One day Ramon received an invitation to go hunting with Joe Cassi and hisfriends. He accepted it, and afterward went on many trips with the Italiansaloon-owner, thereby doing further injury to his social standing.
Cassi had come to the town some twenty years before with a hand organ anda monkey. The town was not accustomed to that form of entertainment; someof the Mexicans threw rocks at Cassi and a dog killed his monkey. Cassiwas at that time a slender youth, handsome, ragged and full of high hopes.When his monkey was killed he first wept with rage and then swore that hewould stay in that town and have the best of it. He now owned threesaloons and the largest business building in town. He was a lean, grave,silent little man.
Cassi had made most of his money in the days when gambling was "open" inthe town, and he had surrounded himself with a band of choice spirits whowere experts in keno, roulette and poker. These still remained on hishands, some of them in the capacity of barkeepers, and others practicallyas pensioners. They were all great sportsmen, heavy drinkers andloyal-to-the-death friends. At short intervals they went on hunting tripsdown the river, generally remaining over the week-end. It was of theseexpeditions that Ramon now became a regular member. Sometimes the wholeparty would get drunk and come back whooping and singing as theautomobiles bowled along, occasionally firing shotguns into the air. Atother times when luck was good everyone became interested in the sport andforgot to drink. Ramon had a real respect for Cassi, and a certain amountof contempt for most of the rest of them; yet he felt more at home withthese easy-going, pleasure-loving, loyal fellows than he did with thosethrifty, respectable citizens in whose esteem the dollar stood soinvariably first.
Cassi and his friends used most often to go to a Mexican village somefifty miles down the river where the valley was low and flat, and speckledwith shallow alkaline ponds made by seepage from the river. Every eveningthe wild ducks flew into these ponds from the river to feed, and theshooting at this evening flight Ramon especially loved. The party wouldscatter out, each man choosing his own place on the East side of one ofthe little lakes, so that the red glare of the sunset was opposite him.There he would lie flat on the ground, perhaps making a low blind of weedsor rushes.
Seldom even in January was it cold enough to be uncomfortable. Ramon wouldlie on an elbow, smoking a cigarette, watching the light fade, and thelagoon before him turn into molten gold to match the sunset sky. It wouldbe very quiet save for such sounds as the faraway barking of dogs or thelowing of cattle. When the sky overhead had faded to an obscure purple,and the flare of the sunset had narrowed to a belt along the horizon, hewould hear the distant eerie whistle of wild wings. Nothing could be seenyet, but the sound multiplied. He could distinguish now the roar of agreat flock of mallards, circling round and round high overhead, scoutingfor danger. He could hear the sweet flute-notes of teal and pintails, andthe raucous, cautious quack of some old green-head. A teal would pitchsuddenly down to the water before him and rest there, erect and wary,painted in black upon the golden water. Another would join it and another.The cautious mallards, encouraged by this, would swing lower. The music oftheir wings seemed incredibly close; he would grip his gun hard, holdinghimself rigidly still, feeling clearly each beat of his heart.
Suddenly the ducks would come into view {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} dark forms with ghostly blursfor wings, shooting with a roar into the red flare of light. The flash ofhis shotgun would leap out twice. The startled birds would bound into theair like blasted rock from a quarry, and be lost in the purple mystery ofsky, except two or three that hurtled over and over and struck the water,each with a loud spat, throwing up little jets of gold.
Sometimes there were long waits between shots, but at others the flightwas almost continuous, the air seemed full of darting birds, and the gunbarrels were hot in his hands. His excitement would be intense for a time;yet after he had killed a dozen birds or so he would often lose interestand lie on his back listening to the music of wings and of bird voices. Hehad that aversion to excess which seems to be in all Latin peoples.Besides, he did not want many ducks to dispose of.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} It was the rush andcolour, the dramatic quality of the thing that he loved.
Most of the others killed to the limit with a fine unflagging lust forblood, giving a brilliant demonstration of the fact that civilized man isthe most destructive and bloodthirsty of all the predatory mammals.