Sharpshooter Read Online Free PDF

world, of arts and sciences, of mind over matter, is kind of at odds with my father’s take on life. So in a way they intrigue each other as totally foreign species. But at times it seems Beck is sailing critically close to provoking something from the old man. Not advisable.
    â€œRemember,” my father says, wagging a playful finger at him before nudging him in the direction of the dining room, “where you’re going, you are not always going to be the smartest guy in the room.”
    Yes he is. But anyway.
    â€œAnd even if you were,” Dad continues, “it probably wouldn’t be in your best interest to advertise that fact.”
    That is advice that sounds a little more helpful.
    â€œI hope he gives me advice like that,” Rudi whispers to me as we step into the room.
    â€œHe will,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll tell you the exact same thing, man.”
    â€œExcellent,” Rudi says.
    My father has never been one of those tight-lipped veterans who don’t like to discuss their wartime experiences. He is immensely proud of what he did in World War II under General Patton. And he should be. There are pictures all over the house, in fact, keeping that experience alive. Photos of Patton, of course, and of scores of the tanks and fighter planes active in North Africa and Europe. General Ike Eisenhower is there, too, in our bathroom, and General Omar Bradley on the upstairs landing. But the art-of-warfare museum thing really reaches its peak in our dining room.
    â€œWow,” Morris says, taking in the scene. Each of the four walls has a different theme. There is an American Revolution wall, a World War I wall, a Civil War wall. And the main attraction, above the sideboard, is Dad’s tribute to the Indian Wars of the Old West. Like I said, he sees himself, remarkably, on both sides.
    â€œYou like it?” Dad says, beaming. Morris is at the sideboard, leaning right on it to examine the central item. The other guys huddle around so The Captain has to push past them to point out the fine detail of his proudest acquisition, a print of a painting called Founding Fathers .
    The painting is a two-tiered thing. The lower half is the familiar scene of Mount Rushmore, the lineup same as it ever was: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln, left to right. The twist, though, is that these founding fathers of America are not hogging the spotlight for themselves the way they’re used to. Hovering in a similar formation above them are the faces of four great leaders of the American Indian Nations.
    Sitting Bull is there, and Crazy Horse. The other two gents, it’s a little embarrassing to say, have never been definitively identified. At least, not in this house.
    To be more accurate, I should say that they have in fact been definitively identified by my father on many occasions. Only, the definitive identifications change. Sometimes Red Cloud is up there. Sometimes Cochise, sometimes Geronimo. Their identities seem to have more to do with my dad’s current reading material than any serious study into the matter.
    â€œYou know we are descended from the Sioux,” Dad says to the guys.
    â€œYour father always said Narragansett,” Mom says, setting down a big tureen of soup.
    â€œAch,” Dad says. “Narragansett. Who’d they ever fight?”
    Dad scowls, then continues his seminar. “We did a family tree a while back. Turns out we are related to every one of those great men. Direct blood relations.”
    Even I have lost track of how much of it he truly believes. If he said direct spiritual relations, rather than blood, he’d be one hundred percent truthful. Dad sees his head right up there with all the founding warriors, there is no doubt of that.
    I go to the kitchen with Mom to fetch, while Dad continues his lecture. When we come back in with platters of roast beef, mashed potatoes, buttery green