Hugh looked round.

He was alone; his mate was just visible far away over the plain, still following at full speed a blue mound that struggled doggedly on towards the timber.

The grey horse drew up to his quarry, the man leant forward, there was a sudden spurt of white smoke, and the animal fell as if struck by lightning.
It was very pretty to watch, and looked as simple as shelling peas.

The shooter rode over to Hugh, and congratulated him on his first kill.
"I got all that mob that came our way," he said, "seven of 'em.

Yours makes eight.