“That isn’t necessary,” said Pocahontas, touching the birds gently, and stroking their soft feathers.  “Berke and Royall both have good dogs, trained retrievers, and used to the country.  Strange dogs don’t do so well over unaccustomed ground.  It’s a shame that you had no dog, and dreadfully neglectful of the boys not to have noticed.  No, no!” as Thorne moved away from the coop, “you must not leave all those; you have none for yourself, and you’ll be disgraced as a sportsman if you go home empty-handed.  They won’t believe you’ve killed a thing.  We never do, when our men come home with nothing to show.  Jim Byrd never dared face Nina, or me, without, at least, half a dozen birds.”

“Who is Jim Byrd?” demanded Thorne quickly.  “I never heard you mention him before.”

“Haven’t you?” regarding him with great surprise.  “Well that is curious, for he is one of our oldest, dearest friends, Berke’s and mine.  A year ago I couldn’t have imagined life possible without Jim’s dear old face near us.  He formerly lived at Shirley; it was the Byrd patrimony for generations.  His sisters were the closest girl-friends Grace and I ever had, and for years the two families were as one.  There were financial troubles handed down from father to son, growing always greater; the old place had finally to be sold, and your uncle bought it.  Jim is in Mexico now, engineering, and the girls are all married.  I wonder you have never heard me mention Jim.  I think, and speak of him frequently.  We all do.”

So perfectly unembarrassed was the girl’s manner, that despite a faint wistfulness discernible in her face, Thorne put aside the half-thought formulated in his brain by the familiar mention of Jim Byrd’s name.  He allowed himself to be persuaded to re-pocket part of the game, particularly a brace of ducks, which the soul of the general loved.  As he rose from his seat on the chicken-coop, Pocahontas noticed the handsome gun beside him, and leaning forward with a woman’s instinctive desire to handle dangerous things, she took it in her hands with an exclamation of admiration.

“Is it loaded?” she inquired, raising it to her shoulder, and laying her finger lightly on the trigger.

“Yes,” Thorne answered, drawing nearer, “take care, Miss Mason.  It always makes me nervous to see a gun in a woman’s hands.  Don’t pull the trigger, please; the charge is heavy and the recoil will hurt you.”

But the warning came too late; intentionally, or unintentionally, she did pull the trigger, and the gun carelessly held, recoiled sharply, striking against her shoulder with such force that she staggered and would have fallen, if Thorne had not caught her in his arms.  The gun slipped to the ground, but fortunately did not discharge the second barrel.