Dan’s Uncle Eddie set down his empty quart of bourbon and grinned around the fire at us boys. He jammed his hand into his pocket and produced a fistful of .45 cartridges.
“Guess how many I got here,” he said. “Go on.”
Jim guessed twenty, Dan eighteen. I said thirteen.
”Well, let’s see who’s right,” he said. He got to his feet, swayed a moment, then hurled the bullets into the fire. “Make sure you count all of ‘em.”
He walked into the darkness to his tent.
We sat stunned for a moment, disbelieving, then jumped up and dove for cover.