“Now,” he announced, “shooting is all in the footwork. Get a solid stance; that’s it. Good.” He aligned my shoulders.
“Keeper is going to drive them out from there, I would suggest,” he continued, pointing into the distance. Don’t be put off when they approach. They’ll only be doing thirty miles per hour, do you understand? Just make a slight allowance, and…bingo!”
With one finger, he slightly raised my barrels. “When the birds come up!” he said.
With crashing and squawking, an explosive black cloud of discombobulation flapped out of the distant woodland.
I squeezed, thrown back in the after-boom, as the smoke lazily rose and the birds flew overhead.
And with a flump, the crimson Duke hit the ground.