in his opinion, many limitations but its

introduction in any appreciable numbers would totally upset the present

tactical advantage enjoyed by Trackers in overground operations against