TWENTY-TWO
With the collection of papers in his hand, he sat down for lunch in the nearby pub. Not yet midday, few people were about, so finding a table proved easy. He chose the one in the corner, farthest from the door.
Long ago, before he’d even thought of a career in the armed forces, he’d read Shane and how the gunfighter always sat with his back to the wall. In those formative years, he’d developed an almost mystical image of the lone, silent warrior, drifting through life, righting wrongs, defending the weak and oppressed. Above all else, the notion of self-preservation, of being capable.
Now, all these years later he understood the wisdom of that description. Did Schaeffer know something that others did not, or had he spoken to men who had lived, and probably died, by the g*n? W
