By ROBERT F. YOUNG
Illustrated by RICHARD KLUGA
Even his present desperate situation couldn't
spoil his memories of other days in the woods:
like the lovely, lazy day he shot eleven squirrels....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity March 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He could remember the afternoon as if it were yesterday. It wasn't, ofcourse—actually it had been several years back. It had been around themiddle of autumn, about the time when the last incarnadine leaves weremaking their fluttering journeys earthward. He had taken his .22 andgone into the woods where the hickory trees were, and he had settledhimself comfortably against the shaggy trunk of one of the hickories,the .22 balanced across his sprawled knees. Then he had waited.
The first red squirrel had come out on one of the high limbs and posedthere. That was the word all right—posed. It had sat there on itshaunches with utter immobility almost as if it had been painted oncanvas against a background of leafless naked branches and milk-bluesky.
He had raised the .22 lazily and sighted along the slender barrel.There was no hurry. There was all the time in the world. He didn'tsqueeze the trigger until he had a perfect right-between-the-eyes bead,then he squeezed it ever so lightly. There was the sharp sound of thereport, and then the small body falling swiftly, bouncing and glancingoff limbs, tumbling over and over, making a rustling thump in the dryleaves at the tree's base.
He hadn't even bothered to go over and examine it. He knew he'd got itright where he'd aimed. They didn't die instantly like that unless yougot them in a vital spot. They thrashed and kicked around after theyhit the ground and sometimes you had to waste another shell on them ifthe noise bothered you. Of course if the noise didn't bother you, youcould save the shell for the next one, but it was better in the longrun to get them right between the eyes because that way the otherswouldn't be frightened away by the thrashing sound, and you didn't haveto get up.
That had been the first one.
The second one had been coming down the trunk of the same tree,spiraling the trunk, the way squirrels do, stopping at frequentintervals and studying their surroundings with their bright beebees ofeyes, looking right at you sometimes but never seeing you unless youmoved. This one had stopped, head down, and was looking off to one sidewhen he got it. The force of the bullet, striking just below the ear,where he'd aimed, tore the small red body right off the trunk, spun itaround several times, and dropped it into a wild blackberry thicket.
He hadn't bothered to look at that one either. He had lit a cigaretteand leaned back more comfortably against the hickory. It was a pleasantafternoon, mild for November—a time for wandering in woods, a timeto take it a little easy, a time to knock off some of the scavengersand pests you'd neglected during the first days of pheasant and rabbitseason, a time to get your eyes down to hair-line fineness for thefirst ecstatic day of deer. Red squirrels were easy, of course, alittle beneath the dignity of a true hunter, but when you tried to borethem in vital spots you got some pretty good practice out of it.
He yawned. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a red wispof movement high in the tree to his right. He brought the .22 overcasually. He hardly needed to turn his body at all. The stock fittedhis shoulder snugly, lay cool against his cheek. There was no recoil,only the sharp ripping sound, and then the dark red body falling