For the last two minutes there had been sounds of interest but not of danger—a snap and then a whistle like that of the wings of a wild dove. The rabbit stretched out one hind leg lazily in the warm sun. There was a snap and a whistle and a grunting thud on fur. The rabbit sat perfectly still and his eyes grew large. A bamboo arrow was through his chest, and its iron tip deep in the ground on the other side. The rabbit slumped over on his side and his feet ran and scampered in the air for a moment before he was still.

From the willow two crouching boys crept. They carried four-foot bows, and tufts of arrows stuck their feathers up from the quivers behind their left shoulders. They were dressed in overalls and faded blue shirts, but each boy wore one perfect turkey tailfeather tied with tape against his temple.

The boys moved cautiously, bending low, self-consciously toeing-in like Indians. The rabbit’s flutter of death was finished when they bent over to examine their victim.

“Right through the heart,” said Cal as though it could not be any other way. Aron looked down and said nothing. “I’m going to say you did it,” Cal went on. “I won’t take credit. And I’ll say it was a hard shot.”

“Well, it was,” said Aron.

“Well, I’m telling you. I’ll give you credit to Lee and to Father.”

“I don’t know as I want credit—not all of it,” said Aron. “Tell you what. If we get another one we’ll say we each hit one, and if we don’t get any more, why don’t we say we both shot together and we don’t know who hit?”

“Don’t you want credit?” Cal asked subtly.

“Well, not full credit. We could divide it up.”

“After all, it was my arrow,” said Cal.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You look at the feathers. See that nick? That’s mine.”

“How did it get in my quiver? I don’t remember any nick.”

“Maybe you don’t remember. But I’m going to give you credit anyway.”

Aron said gratefully, “No, Cal. I don’t want that. We’ll say we both shot at once.”

“Well, if that’s what you want. But suppose Lee sees it was my arrow?”

“We’ll just say it was in my quiver.”

“You think he’ll believe that? He’ll think you’re lying.”

Aron said helplessly, “If he thinks you shot it, why, we’ll just let him think that.”

“I just wanted you to know,” said Cal. “Just in case he’d think that.” He drew the arrow through the rabbit so that the white feathers were dark red with heart blood. He put the arrow in his quiver. “You can carry him,” he said magnanimously.

“We ought to start back,” said Aron. “Maybe Father is back by now.”

Cal said, “We could cook that old rabbit and have him for our supper and stay out all night.”

“It’s too cold at night, Cal. Don’t you remember how you shivered this morning?”