Crooked Trails, Page 2

  THE BLUE QUAIL OF THE CACTUS

  THE Quartermaster and I both had trouble which the doctors could notcure--it was January, and it would not do for us to sit in a "blind ";besides, I do not fancy that. There are ever so many men who arecomfortable all over when they are sitting in a blind waiting on thevagrant flying of the ducks; but it is solemn, gloomy business, and, Imust say, sufficient reason why they take a drink every fifteen minutesto keep up their enthusiasm. We both knew that the finest winter resortfor shot-gun folks was in the Southwest--down on the Rio Grande inTexas--so we journeyed to Eagle Pass. As we got down from the train wesaw Captain Febiger in his long military cloak by a lantern-light.

  "Got any quail staked out for us, Feb?" asked the Quartermaster.

  "Oodles," said Febiger; "get into my trap," and we were rattled throughthe unlighted street out to the camp, and brought up by the Captain'squarters.

  In the morning we unpacked our trunks, and had everything on the floorwhere we could see it, after the fashion with men. Captain Febiger'sbaby boy came in to help us rummage in the heaps of canvas clothes,ammunition, and what not besides, finally selecting for his amusement aloaded Colt's revolver and a freshly honed razor. We were terrorized bythe possibilities of the combination. Our trying to take them away fromthe youngster only made him yell like a cavern of demons. We howled forhis mother to come to our aid, which she finally did, and she separatedthe kid from his toys.

  I put on my bloomers, when the Captain came in and viewed me, saying:"Texas bikes; but it doesn't bloom yet. I don't know just what Texaswill do if you parade in those togs--but you can try."

  As we sauntered down the dusty main street, Texas lounged in thedoorways or stood up in its buggy and stared at me. Texas grinnedcheerfully, too, but I did not care, so long as Texas kept its hand outof its hip pocket. I was content to help educate Texas as to personalcomfort, at no matter what cost to myself. We passed into Mexico overthe Long Bridge to call on Senor Munos, who is the local czar, in hopesof getting permits to be let alone by his chaparral-rangers while weshot quail on their soil. In Mexico when the people observe an Americanothey simply shrug their shoulders; so our bloomers attracted no morecontempt than would an X-ray or a trolley-car. Senor Munos gave thepermits, after much stately compliment and many subtle ways, which madeus feel under a cloud of obligation.

  07 LUNCHEON IN THE DESERT]

  The next morning an ambulance and escort-wagon drove up to the Captain'squarters, and we loaded ourselves in--shot-guns, ammunition, blankets,and the precious paper of Senor Munos; for, only the week before, thecustom-house rangers had carefully escorted an American hunting-party along distance back to the line for lack of the little paper and redseals. We rattled over the bridge, past the Mexican barrack, while itsdark-skinned soldiery--who do not shoot quails--lounged in the sunshineagainst the whitewashed wall.

  At the first outpost of the customs a little man, whose considerableequatorial proportions were girted with a gun, examined our paper, andwaved us on our way. Under the railroad bridge of the International anengineer blew his whistle, and our mules climbed on top of each other intheir terror.

  We wound along the little river, through irrigating ditches, past dozensof those deliciously quaint adobe houses, past the inevitable church,past a dead pony, ran over a chicken, made the little seven-year-oldgirls take their five-year-old brothers up in their arms for protection,and finally we climbed a long hill. At the top stretched an endlessplain. The road forked; presently it branched; anon it grew into twigsof white dust on the gray levels of the background. The local physicianof Eagle Pass was of our party, and he was said to know where a certaintank was to be found, some thirty miles out in the desert, but no manyet created could know which twig of the road to take. He decided onone--changed his mind--got out of the ambulance, scratched his head,pondered, and finally resolution settled on his face. He motioned thedriver to a certain twig, got in, and shut his mouth firmly, thusclosing debate. We smoked silently, waiting for the doctor's mind tofog. He turned uneasily in his seat, like the agitated needle of acompass, and even in time hazarded the remark that something did notlook natural; but there was nothing to look at but flat land and flatsky, unless a hawk sailing here and there. At noon we lunched at thetail of the ambulance, and gently "jollied" the doctor's topography. Wepushed on. Later in the afternoon the thirsty mules went slowly. Thedoctor had by this time admitted his doubts--some long blue hills on thesky-line ought to be farther to the west, according to his remembrance.As no one else had any ideas on the subject, the doctor's position wasnot enviable. We changed our course, and travelled many weary milesthrough the chaparral, which was high enough to stop our vision, andstiff enough to bar our way, keeping us to narrow roads. At last thebisecting cattle trails began to converge, and we knew that they led towater--which they did; for shortly we saw a little broken adobe, atumbled brush corral, the plastered gate of an _acequia,_ and the bluewater of the tank.

  08 SUPPER IN THE CORRAL]

  To give everything its due proportion at this point, we gathered tocongratulate the doctor as we passed the flask. The camp was pitchedwithin the corral, and while the cook got supper we stood in theafter-glow on the bank of the tank and saw the ducks come home, heardthe mud-hens squddle, while high in the air flew the long line ofsand-hill cranes with a hoarse clangor. It was quite dark when we sat onthe "grub" chests and ate by the firelight, while out in the desert thecoyotes shrilled to the monotonous accompaniment of the mules crunchingtheir feed and stamping wearily. To-morrow it was proposed to hunt ducksin their morning flight, which means getting up before daylight, so bedfound us early. It seemed but a minute after I had sought my blanketswhen I was being abused by the Captain, being pushed with hisfoot--fairly rolled over by him--he even standing on my body as heshouted, "Get up, if you are going hunting. It will be lightdirectly--get up!" And this, constantly recurring, is one reason why Ido not care for duck-shooting.

  But, in order to hunt, I had to get up, and file off in the line ofghosts, stumbling, catching, on the chaparral, and splashing in the mud.I led a setter-dog, and was presently directed to sit down in some dampgrass, because it was a good place--certainly not to sit down in, butfor other reasons. I sat there in the dark, petting the good dog, andwatching the sky grow pale in the east. This is not to mention thedesire for breakfast, or the damp, or the sleepiness, but this is reallythe larger part of duck-hunting. Of course if I later had a dozen goodshots it might compensate--but I did not have a dozen shots.

  The day came slowly out of the east, the mud-hens out in the marshsplashed about in the rushes, a sailing hawk was visible against thegray sky overhead, and I felt rather insignificant, not to saycontemptible, as I sat there in the loneliness of this big nature whichworked around me. The dog dignified the situation--he was a part ofnature's belongings--while I somehow did not seem to grace the solitude.The grays slowly grew into browns on the sedge-grass, and the water tosilver. A bright flash of fire shot out of the dusk far up in the gloom,and the dull report of a shot-gun came over the tank. Black objects fledacross the sky--the ducks were flying. I missed one or two, and grewweary--none came near enough to my lair. Presently it was light, and Igot a fair shot. My bird tumbled into the rushes out in front of me, andthe setter bounded in to retrieve. He searched vehemently, but thewounded duck dived in front of him. He came ashore shortly, and lyingdown, he bit at himself and pawed and rolled. He was a mass ofcockle-burs. I took him on my lap and laboriously picked cockle-burs outof his hair for a half-hour; then, shouldering my gun, I turnedtragically to the water and anathematized its ducks--all ducks, myfellow-duckers, all thoughts and motives concerning ducks--and thenstrode into the chaparral. "Hie on! hie on!" I tossed my arm, and thesetter began to hunt beautifully--glad, no doubt, to leave all thoughtsof the cockle-burs and evasive ducks behind. I worked up the shore ofthe tank, keeping back in the brush, and got some fun. After chasingabout for some time I came out near the water. My dog pointed. I glidedforward, and came near s
hooting the Quartermaster, who sat in a bunch ofsedge-grass, with a dead duck by his side. He was smoking, and wasdisgusted with ducks. He joined me, and shortly, as we crossed the road,the long Texas doctor, who owned the dog, came striding down the way. Hewas ready for quail now, and we started.

  09 ON THE SHORE OF THE TANK--MORNING]

  The quail-hunting is active work. The dog points, but one nearly alwaysfinds the birds running from one prickly-pear bush to another. They donot stand, rarely flush, and when they do get up it is only to swoopahead to the nearest cover, where they settle quickly. One must be sharpin his shooting--he cannot select his distance, for the cactus liesthick about, and the little running bird is only on view for theshortest of moments. You must overrun a dog after his first point, sincehe works too close behind them. The covey will keep together if notpursued with too much haste, and one gets shot after shot; still, atlast you must run lively, as the frightened covey scurry along at aremarkable pace. Heavy shot are necessary, since the blue quail carrylead like Marshal Massena, and are much harder to kill than thebob-white. Three men working together can get shooting enough out of abunch--the chase often continuing for a mile, when the covey graduallyseparate, the sportsmen following individual birds.

  10 RUNNING BLUE QUAIL]

  Where the prickly-pear cactus is thickest, there are the blue quail,since that is their feed and water supply. This same cactus makes adifficulty of pursuit, for it bristles with spines, which come off onyour clothing, and when they enter the skin make most uncomfortable andpersistent sores. The Quartermaster had an Indian tobacco-bag danglingat his belt, and as it flopped in his progress it gathered prickers,which it shortly transferred to his luckless legs, until he at lastdetected the reason why he bristled so fiercely. And the poor dog--atevery covey we had to stop and pick needles out of him. The haunts ofthe blue quail are really no place for a dog, as he soon becomesuseless. One does not need him, either, since the blue quail will notflush until actually kicked into the air.

  Jack and cotton-tail rabbits fled by hundreds before us. They areeverywhere, and afford good shooting between coveys, it being quick workto get a cotton-tail as he flashes between the net-work of protectingcactus. Coyotes lope away in our front, but they are too wild for ashot-gun. It must ever be in a man's mind to keep his direction, becauseit is such a vastly simple thing to get lost in the chaparral, where youcannot see a hundred yards. Mexico has such a considerable territorythat a man on foot may find it inconvenient to beat up a town in thedesolation of thorn-bush.

  There is an action about blue-quail shooting which is next to buffaloshooting--it's run, shoot, pick up your bird, scramble on in yourendeavor to keep the skirmish-line of your two comrades; and at last,when you have concluded to stop, you can mop your forehead--the Mexicansun shines hot even in midwinter.

  Later in the afternoon we get among bob-white in a grassy tract, andwhile they are clean work--good dog-play, and altogether moresatisfactory shooting than any other I know of--I am yet much inclinedto the excitement of chasing after game which you can see at intervals.Let it not be supposed that it is less difficult to hit a running bluequail as he shoots through the brush than a flying bob-white, for theexperience of our party has settled that, and one gets ten shots at theblue to one at the bob-white, because of their number. As to eating, wecould not tell the difference; but I will not insist that this is final.A man who comes in from an all day's run in the brush does not carewhether the cook gives him boiled beans, watermelon, or crackers andjam; so how is he to know what a bird's taste is when served to a tameappetite?

  11 TOO BIG GAME FOR NUMBER SIX]

  At intervals we ran into the wild cattle which threaded their way towater, and it makes one nervous. It is of no use to say "Soo-bossy," orto give him a charge of No. 6; neither is it well to run. If the_matadores_ had any of the sensations which I have experienced, the gatereceipts at the bull-rings would have to go up. When a big long-hornfastens a quail-shooter with his great open brown eye in a chaparralthicket, you are not inclined to "call his hand." If he will call it amisdeal, you are with him.

  We were banging away, the Quartermaster and I, when a human voice beganyelling like mad from the brush ahead. We advanced, to find aMexican--rather well gotten up--who proceeded to wave his arms like aparson who had reached "sixthly" in his sermon, and who proceededthereat to overwhelm us with his eloquence. The Quartermaster and I"_buenos dias-ed_" and "_si, senor-ed_" him in our helpless Spanish, andasked each other, nervously, "What de'll." After a long time he seemedto be getting through with his subject, his sentences became separated,he finally emitted monosyllables only along with his scowls, and wetramped off into the brush. It was a pity he spent so much energy, sinceit could only arouse our curiosity without satisfying it.

  In camp that night we told the Captain of our excited Mexican friend outin the brush, and our cook had seen sinister men on ponies passing nearour camp. The Captain became solicitous, and stationed a night-guardover his precious government mules. It would never do to have a banditget away with a U. S. brand. It never does matter about privateproperty, but anything with U. S. on it has got to be looked after, likea croupy child.

  We had some good days' sport, and no more formidable enterprise againstthe night-guard was attempted than the noisy approach of a whitejackass. The tents were struck and loaded when it began to rain. Westood in the shelter of the escort-wagon, and the storm rose to ahurricane. Our corral became a tank; but shortly the black clouds passednorth, and we pulled out. The twig ran into a branch, and the branchstruck the trunk near the bluffs over the Rio Grande, and in town therestood the Mexican soldiers leaning against the wall as we had left them.We wondered if they had moved meanwhile.