Stewart Edward White - The Killer

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To greet us rushed forth a half-dozen mongrel dogs, and appeared a swarm
of children, followed by the woman of the place. Uncle Jim knew them all
by name, including even the dogs. He carefully wound the reins around
the whip, leaned forward comfortably, and talked. Henry dozed; and I
listened with interest. Uncle Jim had the natural gift of popularity. By
either instinct or a wide experience he knew just what problems and
triumphs, disappointments and perplexities these people were
encountering; and he plunged promptly into the discussion of them. Also,
I was never able to make out whether Uncle Jim was a conscious or
unconscious diplomat; but certainly he knew how judiciously to make use
of the subtle principle, so well illustrated by Moliere, that it pleases
people 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 leisurely
roadside call was at an end, we rolled away from unanimously hearty
signals of farewell.

In accordance with our settled feeling of taking things as they came,
and trying for everything, we blundered into varied experiences, none of
which arrange themselves in recollection with any pretence of logical
order. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea to copy our method, to set
forth and see where we land.

One of the most amusing happened when we were out with my younger, but
not smaller, brother. This youth was at that time about eighteen years
old, and six feet two in height. His age _plus_ his stature _equalled_ a
certain lankiness. As we drove peacefully along the highway we observed
in the adjacent field a coyote. The animal was some three or four
hundred yards away, lying down, his head between his paws, for all the
world like a collie dog. Immediately the lad was all excitement. We
pointed out the well-known facts that the coyote is no fool and is
difficult to stalk at best; that while he is apparently tame as long as
the wagon keeps moving, he decamps when convinced that his existence is
receiving undue attention; that in the present instance the short grass
would not conceal a snake; and that, finally, a 16-gauge gun loaded with
number-six shot was not an encouraging coyote weapon. He brushed them
aside as mere details. So we let him out.

He dropped into the grass and commenced his stalk. This he accomplished
on his elbows and knees. A short review of the possibilities will
convince you that the sight was unique. Although the boy's head and
shoulders were thus admirably close to the ground, there followed an
extremely abrupt apex. Add the fact that the canvas shooting coat soon
fell forward over his shoulders.

The coyote at first paid no attention. As this strange object worked
nearer, he raised his head to take a look. Then he sat up on his
haunches to take a better look. At this point we expected him to lope
away instead of which he trotted forward a few feet and stopped, his
ears pricked forward. There he sat, his shrewd brain alive with
conjecture until, at thirty-five yards, the kid emptied both barrels.
Thereupon he died, his curiosity as to what a movable brown pyramid
might be still unsatisfied.

Uncle Jim, the kid, and I had great fun cruising for jackrabbits. Uncle
Jim sat in the middle and drove while the kid and I hung our feet over
the sides and constituted ourselves the port and starboard batteries.
Bumping and banging along at full speed over the uneven country, we
jumped the rabbits, and opened fire as they made off. Each had to stick
to his own side of the ship, of course. Uncle Jim's bird dog, his head
between our feet, his body under the seat, watched the proceedings,
whining. It looked like good fun to him, but it was forbidden. A
jackrabbit arrested in full flight by a charge of shot turns a very
spectacular somersault. The dog would stand about five rabbits. As the
sixth turned over, he executed a mad struggle, accomplished a flying
leap over the front wheel, was rolled over and over by the forward
momentum of the moving vehicle, scrambled to his feet, pounced on that
rabbit, and most everlastingly and savagely shook it up! Then Uncle Jim
descended and methodically and dispassionately licked the dog.

Jackrabbits were good small-rifle game. They started away on a slow
lope, but generally stopped and sat up if not too seriously alarmed. A
whistle sometimes helped bring them to a stand. After a moment's
inspection they went away, rapidly. With a .22 automatic one could turn
loose 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 the
sage was a jungle, the tiny pellets express bullets, the rabbits
magnified--I am sorry for the fellow who cannot have fun sometimes
"pretending!" In the brush, too, dwelt little cottontails, very good to
eat. The jackrabbit was a pest, but the cottontail was worth getting. We
caught sight of him first in the bare open spaces between the bushes,
whereupon he proceeded rapidly to cover. It was necessary to shoot
rather quickly. The inexperienced would be apt to run forward eagerly,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the cottontail on the other side; but
always it would be in vain. That would be owing to the fact that the
little rabbit has a trick of apparently running through a brush at full
speed, but in reality of stopping abruptly and squatting at the roots.
Often it is possible to get a shot by scrutinizing carefully the last
place he was seen. He can stop as suddenly as a cow pony.

Often and often, like good strategic generals, we were induced by
circumstances to change our plans or our method of attack at the last
moment. On several occasions, while shooting in the fields of Egyptian
corn, I have killed a quail with my right barrel and a duck with my
left! Continually one was crouching in hopes, when some unexpected flock
stooped toward him as he walked across country. These hasty concealments
were in general quite futile, for it is a fairly accurate generalization
that, in the open, game will see you before you see it. This is not
always true. I have on several occasions stood stock still in the open
plain until a low-flying mallard came within easy range. Invariably the
bird was flying toward the setting sun, so I do not doubt his vision was
more or less blinded.

The most ridiculous effort of this sort was put into execution by the
Captain and myself.

Be it premised that while, in the season, the wildfowl myriads were
always present, it by no means followed that the sportsman was always
sure of a bag. The ducks followed the irrigation water. One week they
might be here in countless hordes; the next week might see only a few
coots and hell divers left, while the game was reported twenty miles
away. Furthermore, although fair shooting--of the pleasantest sort, in
my opinion--was always to be had by jumping small bands and singles from
the "holes" and ditches, the big flocks were quite apt to feed and loaf
in the wide spaces discouragingly free of cover. Irrigation was done on
a large scale. A section of land might be submerged from three inches to
a foot in depth. In the middle of this temporary pond and a half dozen
others like it fed the huge bands of ducks. What could you do? There
was no cover by which to sneak them. You might build a blind, but before
the ducks could get used to its strange presence in a flat and
featureless landscape the water would be withdrawn from that piece of
land. Only occasionally, when a high wind drove them from the open, or
when 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 could
get all the ducks he could reasonably require, there was no real reason
why he should look with longing on these inaccessible packs, but we all
did. It was not that we wanted more ducks; for we held strictly within
limits, but we wanted to get in the thick of it.

On the occasion of which I started to tell, the Captain and I were
returning from somewhere. Near the Lakeside ranch we came across a big
tract of land overflowed by not deeper than two or three inches of
water. The ducks were everywhere on it. They sat around fat and solemn
in flocks; they swirled and stooped and lit and rose again; they fed
busily; they streamed in from all points of the compass, cleaving the
air with a whistling of wings.

Cover there was none. It was exactly like a big, flat cow pasture
without any fences. We pulled up the Invigorator and eyed the scene with
speculative eyes. Finally, we did as follows:

Into the middle of that field waded we. The ducks, of course, arose with
a roar, circled once out of range, and departed. We knew that in less
than a minute the boldest would return to see if, perchance, we might
have been mere passers-by. Finding us still there, they would, in the
natural course of events, circle once or twice and then depart for
good.

Now we had noticed this: ducks will approach to within two or three
hundred yards of a man standing upright, but they will come within one
hundred--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 a
man, 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 inches
of water, placed our chests across two wooden shell boxes we had brought
for the purpose, ducked our heads, and waited. After a few moments
overhead came the peculiar swift whistle of wings. We waited, rigid.
When that whistle sounded very loud indeed, we jerked ourselves upright
and looked up. Immediately above us, already towering frantically, was a
flock of sprig. They were out of range, but we were convinced that this
was only because we had mistakenly looked up too soon.

It was fascinating work, for we had to depend entirely on the sense of
hearing. The moment we stirred in the slightest degree away went the
ducks. As it took an appreciable time to rise to our feet, locate the
flock, and get into action, we had to guess very accurately. We fired a
great many times, and killed a very few; but each duck was an
achievement.

Though the bag could not be guaranteed, the sight of ducks could. When
my 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 the
Sierras had overflowed an immense tract of country to form a lake eight
or nine miles across. On this lake the ducks were safe, and thither they
resorted in vast numbers. As a consequence, the customary resorts were
deserted. We could see the ducks, and that was about all. Realizing the
hopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves so
strictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical of
our wildfowl tales. Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed him
ducks.

They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of two
submerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure them
accurately. After they had flown we paced off their bulk. They had
occupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards long
by fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thick
as ducks could crowd together. An able statistician might figure out how
many there were. At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen some
ducks.

There was one thing about Uncle Jim's expeditions: they were cast in no
rigid lines. Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at the
last moment should circumstances warrant.

One day Uncle Jim came after me afoot, with the quiet assurance that he
knew where there were "some ducks."

"Tommy is down there now," said he, "in a blind. We'll make a couple
more blinds across the pond, and in that way one or the other of us is
sure to get a shot at everything that comes in. And the way they're
coming in is scand'lous!"

Therefore I filled my pockets with duck shells, seized my close-choked
12-bore, and followed Uncle Jim. We walked across three fields.

"Those ducks are acting mighty queer," proffered Uncle Jim in puzzled
tones.

We stopped a moment to watch. Flock after flock stooped toward the
little pond, setting their wings and dropping with the extraordinary
confidence wildfowl sometimes exhibit. At a certain point, however, and
while 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 a
well-made blind. Even as we looked another flock of sprig sailed down
wind, stopped short at a good two hundred yards, towered with every
appearance of lively dismay, and departed. Tommy's head came above the
blind, gazing after them.

"They couldn't act worse if Tommy was out waving his hat at 'em," said
Uncle Jim.

We climbed a fence. This brought us to a slight elevation, but
sufficient to enable us to see abroad over the flat landscape.

Immediately beyond Tommy was a long, low irrigation check grown with
soft green sod. On the farther slope thereof were the girls. They had
brought magazines and fancy work, and evidently intended to spend the
afternoon in the open, enjoying the fresh air and the glad sunshine and
the cheerful voices of God's creatures. They were, of course, quite
unconscious of Tommy's sporting venture not a hundred feet away. Their
parasols were green, red, blue, and other explosive tints.

Uncle Jim and I sat for a few moments on the top of that fence enjoying
the view. Then we climbed softly down and went away. We decided tacitly
not to shoot ducks. The nature of the expedition immediately changed. We
spent the rest of the afternoon on quail. To be sure number-five shot in
a close-choked twelve is not an ideal load for the purpose; but by care
in letting our birds get far enough away we managed to have a very good
afternoon's sport. And whenever we would make a bad miss we had ready
consolation: the thought of Tommy waiting and wondering and puzzling in
his blind.

CHAPTER XII

THE GRAND TOUR

Almost always our sporting expeditions were of this casual character,
sandwiched in among other occupations. Guns were handy, as was the game.
To seize the one and pursue the other on the whim of the moment was the
normal and usual thing. Thus one day Mrs. Kitty drove me over to look at
a horse I was thinking of buying. On the way home, in a corner of brush,
I hopped out and bagged twelve quail; and a little farther on, by a
lucky sneak, I managed to gather in five ducks from an irrigation pond.
On another occasion, having a spare hour before lunch, I started out
afoot from the ranch house at five minutes past eleven, found my quail
within a quarter mile, had luck in scattering them, secured my limit of
twenty-five, and was back at the house at twelve twenty-five! Before
this I had been to drive with Mrs. Kitty; and after lunch we drove
twelve miles to call on a neighbour. Although I had enjoyed a full day's
quail shoot, it had been, as it were, merely an interpolation.

Occasionally, however, it was elected to make a grand and formal raid on
the game. This could be either a get-up-early-in-the-morning session in
the blinds, a formal quail hunt, or the Grand Tour.

To take the Grand Tour we got out the Liver Invigorator and as many
saddle horses as might be needed to accommodate the shooters. On
reaching the hog field it was proper to disembark, and to line up for an
advance on the corner of the irrigation ditch where I had so
unexpectedly jumped the ducks my first morning on the ranch. In extended
order we approached. If ducks were there, they got a great hammering.
Everybody shot joyously--whether in sure range or not, it must be
confessed. The birds went into a common bag, for it would be impossible
to say who had killed what. After congratulations and reproaches, both
of which might be looked upon as sacrifices to the great god Josh, we
swung to the left and tramped a half mile to the artesian well. The
Invigorator and saddle horses followed at a respectful distance. When we
had investigated the chances at the well, we climbed aboard again and
rattlety-banged across country to the Slough.

The Slough comprised a wide and varied country. In proper application it
was a little winding ravine sunk eight or ten feet below the flat plain,
and filled with water. This water had been grown thick with trees, but
occasionally, for some reason to me unknown, the growth gave space for
tiny open ponds or channels. These were further screened by occasional
willows or greasewood growing on the banks. They were famous loafing
places for mallards.

It was great fun to slip from bend to bend of the Slough, peering
keenly, moving softly, trying to spy through the thick growth to a
glimpse of the clear water. The ducks were very wary. It was necessary
to know the exact location of each piece of open water, its
surroundings, and how best it was to be approached. Only too often, peer
as cautiously as we might, the wily old mallards would catch a glimpse
of some slight motion. At once they would begin to swim back and forth
uneasily. Always then we would withdraw cautiously, hoping against hope
that suspicion would die. It never did. Our stalk would disclose to us
only a troubled surface of water on which floated lightly a half dozen
feathers.

But when things went right we had a beautiful shot. The ducks towered
straight up, trying to get above the level of the brush, affording a
shot at twenty-five or thirty yards' range. We always tried to avoid
shooting at the same bird, but did not always succeed. Old Ben delighted
in this work, for now he had a chance to plunge in after the fallen. As
a matter of fact, it would have been quite useless to shoot ducks in
these circumstances had we not possessed a good retriever like Old Ben.

The Slough proper was about two miles long, and had probably eight or
ten "holes" in which ducks might be expected. The region of the Slough
was, however, a different matter.

It was a fascinating stretch of country, partly marshy, partly dry, but
all of it overgrown with tall and rustling tules. These reeds were
sometimes so dense that one could not force his way through them; at
others so low and thin that they barely made good quail cover. Almost
everywhere a team could be driven; and yet there were soft places and
water channels and pond holes in which a horse would bog down
hopelessly. From a point on the main north-and-south ditch a man afoot
left the bank to plunge directly into a jungle of reeds ten feet tall.
Through them narrow passages led him winding and twisting and doubting
in a labyrinth. He waded in knee-deep water, but confidently, for he
knew the bottom to be solid beneath his feet. On either side, fairly
touching his elbows, the reeds stood tall and dense, so that it seemed
to him that he walked down a narrow and winding hallway. And every once
in a while the hallway debouched into a secret shallow pond lying in the
middle of the tule jungle in which might or might not be ducks. If there
were ducks, it behooved him to shoot very, very quickly, for those that
fell in the tules were probably not to be recovered. Then more narrow
passages led to other ponds.

Always the footing was good, so that a man could strike forward
confidently. But again there are other places in the Slough region where
one has to walk for half a mile to pass a miserable little trickle only
just too wide to step across. The watercress grows thick against either
oozy bank, leaving a clear of only a foot. Yet it is bottomless.

The Captain knew this region thoroughly, and drove in it by landmarks of
his own. After many visits I myself got to know the leading "points of
interest" and how to get to them by a set route; but their relations one
to another have always remained a little vague.

For instance, there was an earthen reservoir comprising two circular
connecting ponds, elevated slightly above the surrounding flats, so that
a man ascended an incline to stand on its banks. One half of this
reservoir is bordered thickly by tules; but the other half is without
growth. We left the Invigorator at some hundreds of yards distance; and,
single file, followed the Captain. We stopped when he did, crawled when
he did, watched to see what dry and rustling footing he avoided, every
sense alert to play accurately this unique game of "follow my leader."
He alone kept watch of the cover, the game, and the plan of attack. We
were like the tail of a snake, merely following where the head directed.
This was not because the Captain was so much more expert than ourselves,
but so as to concentrate the chances of remaining undiscovered. If each
of us had worked out his own stalk we should have multiplied the chances
of alarming the game; we should have created the necessity for signals;
and we should have had the greatest difficulty in synchronizing our
arrival at the shooting point. We moved a step at a time, feeling
circumspectly before resting our weight. At the last moment the Captain
motioned with his hand. Wriggling forward, we came into line. Then, very
cautiously, we crawled up the bank of the reservoir and peered over!
That was the supreme moment! The wildfowl might arise in countless
numbers; in which case we shot as carefully and as quickly as possible,
reloading and squatting motionless in the almost certain hope of a
long-range shot or so at a straggler as the main body swung back over
us. Or, again, our eager eyes were quite likely to rest upon nothing but
a family party of mud-hens gossiping sociably.

Just beyond the reservoir on the other side was an overflowed small
flat. It was simply hummocky solid ground with a little green grass and
some water. Behind the hummocks, even after a cannonade at the
reservoir, we were almost certain to jump two or three single spoonbills
or teal. Why they stayed there, I could not tell you; but stay they
did. We walked them up one at a time, as we would quail. The range was
long. Sometimes we got them; and sometimes we did not.

From the reservoir we drove out into the illimitable tules. The horses
went forward steadily, breasting the rustling growth. Behind them the
Invigorator rocked and swayed like a small boat in a tide rip. We stayed
in as best we could, our guns bristling up in all directions. The
Captain drove from a knowledge of his own. After some time, across the
yellow, waving expanse of the rushes, we made out a small dead willow
stub slanted rakishly. At sight of this we came to a halt. Just beyond
that stub lay a denser thicket of tules, and in the middle of them was
known to be a patch of open water about twenty feet across. There was
not much to it; but invariably a small bunch of fat old greenheads were
loafing in the sun.

It now became, not a question of game, for it was always there, but a
question of getting near enough to shoot. To be sure, the tiny pond was
so well covered that a stranger to the country would actually be unaware
of its existence until he broke through the last barrier of tules; but,
by the same token, that cover was the noisiest cover invented for the
protection of ducks. Often and often, when still sixty or seventy yards
distant, we heard the derisive _quack_, _quack_, _quack_, with which a
mallard always takes wing, and, a moment later, would see those wily
birds rising above the horizon. A false step meant a crackle; a stumble
meant a crash. We fairly wormed our way in by inches. Each yard gained
was a triumph. When, finally, after a half hour of Indian work, we had
managed to line up ready for the shot, we felt that we had really a few
congratulations coming. We knew that within fifteen or twenty feet
floated the wariest of feathered game; and _absolutely unconscious of
our presence_.

"Now!" the Captain remarked, aloud, in conversational tones.

We stood up, guns at present. The Captain's command was answered by the
instant beat of wings and the confused quicker calling of alarm. In the
briefest fraction of a second the ducks appeared above the tules. They
had to tower straight up, for the pond was too small and the reeds too
high to permit of any sneaking away. So close were they that we could
see the markings of every feather--the iridescence of the heads, the
delicate, wave-marked cinnamons and grays and browns, even the absurd
little curled plumes over the tails. The guns cracked merrily, the
shooters aiming at the up-stretched necks. Down came the quarry with
mighty splashes that threw the water high. The remnant of the flock
swung away. We stood upright and laughed and joked and exulted after the
long strain of our stalk. Ben plunged in again and again, bringing out
the game.

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