She should have guns as good as she is.
I suppose a pair of Purdey's, he thought.
Just then he heard the light swish of pinions, fast beating in the air, and looked up.
But they were too high.
He only looked up with his eyes.
But they were so high they could see the barrel, and him in it, and the frozen-in decoys with the dejected hen, who saw them too, and quacked hard in her loyal treachery.
The ducks, they were pin-tails, continued on their flight out toward the sea.
I never give her anything, as she pointed out.
There was the small moor's head.
But it does not mean anything.
She selected it and I bought it.
That is no way to give a gift.
What I would like to give her is security, which does not exist anymore; all my love, which is worthless; all my worldly goods, which are practically non-existent except for two good shot-guns, my soldier suits, the medals and decorations with the citations, and some books.
Also a retired Colonel's pay.
With all my worldly goods I thee endow, he thought.
And she gave me her love, some hard stones, which I returned, and the picture.
Well, I can always give her back the picture.
I could give her my ring from V.M.I., he thought, but where the hell did I lose that?
She wouldn't want a D.S.C. with cluster, nor two silver stars, nor the other junk, nor the medals of her own country.
Nor those of France.
Nor those of Belgium.
Nor the trick ones.
That would be morbid.
I better just give her my love.
But how the hell do you send it?
And how do you keep it fresh?
They can't pack it in dry ice.
Maybe they can.
I must inquire.
But how do I get that condemned jeep engine to that old man?
Figure it out, he thought.
Figuring things out has been your trade.
Figuring things out when they were shooting at you, he added.
I wish that son of a bitch that is lousing up the duck shooting had a rifle and I had a rifle.
We would find out pretty soon who could figure things out.
Even in a lousy barrel in a marsh where you can't maneuver.
He'd have to come to get me.
Stop that, he said to himself, and think about your girl.
You do not want to kill anyone anymore; ever.
Who are you feeding that to, he told himself. You going to run as a Christian?
You might give it an honest try.
She would like you better that way.
Or would she?
I don't know, he said frankly. I honest to Christ don't know.
Maybe I will get Christian toward the end.
Yes, he said, maybe you will.
Who wants to make a bet on that?
''You want to bet on that?'' he asked the calling duck.
But she was looking up at the sky behind him and had commenced her small chuckling talk.
They came over too high and never circled.