119This was too much for Sherm who chuckled openly. Captain Clarke looked from one to the other inquiringly. The others were completely mystified.
“Well, I’d just like to know what you two are up to.” Katy wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Can’t a fellow laugh without having to give an account of himself?” Sherm parried, still trying to stave off the mirth that possessed him.
Chicken Little’s face was sweetly sober. “He’s appreciating my–skill–the rest of you don’t seem to realize what a feat—” A sound, something between a crow and a suppressed steam whistle interrupted her. Sherm whooped until he was red in the face. Chicken Little regarded him reproachfully, but continued: “You see most anybody can hit the chicken they aim at, but it takes a fine shot to hit one you didn’t know was there.” She grinned mischievously up at the Captain who grinned back delightedly.
“Really, Chicken Little?”
“Really.” She joined in the general laugh.
“What did you want to tell for?” Sherm had enjoyed having the joke to himself.
She didn’t answer then, but later she whispered: “Because the Captain–I didn’t want him praising me that way!”
Noon found them fifteen miles from home with 120a bag of six snipe and ten prairie chickens, and appetites that fairly clamored. Frank found an ideal camping place in a grove of walnut trees beside a small creek.
“I camped here once two years ago and there’s a fine spring somewhere near. Come along, Katie, we’ll go hunt it. Ernest, picket the horses–there’s oats under the back seat. And Sherm, if you’ll just start a fire for the coffee.”