He made me a coonskin cap—the real thing, with a dark-banded tail and the cut-out crown of one of his old Stetsons stitched into the top for comfort. Though competent in everything else, as I recall, Code wasn’t a hatmaker, I guess, because it fit awkwardly, perching on top of my head, so Dorothy tied it on with a length of cotton string for a photo. In the picture, I’m wearing my standard growing-up uniform of hand-me-down white T-shirt, jeans, and worn canvas shoes. Code and Dorothy’s dog, Toto, is tied to a brick behind me, his rope straining around my leg. I’m holding Code’s big single-barrel shotgun, squinting the wrong eye in a coached attempt to look like I’m aiming.