“We won’t need the fly tonight,” he said. “The sky is clear and the wind is from the north.”

“Why should that make a difference?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I’ve noticed that when rain arrives, it almost always comes from the south or the southwest. If the wind is from the northwest or the north, it will nearly always be cool and dry.”

“One day,” I declared, “weather men will take that into account. Maybe they will be able to predict the weather more than five minutes in advance.”

My father laughed and gave me the finger against the side of his nose, indicating that I was “blue skying” again.

My father was right that evening of October 15th. It did not rain but became quite cool. We were grateful for the warm camp fire he had built in a semicircle of large stones.

Our supper was to be fried rabbit and boiled potatoes. We had just finished making our browse bed and the sun was touching the tops of the pines when my father turned to Tim and said: “Is your rifle ready?”

“Yes,” Tim said. He touched his pockets. “I have some shells right here.”

“Then take it and walk up the trail slowly. I think you’ll see something for our supper.”

Tim didn’t question my father but quietly took his rifle from the Model T and, pointing the muzzle away from us, slipped a .22 cartridge into its breech. He didn’t cock the hammer, but instead put on the safety, which brought a nod of approval from my father. Tim slipped quietly up the trail and disappeared around the bend.

“Did you see some game?” I asked.

“This forest is alive with game. It’s only necessary to keep your eyes peeled.”

I heard the sharp report of Tim’s rifle. My father smiled. “I think we’d better get the frying pan ready,” he said.

“Maybe he missed,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said my father. “Your brother is a very good shot.”

“He may be that,” I agreed, “but he’ll never be my brother.”

My father frowned. “Don’t say such things. Tim lives in the same house and eats the same food and loves you as truly as any natural brother.”

“I agree,” I said. “And although I would never allow him to hear it from me, I love Tim too. But he’s my stepbrother. There’s no blood between us.”

“I hope you’ve never said this to him.”

“Of course I never have. Anything I have or can get is his for the asking. But I must be honest with myself.”

My father shook his head and mumbled something I didn’t catch. Before I could ask him to repeat it, there came another shot.

“You see?” I cried. “He missed the first time.”

My father didn’t answer but began unpacking the cooking gear and organizing it on the front fender of the Model T. Soon Tim came around the bend, carrying three large rabbits by the hind legs. I stared at them and said: “How did you get three rabbits with only two shots?”