The Killer
CHAPTER XI
IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURE
Uncle Jim had friends everywhere. Continually we were pulling up by oneof the tiny two-roomed shacks wherein dwelt the small settlers. Thehouses were always of new boards, unpainted, perched on four-by-fours,in the middle of bare ground, perhaps surrounded by young poplars orcottonwoods, but more likely fully exposed to the sun. A trifling openshed protected a battered buggy on the thills and wheels of whichperched numerous chickens. A rough corral and windmill completed thearrangements. Near the house was usually a small patch of alfalfa.Farther out the owner was engaged in the strenuous occupation ofbrushing and breaking a virgin country.
To greet us rushed forth a half-dozen mongrel dogs, and appeared a swarmof children, followed by the woman of the place. Uncle Jim knew them allby name, including even the dogs. He carefully wound the reins aroundthe whip, leaned forward comfortably, and talked. Henry dozed; and Ilistened with interest. Uncle Jim had the natural gift of popularity. Byeither instinct or a wide experience he knew just what problems andtriumphs, disappointments and perplexities these people wereencountering; and he plunged promptly into the discussion of them. Also,I was never able to make out whether Uncle Jim was a conscious orunconscious diplomat; but certainly he knew how judiciously to make useof the subtle principle, so well illustrated by Moliere, that it pleasespeople to confer small favours. Thus occasionally he gravely "borrowed"a trifle of axle grease, which we immediately applied, or a cup of milk,or a piece of string to mend something. When finally our leisurelyroadside call was at an end, we rolled away from unanimously heartysignals of farewell.
In accordance with our settled feeling of taking things as they came,and trying for everything, we blundered into varied experiences, none ofwhich arrange themselves in recollection with any pretence of logicalorder. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea to copy our method, to setforth and see where we land.
One of the most amusing happened when we were out with my younger, butnot smaller, brother. This youth was at that time about eighteen yearsold, and six feet two in height. His age _plus_ his stature _equalled_ acertain lankiness. As we drove peacefully along the highway we observedin the adjacent field a coyote. The animal was some three or fourhundred yards away, lying down, his head between his paws, for all theworld like a collie dog. Immediately the lad was all excitement. Wepointed out the well-known facts that the coyote is no fool and isdifficult to stalk at best; that while he is apparently tame as long asthe wagon keeps moving, he decamps when convinced that his existence isreceiving undue attention; that in the present instance the short grasswould not conceal a snake; and that, finally, a 16-gauge gun loaded withnumber-six shot was not an encouraging coyote weapon. He brushed themaside as mere details. So we let him out.
He dropped into the grass and commenced his stalk. This he accomplishedon his elbows and knees. A short review of the possibilities willconvince you that the sight was unique. Although the boy's head andshoulders were thus admirably close to the ground, there followed anextremely abrupt apex. Add the fact that the canvas shooting coat soonfell forward over his shoulders.
The coyote at first paid no attention. As this strange object workednearer, he raised his head to take a look. Then he sat up on hishaunches to take a better look. At this point we expected him to lopeaway instead of which he trotted forward a few feet and stopped, hisears pricked forward. There he sat, his shrewd brain alive withconjecture until, at thirty-five yards, the kid emptied both barrels.Thereupon he died, his curiosity as to what a movable brown pyramidmight be still unsatisfied.
Uncle Jim, the kid, and I had great fun cruising for jackrabbits. UncleJim sat in the middle and drove while the kid and I hung our feet overthe sides and constituted ourselves the port and starboard batteries.Bumping and banging along at full speed over the uneven country, wejumped the rabbits, and opened fire as they made off. Each had to stickto his own side of the ship, of course. Uncle Jim's bird dog, his headbetween our feet, his body under the seat, watched the proceedings,whining. It looked like good fun to him, but it was forbidden. Ajackrabbit arrested in full flight by a charge of shot turns a veryspectacular somersault. The dog would stand about five rabbits. As thesixth turned over, he executed a mad struggle, accomplished a flyingleap over the front wheel, was rolled over and over by the forwardmomentum of the moving vehicle, scrambled to his feet, pounced on thatrabbit, and most everlastingly and savagely shook it up! Then Uncle Jimdescended and methodically and dispassionately licked the dog.
Jackrabbits were good small-rifle game. They started away on a slowlope, but generally stopped and sat up if not too seriously alarmed. Awhistle sometimes helped bring them to a stand. After a moment'sinspection they went away, rapidly. With a .22 automatic one could turnloose at all sorts of ranges at all speeds. It was a good deal of fun,too, sneaking about afoot through the low brush, making believe that thesage was a jungle, the tiny pellets express bullets, the rabbitsmagnified--I am sorry for the fellow who cannot have fun sometimes"pretending!" In the brush, too, dwelt little cottontails, very good toeat. The jackrabbit was a pest, but the cottontail was worth getting. Wecaught sight of him first in the bare open spaces between the bushes,whereupon he proceeded rapidly to cover. It was necessary to shootrather quickly. The inexperienced would be apt to run forward eagerly,hoping to catch a glimpse of the cottontail on the other side; butalways it would be in vain. That would be owing to the fact that thelittle rabbit has a trick of apparently running through a brush at fullspeed, but in reality of stopping abruptly and squatting at the roots.Often it is possible to get a shot by scrutinizing carefully the lastplace he was seen. He can stop as suddenly as a cow pony.
Often and often, like good strategic generals, we were induced bycircumstances to change our plans or our method of attack at the lastmoment. On several occasions, while shooting in the fields of Egyptiancorn, I have killed a quail with my right barrel and a duck with myleft! Continually one was crouching in hopes, when some unexpected flockstooped toward him as he walked across country. These hasty concealmentswere in general quite futile, for it is a fairly accurate generalizationthat, in the open, game will see you before you see it. This is notalways true. I have on several occasions stood stock still in the openplain until a low-flying mallard came within easy range. Invariably thebird was flying toward the setting sun, so I do not doubt his vision wasmore or less blinded.
The most ridiculous effort of this sort was put into execution by theCaptain and myself.
Be it premised that while, in the season, the wildfowl myriads werealways present, it by no means followed that the sportsman was alwayssure of a bag. The ducks followed the irrigation water. One week theymight be here in countless hordes; the next week might see only a fewcoots and hell divers left, while the game was reported twenty milesaway. Furthermore, although fair shooting--of the pleasantest sort, inmy opinion--was always to be had by jumping small bands and singles fromthe "holes" and ditches, the big flocks were quite apt to feed and loafin the wide spaces discouragingly free of cover. Irrigation was done ona large scale. A section of land might be submerged from three inches toa foot in depth. In the middle of this temporary pond and a half dozenothers like it fed the huge bands of ducks. What could you do? Therewas no cover by which to sneak them. You might build a blind, but beforethe ducks could get used to its strange presence in a flat andfeatureless landscape the water would be withdrawn from that piece ofland. Only occasionally, when a high wind drove them from the open, orwhen the irrigation water happened to be turned in to a brushy country,did the sportsman get a chance at the great swarms. Since a man couldget all the ducks he could reasonably require, there was no real reasonwhy he should look with longing on these inaccessible packs, but we alldid. It was not that we wanted more ducks; for we held strictly withinlimits, but we wanted to get in the thick of it.
On the occasion of which I started to tell, the Captain and I werereturning from somewhere. Near the Lakeside ranch we came across a bigtract of land overflowed by
not deeper than two or three inches ofwater. The ducks were everywhere on it. They sat around fat and solemnin flocks; they swirled and stooped and lit and rose again; they fedbusily; they streamed in from all points of the compass, cleaving theair with a whistling of wings.
Cover there was none. It was exactly like a big, flat cow pasturewithout any fences. We pulled up the Invigorator and eyed the scene withspeculative eyes. Finally, we did as follows:
Into the middle of that field waded we. The ducks, of course, arose witha roar, circled once out of range, and departed. We knew that in lessthan a minute the boldest would return to see if, perchance, we mighthave been mere passers-by. Finding us still there, they would, in thenatural course of events, circle once or twice and then depart forgood.
Now we had noticed this: ducks will approach to within two or threehundred yards of a man standing upright, but they will come within onehundred--or almost in range--if he squats and holds quite still. This,we figured, is because he is that much more difficult to recognize as aman, even though he is in plain sight. We had to remain in plain sight;but could we not make ourselves more difficult to recognize?
After pulling up our rubber boots carefully, we knelt in the two inchesof water, placed our chests across two wooden shell boxes we had broughtfor the purpose, ducked our heads, and waited. After a few momentsoverhead came the peculiar swift whistle of wings. We waited, rigid.When that whistle sounded very loud indeed, we jerked ourselves uprightand looked up. Immediately above us, already towering frantically, was aflock of sprig. They were out of range, but we were convinced that thiswas only because we had mistakenly looked up too soon.
It was fascinating work, for we had to depend entirely on the sense ofhearing. The moment we stirred in the slightest degree away went theducks. As it took an appreciable time to rise to our feet, locate theflock, and get into action, we had to guess very accurately. We fired agreat many times, and killed a very few; but each duck was anachievement.
Though the bag could not be guaranteed, the sight of ducks could. Whenmy brother went with me to the ranch, the duck shooting was very poor.This was owing to the fact that sudden melting of the snows in theSierras had overflowed an immense tract of country to form a lake eightor nine miles across. On this lake the ducks were safe, and thither theyresorted in vast numbers. As a consequence, the customary resorts weredeserted. We could see the ducks, and that was about all. Realizing thehopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves sostrictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical ofour wildfowl tales. Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed himducks.
They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of twosubmerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure themaccurately. After they had flown we paced off their bulk. They hadoccupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards longby fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thickas ducks could crowd together. An able statistician might figure out howmany there were. At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen someducks.
There was one thing about Uncle Jim's expeditions: they were cast in norigid lines. Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at thelast moment should circumstances warrant.
One day Uncle Jim came after me afoot, with the quiet assurance that heknew where there were "some ducks."
"Tommy is down there now," said he, "in a blind. We'll make a couplemore blinds across the pond, and in that way one or the other of us issure to get a shot at everything that comes in. And the way they'recoming in is scand'lous!"
Therefore I filled my pockets with duck shells, seized my close-choked12-bore, and followed Uncle Jim. We walked across three fields.
"Those ducks are acting mighty queer," proffered Uncle Jim in puzzledtones.
We stopped a moment to watch. Flock after flock stooped toward thelittle pond, setting their wings and dropping with the extraordinaryconfidence wildfowl sometimes exhibit. At a certain point, however, andwhile still at a good elevation, they towered swiftly and excitedly.
"Doesn't seem like they'd act so scared even if Tommy wasn't well hid,"puzzled Uncle Jim.
We proceeded cautiously, keeping out of sight behind some greasewood,until we could see the surface of the pond. There were Tommy's decoys,and there was Tommy's blind. We could not see but that it was awell-made blind. Even as we looked another flock of sprig sailed downwind, stopped short at a good two hundred yards, towered with everyappearance of lively dismay, and departed. Tommy's head came above theblind, gazing after them.
"They couldn't act worse if Tommy was out waving his hat at 'em," saidUncle Jim.
We climbed a fence. This brought us to a slight elevation, butsufficient to enable us to see abroad over the flat landscape.
Immediately beyond Tommy was a long, low irrigation check grown withsoft green sod. On the farther slope thereof were the girls. They hadbrought magazines and fancy work, and evidently intended to spend theafternoon in the open, enjoying the fresh air and the glad sunshine andthe cheerful voices of God's creatures. They were, of course, quiteunconscious of Tommy's sporting venture not a hundred feet away. Theirparasols were green, red, blue, and other explosive tints.
Uncle Jim and I sat for a few moments on the top of that fence enjoyingthe view. Then we climbed softly down and went away. We decided tacitlynot to shoot ducks. The nature of the expedition immediately changed. Wespent the rest of the afternoon on quail. To be sure number-five shot ina close-choked twelve is not an ideal load for the purpose; but by carein letting our birds get far enough away we managed to have a very goodafternoon's sport. And whenever we would make a bad miss we had readyconsolation: the thought of Tommy waiting and wondering and puzzling inhis blind.