Clint looked at the gun strapped to his leg and cringed. He understood why he had to carry it, but he really hated it. There was no artistry to it, you point, pull the trigger and blow a hole in whatever you aimed at. Now his bow, or bows as the case would be, custom made for him. That was artistry. The feel of a bowstring at just the thing tension; the smooth curve of the bow, the silent release of the arrow and the sing of the arrow as it flies free toward the target. No, no one could convince him that a gun was better than his bow.