It was always “the summer Chris stayed with us.” On July 4th of that year the Greenes had a big celebration dinner to welcome their guest. After the meal, Chris left the room, returning with a rifle in one hand and a small sack in the other. Setting down the rifle, he took something out of the sack—a powder horn, Asa saw, and a shot pouch—and picked up the handsome rifle again. Asa eyed it longingly, thinking it was a gift for his father, and paled when Chris held the rifle out to him. “You can’t be a mountain man without a rifle, boy.” Asa was speechless. His hands trembled as he took the heavy gun, running his fingers down the barrel, caressing the smooth stock. His throat was thick and tears stung his eyes. Not wanting Chris to notice and think he was a baby, Asa turned away with a husky “Thanks.” Chris grinned and clapped Asa on the shoulder and explained, “I’m never around anybody but Indians at Christmastime, so I decided this Christmas’ll be on July 4th.”
