"There they are--three--four of them," Paula whispered, as her keen
eyes picked the squirrels out amongst the young grain.
These were the wary ones, the sports in the direction of infinite
caution who had shunned the poisoned grain and steel traps of Dick's
vermin catchers. They were the survivors, each of a score of their
fellows not so cautious, themselves fit to repopulate the hillside.
Dick filled the chamber and magazine with tiny cartridges, examined
the silencer, and, lying at full length, leaning on his elbow, sighted
across the meadow. There was no sound of explosion when he fired, only
the click of the mechanism as the bullet was sped, the empty cartridge
ejected, a fresh cartridge flipped into the chamber, and the trigger
re-cocked. A big, dun-colored squirrel leaped in the air, fell over,
and disappeared in the grain. Dick waited, his eye along the rifle and
directed toward several holes around which the dry earth showed widely
as evidence of the grain which had been destroyed. When the wounded
squirrel appeared, scrambling across the exposed ground to safety, the
rifle clicked again and he rolled over on his side and lay still.
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