“We have a covey pointed,” my friend, Michael said, as he nodded toward the South Texas oak mott. One of the ranch’s dog handlers sat high upon his horse with a raised flag. The truck eased off the sand track, and crept slowly across the field. From our elevated seats behind the cab we could easily see the two pointers; one was twisted around like a pretzel, his head low to the ground, body quivering. A few yards to the right, his partner backed. Both of their whip-like tails were bloody from prickly pear and blackberry brambles.
The dog handler eased himself off his mount and steadied it as the truck rolled to a stop. We climbed down, and as we closed the distance to the pointers, I slipped two shells into my gun. The dog closest to us, the one backing, flinched when the double gun closed with a faint “snick”. The sound, both pleasant and familiar, cleared my head and transported me back to my first quail hunt.
Where I grew up, a boy’s first quail hunt was a rite of passage, a tentative first step into manhood. Those first steps occurred on a bright November morning 45 years ago when my father and I walked across a cousin’s meadow, toward a fence line, over grown with Osage orange.
Along the way my father showed me where coveys of bobwhite quail might be found, and explained how they’d flush when we walked them up. More importantly, he explained how important it was for a man not to lose his cool during a hunt, and forget where his hunting partner was… even if his gun was unloaded.
It was the first time he’d referred to me as a man, and I smiled inwardly. I knew I was being tested of course, that I would earn the privilege of carrying a loaded shotgun only after I had proved myself to be a safe partner.
“Shouldn’t we have a dog to hunt quail?” I asked.
“It would be best,” he said. Then he told me about the bird dogs he’d trained, the good and the mediocre; he’d loved them all, loved to watch them in the field.
“When the time is right,” he told me, “I’ll help you train your own.”
Ahead, an ancient and twisted Osage orange tree grew around the rusted barbed wire. “Let’s cross here,” he said, indicating to a low spot where the wire sagged. “You go first.”
I opened the single shot 20-gauge and handed it to him… so far, so good. Then, I carefully pushed the top wire down, straddled it, and crossed over. My father opened the action on his pump gun, and handed both firearms to me, one at a time, before easing over himself. “Well,” he said, “that’s how it’s supposed to be done. The real test is when you’re alone, and in a hurry. Now, let’s find some birds.”
We walked down a rise, into a shallow bowl, where the broom sedge thickened and some brush had been piled. The low morning sun had just reached the place, and the frost on the grass glistened, gold on shadows of cobalt blue. “Get ready,” he said. Sensing game, his manner had become all business. A cottontail bounced from its hide.
“Git ‘em!” I yelled, looking from the rabbit to my father, who hadn’t moved.
“He’s gonna git away!”
My father held tight, as the bounding cottontail reached the safety of the brush pile. When it did a covey of quail exploded around me.
“AHHHG!” I screamed.
The birds exploded in every direction, but most strung out, low over the rusty orange sedge, buzzing off toward the fence line we’d just crossed, and the safety of the wood lot beyond.
My father swung the shotgun to his shoulder and shot in one fluid and seemingly effortless motion. The 16-gauge barked twice, so quickly that I couldn’t have blinked between shots, and two birds tumbled out of the sky. As the survivors banked and headed towards the woods, a lone straggler flushed from between us and whirred away. My father waited for what seemed like an eternity before shouldering the gun and killing the bird.
The bunny, nervous from all the commotion, broke from cover and bounded for a dry creek bed. I looked expectantly at my father.
“That’s it,” he laughed, “the gun’s empty.”
“Wowwww!” I said, after whistling through my teeth.
We retrieved the first two quail, and then followed the staccato drumbeat of the third bird’s wings to find him lying on his back under the fence line. I picked up the last bobwhite and held it in the palm of my hand, admiring it for a second or two, before arranging them all on a fence rail. They were perfect.
After placing the birds carefully into my hunting coat, I walked to where my father had stood, found the three paper hulls, and breathed deeply from each before I stuffed them, like treasure, into my pants pocket.
Michael’s voice brought me back to the present. “Easy now…steady,” he said gently to the dogs, and the covey erupted. Without a conscious thought the double gun flew to my shoulder and barked, and the bird I was watching folded.
“The way you shoot a double,” my father had counseled me, “is to pick one bird and kill it cleanly. Then, you just do it again.”
I smiled at the memory of him as the second bird fell. Then, I opened my gun, and as is my habit, I picked up the empty hulls and breathed deeply from each before I put them in my pocket.
