steady the gun. The liquor had him at last, taking possession of him suddenly as it so often did—laying hold of him all at once when the mental tension which had held his nerves taut was abruptly ended by the successful shot which had brought the ibis down.
Yet he must shoot and shoot quickly, for the crippled bird had nearly reached the reedy island of the cypress log. It was only when Cam tried to draw a fine sight along his gun barrel that his target jigged so madly before him in a dull red mist. Wide-eyed, his vision was fairly steady, fairly clear. Throwing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled trigger the moment the wavering muzzle covered the bird.
To the right of the ibis and behind him the water seethed and foamed where the scattering turkey shot peppered it. Sanute swam on. In another quarter-minute he had gained the half-submerged log and had clambered up its sloping side. There he stood, his bill gaping, his left wing drooping, his tall, bulky, white body overtopping the tallest of the reeds.
Red Cam, gripping a willow branch to hold himself steady, fumbled at his waist with the other hand. He could no longer trust his eye to measure distance accurately, but he believed that the ibis was still within long range. He would reload and shoot again and continue shooting until he hit the
