They sat on their haunches in the wide, circling drive between the shed and the farmhouse; the soft plinks of beebees sounding as they loaded the cock action gun.  Barn swallows sat perched above them on the powerline, conversing as the sun began to descend over the wheat fields, past the westernmost machinery barn.

The brothers, overalled and barefoot, picked up the stray beebees that were now coated with a fine layer of dust from the drive in front of the barn. Isaac, the younger of the two, poured a few of the small objects into his palm and then, with his older brother searching the dust for any remaining ammunition, tossed the beebees into his mouth. He loved the way the hard objects rolled around his mouth; he’d tongue them, pushing them against teeth, or store them between his cheeks and gums. They had a distinct taste as well—clean, with a sharp steely tang that weakened as his mouth watered.

“Isaac.”

“What?” His brother Jon looked at him with furrowed brows.

“Ma told ‘ya to stop putting them beebees in your mouth. Spit ‘em out now.”

Isaac leaned over and puckered his lips.

“No, don’t spit ‘em on the ground. Here,” Jon unhooked one side of Isaac’s overalls and pulled the bottom of his shirt out and pulled it up, “spit ‘em in here, then dry ‘em off and put ‘em back in the tube. The gun’s loaded already.”

Isaac did as he was told; puckering and pushing out each beebee one by one, letting them fall and collect in the fold of his shirt. His brother took a few steps forward, cocked the gun, and put it to his shoulder. A soft, airy pop sounded followed by the snap of the ball striking the wire. Four swallows danced into the air a few feet and floated back down to their reserved spots. Some forty or fifty swallows sat all along the strung wire, and most didn’t even register the small propellant, or the boys with lanky limbs below them.

“Damn,” Jon said, “I was right on target with that fat swallow, it woulda hit ‘em for sure if that wire weren’t there.”

Isaac shook his head and watched his brother cock the gun again and raise it toward the sun. He put a hand over his eyes and looked up to the birds himself, a line of silhouettes. The powerline, encased in plastic tubing, stretched from the house to the barn some twenty feet above the gravel drive. Isaac heard a pop, but none of the birds moved. His brother fired off another shot, but the birds continued to sit and chat, unperturbed. The fourth shot sent a few of the swallows flying outward, but they only arced back inward to the wire.

“Which one ya shootin’ at?” Isaac asked.

“That fat one,” Jon answered, pulling Isaac shoulder to shoulder and pointing upward.  “He’s one…two…three from the break in the line there.”

“Oh, I see ‘em, I see ‘em,” Isaac said, turning to his older brother. “That’d be a nice one, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure would. You know the bigger they are, the harder it is to get ‘em.”

Isaac paused, looking up at the large swallow that outsized all its companions. Maybe it was like hunting deer, big bucks were the hardest to get, according to his dad. “Just like deer?” Isaac ventured.

“Yep, remember what dad said about getting a buck—you gotta be patient.” Jon squinted into the sun with one eye closed and squeezed off a round. The fat swallow jumped off the wire along with a couple others, then fell a few feet before bobbing up and down in the air wounded.

“We got ‘em, we got ‘em!”

The swallow broke lower, and then began to flap in swift wingbeats, rising and flying around the corner of the house. The boys followed it, bounding around the house in bare feet, only to watch it rise over the treetops of the woods and disappear.

“Damn, I sure hit that one.”

“You think he’s dead?” Isaac asked.

“I can’t imagine he got too far. Not with a wound like that.  Yeah, he’s probably lying out in those woods now.”

“Too bad we can’t find him.”

“Yeah. If Rocky had been out here and seen us hit him I bet he coulda tracked him right into the woods.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.”

They sauntered back along the house and around the corner again.

“Can I shoot?” Isaac asked.

“Nah, it’d just be a waste of ammunition.  I only have the one tube left.”

“No it won’t, I promise.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please?”

“Alright. But you only get five shots.”

“Okay.”  Isaac took the gun from his brother’s extended arm. He set the butt of the gun down against the gravel and pulled upward on the handle; it was the only way he could get the gun to cock. He aimed at the small silhouettes, and fired off three of his five rounds with no luck.

“I can’t see.”

“What?”

“I can’t see ‘em, the sun is in my eyes, I’m gonna go round the other side.” Isaac walked under the wire and took a few steps back.

“You can’t shoot ‘em from this side.”

“Why?” Isaac asked.

“Cuz they got their backs turned.  It ain’t fair.”

Isaac stuck the butt of the gun in the ground and cocked it. Almost all of the swallows were facing the same side, away from him.  He found a group of them, though, that were turned around on one end.  Raising the gun he fired a shot—from the opposite side of the line as his brother—the beebee ricocheted off the wire, and some of the birds flew off and re-gathered farther down the line.  There was a single swallow sitting with lots of space around him now.  Isaac pointed the top of the sight just above the head, and fired.  The bird fluttered and then dropped straight down, landing on the gravel.

“Hot damn, Isaac, you got him!” Jon pounced over to the bird, and squatted right above it.  “You got him good.”

Isaac walked over to the barn swallow and looked at it.  He had trapped gophers with his brother before, and even hunted with his father, but it was the first time he had ever killed something, himself. The bird lay on its side, its small dark feet jutting out, its black eye still and staring. The excitement he felt seemed to vacate his body as he looked at the motionless bird. Above them, the swallows chirped, dialoging in the setting sun.

“I got an idea,” Jon said. He picked the bird up in cupped hands and stood. Isaac watched him with the bird, and followed him around the corner of the house. Near the woods behind the house stood a small white shed that held most of their mother’s gardening materials. Jon stepped up onto the ledge of the flowerbed built along the side of the shed, and placed the bird on the windowsill.

Loosely holding the gun, Isaac watched as Jon attempted to prop the bird up on its feet.  Each time it would fall from the ledge into the petunias their mother had planted, and Jon would pick the bird back up with a cuss, straighten its feet, and try to stand it up again.  Finally, Jon leaned the swallow along the corner of the sill and the window. Although the bird was somewhat upright, it looked unnatural to Isaac. Its body angled backward, and its head drooped to the left, against the glass.

Jon ran away from the shed while looking back to make sure the bird stayed in place. He grabbed the gun from Isaac and pulled him along by the straps of his overalls.  Pulling him to the ground some thirty feet from the shed, they laid down along the edge of the woods, facing the shed.  Jon raised the gun to his shoulder.

“Now, we just gotta wait for more birds to come. That one there on the shed is a decoy.”

“A decoy?”

“Yeah, other birds will see it and come sit next to it. Then we can shoot them, too.”

Isaac’s stomach tightened as he looked on at the leaning bird. “You really think birds are gonna come by? How do you figure?”

“Sure, birds will see him settin’ there and figure its safe to land. Then we’ll pop ‘em one. We might even get a bigger bird. Or,” Jon spit and then closed one eye and looked down the barrel, “we might even see a fox or bear or something that’ll wanna eat it.”

The palms of Isaac’s hands began to sweat, and he wiped them along his overalls; he watched the unmoving bird, and it just stared back at him. He tried to stay as motionless as the bird while a stirring desire to see the bird break out in swift wing beats roiled in his gut.

They sat there as the sun set, the day turning gradually to dusk. They Listened to the quieting chorus of swallows behind them as the coming dark sank in. Not a single bird flew by the shed while they waited. Once, they saw their mother’s petunias moving, but when they crawled closer to see what was causing the movement, all they discovered was a frog.

“Supper!” Their mother called from the house as the sun met earth.

“Damn,” Jon said. “We’ll just have to leave him out here, see if anything comes at night. We can watch him from the window. C’mon.”

They stood, brushed off the front of their overalls and walked slowly towards the front of the house. “Now, don’t you tell mom about the swallow. She’ll take it down right away. And don’t tell her that I been cussin’ either, or I’ll tell her you been putting those beebees in your mouth again.”

Isaac stayed silent as they walked up the front porch.

Jon stopped at the door and turned towards Isaac. “And don’t say nothin’ about the gun, if some critter comes ‘long tonight we’ll need it.” He unclasped one of his buttons, slid the gun down along the right side of his overalls and buttoned them back up. He stepped up into the house like a pirate, swinging his leg to the side because he couldn’t bend it. Isaac followed his brother inside.

“Jon!” his mother yelled, stopping them both as they walked quietly into the dining room from the entryway. She walked in holding a wood ladle, her hair pulled back in a frayed bun, the hairs rising and tangling from the humidity and the heat of the kitchen. “Why are you limping?”

“I’m not.”

She pointed the ladle at his right leg. “What do you have in there then?”

“Nothin’.”

She took a step towards them and brandished the ladle with a few controlled movements for emphasis as she spoke, “Jon Arthur Larsen, you better wise up this minute and show me what you got, or I’m goin’ to smack your rear end until its red.”

Isaac looked at his brother, whose cheeks began to redden. Jon unclasped his overalls and began to pull the beebee gun from his overalls, but Jon didn’t even get the gun all the way out before the ladle struck him on the head, just above the ear.

“What did I tell you about bringing that thing in the house?” she demanded. “Go put that back in the entryway where it belongs, then get washed up.” She looked at Isaac, pointing the ladle at him, “That goes for you too, young man.” Isaac followed his head-rubbing brother back to the entryway.

Later that night, they sat together on Isaac’s bed, looking out the north end of their house to the moonlit window of the shed. Isaac couldn’t see the swallow; all he saw was the light reflecting off the pane and shadows, but he felt like the swallow could see him. He knew the bird was down there, leaning awkwardly in the same position, its staring eye searching his window from the shadows. He couldn’t sleep.

“If you see anything,” Jon whispered drowsily next to him, “let me know and then I’ll grab the gun on the way out and sneak up on them. You can give me signals from the window like soldiers do to let me know where they’re at.”

After awhile, Isaac slid from the bed where his brother slouched, sleeping with his head leaning against the cool window. Lying on the floor, Isaac shifted around the items underneath his bed until he found an old cigar box. He emptied the contents, tucked it under his arm, and tiptoed in bare feet down the stairs and through the house with a clenched jaw, stopping every time he made a creak, weighing it against his father’s snoring.

The grass was cool underfoot, and the clear night sky provided plentiful light from above as Isaac made his way towards the shed. As he neared, he slowed, feeling his heartbeat rise up his throat. Stepping up onto the flowerbed, he saw the swallow, feathers now ruffled, its body a bit more rigid—cold. Opening the empty cigar box, Isaac slid the cover behind the swallow and pulled it toward him. It fell over, and then rolled off the ledge and he turned the box to catch it. Closing the lid, Isaac stepped down, and crept toward a clearing in the woods. He stumbled through the brush and trees, believing he felt the contents roll around inside the box. A few minutes later he bumped into an old, decaying stump with exposed roots. Placing the cigar box within the roots, Isaac gathered leaves and twigs in front of the stump, turned, and made his way back to the house in the silence of the night.