Not til absolute certitude was his did he shoot.

No matter how sharp the pangs of hunger and desire for that palpitating morsel of chattering life, he refused to take the slightest risk of a miss.

He, born gambler, was gambling in the bigger way.

His life was the stake, his cards were the cartridges, and he played as only a big gambler could play, with infinite precaution, with infinite consideration.
Each shot meant a squirrel, and though days elapsed between shots, it never changed his method of play.
Of the squirrels, nothing was lost.

Even the skins were boiled to make broth, the bones pounded into fragments that could be chewed and swallowed.