Dark Shadow of the Werewolf

By Dragan Vujic

Vacationing with his relatives, an affluent businessman discovers that his perceptions of beauty and tranquility of the north are mere illusions. Although fully cognizant of the evil reality within their community, none of the relatives disclose the fact that the dark shadow of the werewolf chokes the land. A devastating supernatural event changes one mans destiny forever. His opulent world shatters like a delicate crystal glass falling upon an unforgiving marble floor.

Destiny offers him a new profession. Out of the murky depths, a werewolf hunter emerges. Vengeance burns bright in a heart filled with acrimony. In his valiant efforts to purge the countryside, Buck Lanark must murder foes, friends and family members. He cannot afford the luxuries of discretion and discrimination. All who have become werewolves must die. In the course of his killing spree, Buck discovers the origins and evolution of werewolves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469701752

Dragan Vujic

Dragan Vujic is a writer and an avid outdoorsman. He resides in rural southern Ontario, Canada where he enjoys a quiet, serene lifestyle. Dragan may be contacted at: [e-mail] or [e-mail].

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

FIRST BLOOD

A cool autumn breeze swept away the lingering leftovers of a long warm summer. Picturesque, multicoloured leaves cheerfully decorated the rolling landscape. Late September sincerely welcomed October. Each season had its own unique fleeting beauty and readily surrendered without any thought of resistance to its successor. Harmony and balance governed nature. Somewhere in the midst of all this inexplicable genius and vibrating energy, mankind haphazardly carved out a dominant existence dictated by reason, consensual behavioural norms and social organization. Occasionally, random, irrational emotions overrode logic and disrupted even the best-formulated structures. Life was intended to be free flowing and did not always yield willingly to imposed abstract barriers despite their common sense components.

Humans attained the superior species status through their forceful subjugation of all other known life forms. Yet, despite mankind’s infinite wisdom and perpetually expanding knowledge, they could neither command nor control the powerful forces of the universe. The elusive emergence of certain divergent forms of intelligence evaded detection by humans. These highly evolved creatures had gone unnoticed for many centuries. Now, these mysterious beings of unknown origins, having multiplied progressively throughout the passing ages, constituted a formidable threat to the established order. Soon, a new breed, previously thought to exist only in the realm of fiction, relegated to hyperbolic depictions in storybooks and fairy tales, would arise in reality to challenge the dominance of humans.

On top of an elevated clearing, approximately one hundred yards from a winding country road, stood a white twin story farmhouse. Due to periodic painting, the alabaster clapboards had weathered the numerous harsh tests of time. Green trim accented the building’s rural features and simplistic design. The original asphalt shingled roof had outlived its useful life and had subsequently been replaced with heavy gauge tin. Nobody had ever used the huge front door that had been hued out of solid oak. Serving a purely decorative purpose, it had an aesthetically pleasing appearance, but marginal practical value.

Everyone had entered through the pantry, removed their outer gear and proceeded into the kitchen. This room, the kitchen, had been the focal point where all family members, friends and invited guests had gathered, laughed and shared numerous hearty meals. Warmth and laughter had filled the air. It had been such a happy spot. However, that was such a long time ago. This large, four-bedroom residence had been vacant for three years. Although the utilities were still connected and functional, no one officially lived here anymore. Cobwebs and dust shrouded the interior.

Roughly an hour and a half before sunset, the pantry door swung open. A lone figure, dressed in camouflage hunting garb suitable for the fall season, cautiously emerged from the rear entrance. He attentively surveyed the surrounding countryside. Satisfied that no one was around, the hunter stepped outside. After locking the door behind himself, this individual removed the scoped rifle from his right shoulder and proceeded briskly across a grassy meadow that was encircled by a relatively young forest. The area had been logged out about ninety years ago. Since that time, primarily deciduous trees had grown up all around with a few scattered conifers making their stately appearance. Somewhat overgrown logging trails still ran every which way. In the past, they had had their own brand of logic and some semblance of order. Currently, they merely served as hunting walkways. A few had even become well-traveled deer trails.

At the north end of the field, a well-worn narrow path led the traveler through five hundred yards of bush to another opening. Trees of the same seamless forest surrounded this flattened grass oasis. The meadow was roughly circular in shape, having a diameter of approximately three hundred yards. That was the hunter’s destination. Beyond the encircled meadow, lay swamps and dense bush. Floods, resulting from beaver dams, once served as fertile hunting grounds. The unusually thick bush surrounding the miniature lakes and ponds provided excellent cover for bird hunters. Many waterfowl, mostly black ducks and mallards, had been harvested here in the past. Annual hunting parties took place on a regular basis. However, that tradition had ended a long time ago. No one hunts here anymore.

Having traversed the necessary distance, Buck found himself at the base of a huge oak tree located at the front edge of the clearing. The path dipped down a gradual ravine and continued through the clearing. On the far side, it disappeared into the dark forest. Yesterday afternoon, he had set up his metal tree stand about two body lengths above the ground in the red oak. Seven aluminum screw in steps, staggered in ascending order on the trunk, led to the stand. Buck rapidly climbed into his prepared spot and positioned himself overlooking the meadow. He had a high vantage point. The remaining foliage and three young alder saplings, which grew directly in front of the main tree, concealed his presence adequately. His green, brown and black camouflage clothing converted him into the invisible man, provided that he did not move around too quickly. All animals readily detected rapid movement of any kind. Buck sat quietly. Motionless, he remained hidden from view. Patiently, he waited for his prey.

As the evening chill set in, Buck recalled pleasant memories of much better times. Renech, a mid-sized southern Ontario city, hosted a population in excess of three hundred thousand people. There, on one of the main streets, in a section of town known locally as Lawyers Alley, stood a majestic yellow brick building. Two and a half stories high, it had been constructed at the turn of the twentieth century. Since then, considerable renovation and modernization had taken place. The towering edifice now had gas heat, indoor plumbing, electricity and even air-conditioning. All of the original windows had been replaced. Yet, most of the original woodwork had been immaculately preserved. The eight-pitch roof had been re-shingled many times. In brief, a considerable amount of restoration was self-evident. On the manicured lawn, a large four-foot sign read Buckingham C. Lanark & Associates, Lawyers. Underneath the big bold black letters set against a white background, the address and phone number were written in smaller type. Three fluorescent lamps in between the plastic panels lit up the sign at night.

A spacious, professionally decorated interior accommodated three lawyers and four secretaries. Buck occupied the immense front office that faced the busy street. Sufficient frontage drown out most of the traffic noise. However, the loud sirens of fire trucks and ambulances still pierced the quiet interior. One enormous bow window, flanked by two, floor to ceiling, windows on each side, let in an abundance of natural light. Pale blue decorating coupled with an array of mature green plants created a comfortable, warm atmosphere that had a soothing effect on all clients. Buck, in addition to his daily management duties, practiced primarily in the area of commercial and residential real estate transactions. His peers rated him as one of the best in the vicinity. They frequently consulted him on complex technical matters. Buck was always glad to help and often did so as no charge.

The adjacent office was the exclusive domain of Ted Burton-a hard-nosed litigation lawyer. Ted specialized in criminal law and personal injury work. Over the years, he had established a wide client base, which resulted in a flourishing practice. Known for his pugnacious nature and high integrity, he attracted and retained a considerable number of clients seeking expert legal assistance. Liz Turvey laboured in the back office. She possessed as much compassion and intelligence as she did beauty. And she was extremely pulchritudinous. Family law was her special field. Hard work in conjunction with unmarred honesty won her the respect of everyone, including judges, lawyers and, most important of all, the people whom she represented. Buck considered himself very fortunate to have such outstanding lawyers on his staff. He had interviewed many applicants, considered carefully each person’s assets and liabilities and had made an extremely well thought out selection. His choices proved to be excellent and he was very pleased with the professionals whom he had hired.

A loud cracking of dry twigs brought the hunter back to his current reality. Feeling the frosty air pressing gently against his face, Buck realized where he was and why he was here. The former lawyer slowly turned and peered into the direction of the nearby commotion. As he soon discovered, the bush thrasher was only a partridge walking around foraging for food. They made a lot of noise. Silence was definitely not their long suit. No wonder predators considered them to be an easy meal. Yet, despite their shortcomings, these game birds had survived for thousands of years. In front of him, a harvest orange sun gradually diminished in brightness and commenced vanishing behind the distant treetops. Slowly, the glowing orb sank from view. In another twenty minutes, it disappeared completely. Dusk dominated for half an hour and then, as the gray light incrementally became darker, night blanketed the land. A generous abundance of stars dotted the clear, navy blue sky. A large, brilliant moon illuminated the field in front of him. The tumbled yellow grass became shiny gray in colour. Overall, it turned out to be a perfect night for hunting werewolves. The creatures would be moving soon.

Buck felt the six spare silver bullets in his right jacket pocket. Then, he caressed the stock of his firearm with the same hand and brought his right index finger to rest on the trigger. In his opinion, Weatherby manufactured the most accurate long-range weapons. His favourite rifle was the .340 Weatherby magnum. With two hundred and fifty grain factory loads, Buck could consistently hit a quarter at a hundred yards with each an every shot. Presently, he cradled a Euromark .340 Weatherby magnum on which he had mounted a Leupold three by nine variable scope.

Leupold scopes gathered more light at dawn and dusk, thereby increasing visibility, than any other scope that he had experimented with. Having sighted the rifle for a hundred yards, Buck discovered that the hand loaded, precision measured silver projectiles proved to be even more accurate than the copper coated lead factory loads. He could almost place every bullet through the same hole at the sighted range. Bruce, a long time friend, had assisted him in putting together one hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition for this particular firearm. After constructing a special mould, the two men had melted down various objects of pure silver and had poured each bullet individually. Thereafter, they had manufactured ammunition for the other two weapons that Buck had brought with him. The werewolf hunter had sufficient firepower for the onerous task that lay ahead.

Patience wore thin. Buck double-checked his firearm as he waited in anticipation for his quarry. He had turned the scope down to the three setting for the purpose of letting in more light and rendering a wider range of vision. The overhead moon provided sufficient visibility for discernable shooting. In short, given the nature of the game, the stalker could not ask for more favourable conditions. Even the wind blew off the field into his face, thereby preventing any wildlife therein from scenting him. His body began to stiffen from lack of movement. But, he continued to sit still.

Suddenly, Buck spotted the beasts making their way through the forest towards the clearing. At first, he only saw bright red dots bouncing through the darkness. Then, the scarlet circles grew larger, which indicated forward movement. Later, the hidden assassin could discern the outlines of the owners’ bodies. Werewolves, pitch black in colour, measured more than seven feet in length from nose to tail and weighed in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds. Crimson eyes, juxtaposed to the yellow eyes of normal timber and brush wolves, shone, like hot coals in a darkened hearth, from their massive heads.

Their strength, cunning and speed far surpassed that of any other predators. Thus, they gained exclusive dominance in the wilderness. They had no known natural enemies, save and except for a minute handful of enlightened individuals who were well aware of their existence. Buck had accidentally fallen into this category. Several years ago, the dark shadow cast by the werewolf had swallowed him. Now, Buck was back to exact retribution for the destruction of his once opulent lifestyle. Tonight, the werewolves would be executed for their foul deeds. Vengeance burns bright is a heart filled with acrimony.

In the past, those who had discovered the true identity of a werewolf had either perished or had been converted. For many millennia, this sinister breed had managed to keep their existence a secret. The fact that werewolves walked the earth alongside humans was well hidden from mankind. Perhaps, the time for change had arrived. Maybe, Buck would be the one to make a difference and expose these vile creatures for what they really were. The human race had a right to know.

Dark silhouettes materialized and took on discernable shapes, as the black werewolves neared the edge of the hardwoods. The pack numbered five. Buck’s hair stood on end as he watched their steady approach. Something chilled him right to the bone. He fought to control the fear surging within. Successfully, the hunter managed to quell these negative emotions, preventing them from finding expression in his mind and body. All negative emotions were fatal if they were allowed to manifest. Remaining calm and centred in these nerve-racking circumstances, Buck focused on his mission.

Unaware of the executioner’s presence, the foul aberrations stood within the confines of the forest and inspected what lay before them. Quietly, they entered the meadow. Slowly and attentively, they sniffed the air. Having discovered nothing out of the ordinary, they headed in the direction of the concealed hunter. The distance between the adversaries shortened. Everything began to unfold as Buck had anticipated. The hidden assassin had correctly guessed which trail the beasts would follow.

Buck realized that his firearm only held four cartridges-three in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not discouraged in the least by this limiting factor, the slayer resolved to kill all five of the werewolves. Buck intended to terminate them all, tonight. When the pack reached the midpoint in the grassy field, the methodical hunter slowly lifted his weapon and carefully scoped the lead wolf. He flipped up the silent safety mechanism and gently tightened his grip on the trigger. A soft squeeze liberated a silver projectile.

KABOOM

An explosion shattered the silence of the night. Tranquility vanished. Panic ensued. The targeted werewolf fell where it stood as the silver bullet ripped through its left lung and scrambled its heart. A blood-curdling yell, which almost sounded human, filled the evening air. The abomination’s stupefied cohorts helplessly watched as the black beast died before their very eyes. Unaware of the direction from which the shot came, the pack unknowingly dashed off towards the hidden slayer. Chance favoured the hunter. Buck reloaded and set the cross hairs of the scope on another running animal.

KABOOM

The Weatherby spit fire and silver. A deadly projectile claimed a second victim. Instant death wrapped its eager arms around another werewolf. A two-foot fireball followed the silver bullet as it escaped from the barrel of the smoking rifle. This time the remaining members of the diminished pack spotted the intruder in their domain. Red eyes burned with hatred. Sharp fangs gnashed. Saliva dripped from their frothing mouths. They wanted to murder the human, tear him to shreds and eat his tender flesh.

However, each survivor of the decimated group realized that the crafty killer had placed himself beyond their limited reach. Another time they would even the score, but now they had to escape. Survival was foremost on their mind. Thus, they rapidly veered to their left and rushed towards the nearest perimeter of the forest.

Buck, trying desperately to control both fear and excitement, took advantage of the monetary confusion experienced by the werewolves. Working the bolt as fast as he could, the sniper had already chambered his second last bullet. He aimed at the back of the head of the furthest wolf. This strategy extended the hoard’s disappearance into the darkness of the forest by split seconds. Inhaling deeply and then exhaling slowly, Buck let out half his breath and paused. Then, not breathing at all, he lightly touched the trigger. A little pressure liberated an impatient silver bullet.

KABOOM

Another hit. His aim was true. The projectile shattered the skull on contact and totally defaced the animal when it emerged. Fragments of bloody flesh and fur were all that remained of the beast’s head. The momentum of the incarnate’s body, exacerbated by the velocity of the bullet, forced the decapitated corpse to somersault twice and land on its back. The last two werewolves were only a few seconds from safe haven.

Once inside the forest, they would become as invisible as the one who hunted them. Their horrifying dilemma would end. They ran as fast as they could. Every second counted. Chambering his final round, the determined hunter, moving with utmost speed, raised his loaded rifle. Peering through the scope, Buck saw the cross hairs touch the back of the lead werewolf. Maintaining concentration, Buck calmly squeezed the trigger.

KABOOM

Two hundred and fifty grains of ignited silver screamed through the air. A burning bullet penetrated the intended target’s thick hide and creased its black heart. Mulching flesh and bone, the mushrooming silver exited through the chest cavity, leaving a crimson crater in its wake. The impact floored the running animal, causing it to nose dive into the moist ground. Buck threw open the bolt. A hot casing flew out of the ejection port. Frantically, his hand shaking to a minor degree, Buck reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved another cartridge. Shoving it into the exposed chamber, he rammed the bolt into place.

Loaded and ready, Buck raised his rifle for the final kill, but he could not see his last prey. Where was it? The werewolf had disappeared into the dark of night, hidden completely from sight. Donning the cloak of invisibility, the beast had vanished. The hunter had nothing to shoot at. Focusing, Buck could hear dry leaves crunching beneath the fleeing werewolf’s feet, however, he could not see even as much as a shadow. His quarry was getting away. Listening carefully and guessing where the remaining member of the pack might be, Buck aimed into the darkness and fired.

KABOOM

When the loud noise of the explosion died down, the rustle of leaves continued. It grew faint and finally faded. Buck had missed. The last

werewolf had escaped from the brutal massacre. Unbeknownst to Buck, the last bullet had whizzed between the fleeing animal’s erected ears. The hunter’s calculation had been extremely close. If the projectile had been fired a couple inches lower, two hundred and fifty grains of smoldering silver would have terminated the fifth creature’s life. The hunt would have been a complete success. However, nothing ever happens exactly according to plan. A miss is still a miss.

Fuck! Shit! I missed! Mother fuckin’ bastard. I missed the last cunt. Bastard. Damn it all to hell. Fuck.

All of Buck’s pent up emotions came to the surface and found expression in various forms. Blood rushed to his head causing his face to flush. His entire body shook from the overall excitement. Buck stood up from his perch and desperately searched the darkness for the one whom he had missed. Nothing appeared. Darkness destroyed all visible evidence of life in the forest. Silence returned to claim the balance of the night. Still shaking, Buck attempted to recompose himself. The hunter sat back down, closed his eyes and started taking deep, slow breathes. His metabolism gradually decelerated and his body reluctantly went into relaxation mode. A large full moon had reduced its size and had shifted its position in the sky. The stars continued to shine in their entirety. Nature restored tranquility and stillness fell over the land. It grew so quiet that one could hear a pin drop at a hundred yards.

Another warm summer day welcomed Buck as he drove into the office driveway. The proprietor parked his XJ6 royal blue Jaguar in its usual spot and stepped out onto the interlocking brick. A few short steps put him atop a concrete veranda. Opening the light brown stained oak door and walking through the front entrance, Buck noticed that everyone was already hard at work. The office was teaming with activity. A few extra laps in his outdoor pool and a second cup of coffee had delayed him by half an hour. He fondly recalled the morning events. Enjoying his second cup of coffee, Buck glanced up and saw his wonderful wife standing beside him. She smiled impishly. Then, Marlene bent over, kissed him passionately and hurried back into their house. Chuckling, she reminded him that he would be late for work. They both laughed. Buck never considered it to be work in the traditional sense. Running a law office and practicing real estate law was something that he enjoyed, had fun doing and was very good at. He earned a lot of money doing something he truly enjoyed.

Bonnie Bran, Buck’s receptionist, greeted him with a friendly smile, a sincere good morning and full cup of freshly brewed coffee. She was a petite young blonde who always sparkled with life, brightening up everyone’s day. Everybody liked her warmth and charm. Big blue eyes set in a finely chiseled round face gave her a doll like appearance of pure innocence. Personality plus best described this bubbly lady. Excellent phone manners and highly developed social skills, in addition to all of her other enviable qualities, made her a tremendous asset to the firm.

Behind Bonnie, to the left, sat Loretta Webster, the real estate secretary. Actually, her level of knowledge and professional abilities elevated her to the status of paralegal. A shapely brunette in her early thirties, she knew considerably more about real estate procedures than most of the attorneys in town. However, due to her abrasive nature and irritating telephone demeanor, Buck had requested that Bonnie call the clients and obtain the pertinent information that Loretta required. The paralegal more than made up for her lack of social manners in her expertise and mechanical skills.

She was a diamond in the rough and worth her weight in gold. Buck was very lucky to have her open, set up and close all his real estate files. He truly appreciated her and paid her handsomely. She was worthy of every penny. Lori rarely smiled, said good morning, socialized with the other staff members, or took a coffee break, but she definitely put out a huge volume of work in the relatively short space of a typical eight-hour day. She processed more than her fair share of the files. Her value lay in her speed and proficiency. On several occasions, Buck had

attempted to teach Lori some social graces. However, all of his efforts proved futile and Lori could not give what she did not have.

Janice Snow took her place in the far right hand corner. The tall, slender, green-eyed red head put together all the litigation files for Theodore and Elizabeth. She called clients, set appointments, drafted preliminary documents, filed documents and obtained disclosures. Janice performed everything in a neat, accurate and timely fashion. Ted and Liz were extremely satisfied with her work.

And, there on the left side of the same room, in her own little nook, sat Sandy Hall-the bookkeeper. Straight black hair cut short, soft brown eyes and an olive complexion verified her Hispanic origins. Born in Canada, she spoke Spanish fluently and without even a trace of any accent. Slightly on the heavy side, this jolly individual liked to smile and joke. A single mother of two teenage daughters, she was full of energy and had an extremely positive attitude towards life. According to her, life was an adventure. Everyday was tackled with vigour. As soon as she came in, Sandy would start writing cheques, allocating expenses and revenues, checking payables and receivables and balancing the books. Everyone used to laugh, saying that she was the one who kept the boss out of jail.

Buck had worked very hard for twelve long years to build his law practice and now he had a powerful moneymaking machine, which ran smoothly and very efficiently. He was reaping the rewards from the seeds that he had sown. His inner circle of friends had dubbed his enterprise, The Magnificent Seven. The business grossed over one million dollars a year. After expenses and taxes, Buck netted around two hundred thousand for himself. He had all the material comforts that money could buy and he had so much more than he had ever dared to dream of. Life was good. In fact, it was terrific. There seemed to be little room, if any, for improvement. Buck lived one day at a time and enjoyed each day to the fullest.

Then, one day, life as he knew it all came to an abrupt end. Buck made a terrible mistake and paid a horrific price. He made a bad decision and the consequences that flowed there from turned out to be catastrophic. Every choice has an effect. One fatal error had cost Buck everything. Sometimes, life is most unforgiving. Some mistakes cannot be corrected. And fleeting opportunities are lost forever. That horrible day, Buck’s destiny took a wrong turn unto a dark road that led to an unending nightmare.

Buck’s body jerked and he snapped back into reality just in time to catch himself from falling out of the tree stand. Buck had unknowingly and involuntarily entered into the realm of sleep-a dangerous thing to do when one is approximately twelve feet up in the air, positioned on a fairly small platform. Gathering himself and focusing on the present situation, Buck ejected the spent shell in the Weatherby, reached into his pocket and pulled out four cartridges. The moonlight glanced off the silver tips. He loaded three into the magazine and placed one into the chamber. Thereafter, Buck locked the bolt in position and lowered the safety. The firearm could not discharge until the mechanism blocking the firing pin was flipped up. Subsequently, making good use of the Viper sling, he shouldered the weapon and stood up. From this vantage point, Buck perused the meadow.

Four dark bodies lay motionless in the damp grass. Three of the corpses had already begun to revert back to their human form. The fourth still retained its werewolf shape. That was unusual. Perhaps, the creature was alive. Ordinarily, on death, the hideous beasts lost their animal appearance and transformed back into the person whom they had possessed. Who were these strange shape shifters? Where did they come from? Why were they here, living surreptitiously among mankind? All folklore literature, written in many countries over the past centuries, spoke of werewolves, described their appearance accurately and vividly elucidated their numerous evil deeds at great length.

Detailed accounts depicted isolated episodes. However, not a single thread of continuity appeared anywhere.

None explained werewolf origins, their habitats or their social structure. No one seemed to know where these mystical incarnates came from, why they were here and where they lived. Nothing comprehensive had ever been compiled on these mysterious creatures of the night. In fact, the general populace did not believe in their existence and considered them to be fanciful creations of fecund imaginations put into print by talented storytellers. Anyone publicly advocating the existence of werewolves was deemed to be insane. Everyone that even attempted to suggest the possibility that werewolves existed was ridiculed and laughed at. Despite the accepted consensus, Buck knew otherwise and he had a deep desire to learn as much as he could about werewolves. To him, they were definitely real. He intended to kill every last one of them. Buck had resolved to dedicate the balance of his life to the complete and permanent extinction of werewolves.

Removing the slung weapon from his right shoulder and positioning it appropriately, Buck scoped the black werewolf lying face down near the hardwood boundary. Turning the visual power up to six, he carefully examined his last victim. He detected no movement. Assuming that the beast was indeed dead, against his better judgment, Buck decided not to fire another round into the corpse from the safety of his stand. ‘Why waste a good bullet on something that was already dead?’, he reasoned. Instead, returning the Weatherby to its former position, the hunter climbed down from his perch. Buck removed the rifle from his shoulder and leaned the firearm against the base of the oak tree. It was of no use to him at short range. Buck decided to retrieve the Weatherby on his way back to the farmhouse. The oak was only a few yards from the main path.

Cautiously, paying close attention to his environment, Buck descended the hill down to the open field and headed towards the last werewolf that he had shot. Removing his Colt Python .357 magnum from its leather hip holster, he checked the chamber. The cylinder housed six silver bullets. Placing his left hand into his left pant pocket, Buck counted another twelve rounds for the pistol. Buck had replaced the standard Pacmar grip with a Hogue hard rubber one. The original grip had been too big for his apparently small hand. Whereas, the replacement fit snugly and considerably improved his accuracy. The converted revolver suited him perfectly.

As