“I watched him do it,” she said, shuddering at the recollection.
“But you can’t do that alone.”
“I’ve got to,” she replied simply. And then, on 281 a sudden thought: “There should be grouse too, shouldn’t there?”
“Perhaps.”
“I learned to kill grouse with my rifle.”
He looked at her with a wicked grin. This time he had her!
“How many cartridges have you?” he asked.
She ran for her belt, and counted the cartridges.
“Twenty-seven.”
“So. If you never miss, you’ll get twenty-seven grouse. That would mean twenty-seven, meals. One meal a day, twenty-seven days. I’d still be on my back, our ammunition would be gone, and––”