er. The litany always was the same... two or three quick shots, then, "Boy, I don't know how even I missed that one, it really was easy!"
And I have no idea how many flushed just ahead of or alongside The Kid and flew open and straightaway. There'd be three shots, the sound of more shells being jacked-in and a lot of adolescent "damns." At one point I watched a bird break 50 yards ahead of him and flutter back, looking for a comfortable branch. I called it for him and stood transfixed while he fired twice at that floating blimp before it landed. Then he leveled down on it in a small tree 15 yards away and fired again. Next he reloaded and got off one more round before the bird got serious and buzzed away.
Accusing stares from Coach and Cloudy, in earshot all the time, indicated they'd figured out my ploy to take advantage of the tyros.
"Kill 'em all?" grumped Coach.
"Two people with guns should have their limits, and more. I didn't get one makeable shot!"
Cloudy looked at his son, "Shoot a few rounds, did ya?"
Having, in frustration, kept some count for The Kid, I said, "About 26!"
Cloudy, who counted the cost of every 12 gauge reload, turned pale. "Twenty-six?!!"
The Kid was counting, hands in his vest. "Ah, no... had 50, got 22 left. That's, ah, 28 I shot?" he said with a look of pride. Cloudy's knees buckled.
Trailblazer also was counting. "I had 30 shells. Let's see, seven, eight, nine... guess I shot, umm, 21?"
"How many did you say you got, Bob?" purred Coach. We'd been friends for so many years that I don't believe he had any difficulty interpreting my response.

Bird Crazy by Robert Osborn Reprinted with permission: Copyrights Bonasa Press 2005