Everybody wants results, but nobody wants to do what they have to do to get them done. I heard that in a movie once.

The man looked at me. He had a problem in his town and I looked like the feller that could get the job done.

“You see, we have a small western town. And it’s being overrun by the varmints. They tunnel under the buildings and undermine the foundations.”

He was talking about rabbits. And I knew their kind.

“Bout time this town had a new sheriff,” I mumbled to myself.

When a man’s got money in his pocket, he begins to appreciate peace. I heard that in a different movie. But I reckon that’s why the landowner decided to go north to Alaska and leave me to put together the posse. I could picture him sitting in the rocking chair on the porch and talking to the rabbits. “Get off my lawn, varmint.”

I rounded up my friend Brian and his 14-year-old daughter, Lexie.

“We’re going rabbit hunting in a small western town,” I told Brian. “You’re going to need cowboy hats. And a blanket. You know what I’m talking about.” He did.

Lexie had never held a gun before, but she had a hankering to go hunting. And Lexie, she’s a girl that plumb makes rabbits afraid.

We pulled up on the edge of the small western town, parking the digital camo F-150 outside city limits. I assessed the situation with squinty eyes, pulling my hat down tight against the wind.

“You brought the blanket?” Lexie handed it over. It would do — a striped and herringbone weave with fringe. I laid it on the tailgate and cut a hole in the middle and put the poncho over Lexie’s head. She pulled her hat down with both hands. She strapped on six-guns.

On the left, a kitchen, solidly built. Over to the right, a sheriff’s office and the jail. And up the street to the left, a bunkhouse, a general store, a blacksmith shop, a hitching rail and a barn. At the end of the street, a corral. Under each of the buildings and under the boardwalk there were rabbit runways, rabbit tunnels weakening the structures. And over there, a California grey digger mound. This was worse than I thought.

With the toe of my boot, I eased the door of the bunkhouse open. On the wall, pictures of the family that had built this town. Of happier times before the varmints took over.

The rabbits were making themselves scarce, so I set up a target and, while I coached, Lexie kept the muzzle in a safe direction, set the Colt on half-cock, opened the loading gate and turned the cylinder. These were nickel-plated Umarex Colts shooting CO2-powered pellets. She shot the sixguns first, then tried the Umarex saddle ring lever action, proving adept at punching paper at 675 feet-per-second. But could she face down a rabbit? We would have to see.

Shadows lengthened and the wind subsided. A rabbit emerged from behind the general store and Brian spotted it where it crouched next to the propane tank as if it was saying, Well, do you feel lucky, punk?

Careful, Lexie. If that rabbit were to push a wagonload of propane tanks toward us, things could get Western.

The old Marlin lever-gun in Lexie’s hands was stoked with CCI’s Quiet 22s, which are a great option for close-range shooting. I wanted to ask if she was going to pull those pistols or just whistle Dixie, but Lexie circled around behind the kitchen and rested the rifle on a fence post. When the rabbit bounded away from the propane tank, the long-barreled Marlin thumped. She had bagged her first rabbit.

That Marlin 39A is equipped with a 2-power scope the same vintage as the rifle. It is one of the most accurate guns in my safe, but looking through the ancient glass is like trying to stare down your sweetie through a mason jar of sarsaparilla. I put the cut-down Henry lever gun in her hands and dialed up the gin-clear Burris to 6X. Another of the varmints came out from beneath the hay barn and the Henry cracked.

Every gun makes its own tune.