It had been a good trip out with the boys, once they had met in the garage, and a good evening with excellent food cooked on the old open-hearth kitchen. Three shooters rode in the rear seat, on the way to the shooting place. Those who did not lie had permitted themselves a certain amount of exaggeration and the liars had never been in fuller flower.
A liar, in full flower, the Colonel had thought, is as beautiful as cherry trees, or apple trees when they are in blossom. Who should ever discourage a liar, he thought, unless he is giving you co-ordinates?
The Colonel had collected liars all his life, as some men gather postage-stamps. He did not classify them, except at the moment, nor treasure them truly. He just enjoyed, completely, hearing them lie at the moment, unless, of course, something concerned with duty was involved. Last night there had been a fair amount of good lying after the grappa had been passed around, and the Colonel had enjoyed it.
There had been smoke in the room from the open charcoal fire; no, there were logs, he thought. Anyway a liar lies best when there is a little smoke or when the sun has set.
He had come close to lying twice himself, and had held it up, and merely exaggerated. I hope anyway, he thought.
Now here was the frozen lagoon to ruin everything. But it was not ruined.
A pair of pin-tails came, suddenly, from nowhere, slanting down fast in a dive no airplane ever made, and the Colonel heard their feathered trajectory and swung and killed the drake. He lay on the ice, hitting it as solid as a duck can hit ice, and, before he was down, the Colonel had killed his mate, who was climbing, long-necked and fast.
She fell alongside the drake.
So it is murder, the Colonel thought. And what isn’t nowadays? But, boy, you can still shoot.
Boy, hell, he thought. You beat-up old bastard. But look at them come now.
They were widgeon, and they came in a whisp that coagulated and then stretched to nothing. Then they coagulated again and the treacherous duck on the ice started to talk to them.
Let them turn once more, the Colonel said to himself. Keep your head down, and do not move even your eyes.
They are going to come in.
They came in well, with treachery speaking to them.
Their wings were suddenly set to alight, as when you lower the flaps. Then they saw it was ice and they rose, climbing.
The shooter, who was not a Colonel now, nor anything but a gun handler, rose in the wooden barrel and got two. They hit the ice almost as solidly as the big ducks.
Two is enough from one family, the Colonel said. Or was it one tribe?
The Colonel heard a shot behind him, where he knew there was no other blind, and turned his head to look across the frozen lagoon to the far, sedge-lined shore.
That does it, he thought.
A bunch of mallards, that had been coming in low, were flaring up into the sky, seeming to stand on their tails as they climbed.
He saw one fall, then heard another shot.
It was the sullen boatman shooting at the ducks that would have come to the Colonel.
How, how can he do that? the Colonel thought.
The man had a shot-gun to shoot any cripples that might be escaping where the dog could not get them. For him to fire at ducks that were coming to the Colonel’s blind was, in shooting, as bad a thing as one man could do to another.
The boatman was too far away to hear a shout. So the Colonel fired at him twice.
It is too far for the pellets to reach, he thought, but at least he will know that I know what he is doing. What the hell is this all about? On a beautifully run shoot like this one too? This is the best organized and best run duck shoot I have ever shot at and I have had as much fun shooting here as I ever had in my life. What is the matter with that son of a bitch?