He went forward again noiselessly, carefully scanning the receding slope ahead. Presently he began a more cautious advance, halting now and again and then advancing.
All at once, quick as a flash he threw the gun to his shoulder and fired—bang! bang!—both barrels almost as one. Quickly he dropped two fresh shells in the gun, and running forward fired both barrels again. As he did so a great flock of ptarmigans, with a noise like the wind, rose and flew far away, apparently alighting at the edge of the timber below them.
Paul hurried down to Dan, who was gathering up the fruits of his hunt. There were eleven fat birds, now nearly white, in their winter dress.
Paul, in happy thankfulness, could scarcely control his emotion.
“It seems almost too good to be true, Dan!” he said finally.
“I finds un fine too,” admitted Dan. “They was wonderful tame for a windy day, an’ just runs instead of flyin’ after I fires th’ first shots. That gives me time t’ load an’ shoot ag’in.”
“But how did you get so many with just four shots? Oh, Dan, I believe it’s just as you always say; it was Providence sent us here and let you get so many.”
“’Twere that. On th’ ground I lines ’em up, an’ knocks over two or three to a shot, except th’ last shots, when they flies away, I only gets one on th’ wing. ’Tis hard t’ get more ’n one when they’s flyin’. Th’ Lord just kept ’em on th’ ground!”
“And now we can eat again!” exclaimed Paul.
“Yes, an’ th’ finest kind o’ eatin’ too. I’ll be lookin’ for th’ flock, where they flies to, an’ try for another shot, while you plucks two, an’ cooks un,” suggested Dan, and when they reached the edge of the timber he directed: