"Twenty-four," counted the Captain.
"Twenty-four," Tom enumerated.
"Twenty-four," Uncle Jim followed him.
We each had twenty-four. And then it developed that every man had saved just one bird of his limit until after lunch. No one wanted to be left out of all the shooting while the rest filled their bags; and no one had believed that anybody but himself had come so close to the limit.
So we laughed, and shouldered our guns, and trudged across country to the clump of cottonwood where already the girls had spread lunch.
That was a good lunch. We sat under shady trees, and the sunlit plains stretched away and away to distant calm mountains. Near at hand the sparse gray sagebrush reared its bonneted heads; far away it blurred into a monochrome where the plains lifted and flowed molten into the cañons and crevices of the foothills. Numberless crows, blackbirds, and wildfowl crossed and recrossed the very blue sky. A gray jackrabbit, thinking himself concealed by a very creditable imitation of a sacatone hummock, sat motionless not seventy yards away.
After lunch we moved out leisurely to get our one bird apiece. Some of the girls followed us. We were now epicures of shooting, and each let many birds pass before deciding to fire. Some waited for cross shots, some for very easy shots, some for the most difficult shots possible. Each suited his fancy.
"I'm all in," remarked each, as he pocketed his bird; and followed to see the others finish.
Next day, our baggage piled in most anywhere, our farewells all said, we bowled away toward town in the brand-new machine. Redmond sat in the front seat with the chauffeur. It was his first experience in an automobile, and he sat very rigidly upright, eyes front, his moustaches bristling.