A PIGEON HUNT
The new year dawned on Las Palomas rich in promise of future content.
Uncle Lance and I had had a long talk the evening before, and under the
reasoning of the old optimist the gloom gradually lifted from my
spirits. I was glad I had been so brutally blunt that evening,
regarding what Mrs. McLeod had said about him; for it had a tendency to
increase the rancher’s aggressiveness in my behalf. “Hell, Tom,” said
the old man, as we walked from the corrals to the house, “don’t let a
little thing like this disturb you. Of course she’ll four-flush and
bluff you if she can, but you don’t want to pay any more attention to
the old lady than if she was some _pelado_. To be sure, it would be
better to have her consent, but then”—
Glenn Gallup also arrived at the ranch on New Year’s eve. He brought
the report that wild pigeons were again roosting at the big bend of the
river. It was a well-known pigeon roost, but the birds went to other
winter feeding grounds, except during years when there was a plentiful
sweet mast. This bend was about midway between the ranch and
Shepherd’s, contained about two thousand acres, and was heavily
timbered with ash, pecan, and hackberry. The feeding grounds lay
distant, extending from the encinal ridges on the Las Palomas lands to
live-oak groves a hundred miles to the southward. But however far the
pigeons might go for food, they always returned to the roosting place
at night.
“That means pigeon pie,” said Uncle Lance, on receiving Glenn’s report.
“Everybody and the cook can go. We only have a sweet mast about every
three or four years in the encinal, but it always brings the wild
pigeons. We’ll take a couple of pack mules and the little and the big
pot and the two biggest Dutch ovens on the ranch. Oh, you got to
parboil a pigeon if you want a tender pie. Next to a fish fry, a good
pigeon pie makes the finest eating going. I’ve made many a one, and I
give notice right now that the making of the pie falls to me or I won’t
play. And another thing, not a bird shall be killed more than we can
use. Of course we’ll bring home a mess, and a few apiece for the
Mexicans.”
We had got up our horses during the forenoon, and as soon as dinner was
over the white contingent saddled up and started for the roost.
Tiburcio and Enrique accompanied us, and, riding leisurely, we reached
the bend several hours before the return of the birds. The roost had
been in use but a short time, but as we scouted through the timber
there was abundant evidence of an immense flight of pigeons. The ground
was literally covered with feathers; broken limbs hung from nearly
every tree, while in one instance a forked hackberry had split from the
weight of the birds.
We made camp on the outskirts of the timber, and at early dusk great
flocks of pigeons began to arrive at their roosting place. We only had
four shotguns, and, dividing into pairs, we entered the roost shortly
after dark. Glenn Gallup fell to me as my pardner. I carried the gunny
sack for the birds, not caring for a gun in such unfair shooting. The
flights continued to arrive for fully an hour after we entered the
roost, and in half a dozen shots we bagged over fifty birds.
Remembering the admonition of Uncle Lance, Gallup refused to kill more,
and we sat down and listened to the rumbling noises of the grove. There
was a constant chattering of the pigeons, and as they settled in great
flights in the trees overhead, whipping the branches with their wings
in search of footing, they frequently fell to the ground at our feet.
Gallup and I returned to camp early. Before we had skinned our kill the
others had all come in, disgusted with the ease with which they had
filled their bags. We soon had two pots filled and on the fire
parboiling, while Tiburcio lined two ovens with pastry, all ready for
the baking. In a short time two horsemen, attracted by our fire,
crossed the river below our camp and rode up.
“Hello, Uncle Lance,” lustily shouted one of them, as he dismounted.
“It’s you, is it, that’s shooting my pigeons? All right, sir, I’ll stay
all night and help you eat them. I had figured on riding back to the
Frio to-night, but I’ve changed my mind. Got any horse hobbles here?”
The two men, George Nathan and Hugh Trotter, were accommodated with
hobbles, and after an exchange of commonplace news of the country, we
settled down to story-telling. Trotter was a convivial acquaintance of
Aaron Scales, quite a vagabond and consequently a story-teller. After
Trotter had narrated a late dream, Scales unlimbered and told one of
his own.
“I remember a dream I had several years ago, and the only way I can
account for it was, I had been drinking more or less during the day. I
dreamt I was making a long ride across a dreary desert, and towards
night it threatened a bad storm. I began to look around for some
shelter. I could just see the tops of a clump of trees beyond a hill,
and rode hard to get to them, thinking that there might be a house
amongst them. How I did ride! But I certainly must have had a poor
horse, for I never seemed to get any nearer that timber. I rode and
rode, but all this time, hours and hours it seemed, and the storm
gathering and scattering raindrops falling, the timber seemed scarcely
any nearer.
“At last I managed to reach the crest of the hill. Well, sir, there
wasn’t a tree in sight, only, under the brow of the hill, a deserted
adobe _jacal_, and I rode for that, picketed my horse and went in. The
_jacal_ had a thatched roof with several large holes in it, and in the
fireplace burned a roaring fire. That was some strange, but I didn’t
mind it and I was warming my hands before the fire and congratulating
myself on my good luck, when a large black cat sprang from the outside
into an open window, and said: ‘Pardner, it looks like a bad night
outside.’
“I eyed him a little suspiciously; but, for all that, if he hadn’t
spoken, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, for I like cats. He
walked backward and forward on the window sill, his spine and tail
nicely arched, and rubbed himself on either window jamb. I watched him
some little time, and finally concluded to make friends with him. Going
over to the window, I put out my hand to stroke his glossy back, when a
gust of rain came through the window and the cat vanished into the
darkness.
“I went back to the fire, pitying the cat out there in the night’s
storm, and was really sorry I had disturbed him. I didn’t give the
matter overmuch attention but sat before the fire, wondering who could
have built it and listening to the rain outside, when all of a sudden
Mr. Cat walked between my legs, rubbing himself against my boots,
purring and singing. Once or twice I thought of stroking his fur, but
checked myself on remembering he had spoken to me on the window sill.
He would walk over and rub himself against the jambs of the fireplace,
and then come back and rub himself against my boots friendly like. I
saw him just as clear as I see those pots on the fire or these saddles
lying around here. I was noting every move of his as he meandered
around, when presently he cocked up an eye at me and remarked: ‘Old
sport, this is a fine fire we have here.’
“I was beginning to feel a little creepy, for I’d seen mad dogs and
skunks, and they say a cat gets locoed likewise, and the cuss was
talking so cleverly that I began to lose my regard for him. After a
little while I concluded to pet him, for he didn’t seem a bit afraid;
but as I put out my hand to catch him, he nimbly hopped into the
roaring fire and vanished. Then I did feel foolish. I had a good
six-shooter, and made up my mind if he showed up again I’d plug him one
for luck. I was growing sleepy, and it was getting late, so I concluded
to spread down my saddle blankets and slicker before the fire and go to
sleep. While I was making down my bed, I happened to look towards the
fire, when there was my black cat, with not even a hair singed. I drew
my gun quietly and cracked away at him, when he let out the funniest
little laugh, saying: ‘You’ve been drinking, Aaron; you’re nervous; you
couldn’t hit a flock of barns.’
“I was getting excited by this time, and cut loose on him rapidly, but
he dodged every shot, jumping from the hearth to the mantel, from the
mantel to an old table, from there to a niche in the wall, and from the
niche clear across the room and out of the window. About then I was
some nervous, and after a while lay down before the fire and tried to
go to sleep.
“It was a terrible night outside—one of those nights when you can hear
things; and with the vivid imagination I was enjoying then, I was
almost afraid to try to sleep. But just as I was going into a doze, I
raised up my head, and there was my cat walking up and down my frame,
his back arched and his tail flirting with the slow sinuous movement of
a snake. I reached for my gun, and as it clicked in cocking, he began
raking my legs, sharpening his claws and growling like a tiger. I gave
a yell and kicked him off, when he sprang up on the old table and I
could see his eyes glaring at me. I emptied my gun at him a second
time, and at every shot he crouched lower and crept forward as if
getting ready to spring. When I had fired the last shot I jumped up and
ran out into the rain, and hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before
I fell into a dry wash. When I crawled out there was that d——d cat
rubbing himself against my boot leg. I stood breathless for a minute,
thinking what next to do, and the cat remarked: ‘Wasn’t that a peach of
a race we just had!’
“I made one or two vicious kicks at him and he again vanished. Well,
fellows, in that dream I walked around that old _jacal_ all night in my
shirt sleeves, and it raining pitchforks. A number of times I peeped in
through the window or door, and there sat the cat on the hearth, in
full possession of the shack, and me out in the weather. Once when I
looked in he was missing, but while I was watching he sprang through a
hole in the roof, alighting in the fire, from which he walked out
gingerly, shaking his feet as if he had just been out in the wet. I
shot away every cartridge I had at him, but in the middle of the
shooting he would just coil up before the fire and snooze away.
“That night was an eternity of torment to me, and I was relieved when
some one knocked on the door, and I awoke to find myself in a good bed
and pounding my ear on a goose-hair pillow in a hotel in Oakville. Why,
I wouldn’t have another dream like that for a half interest in the Las
Palomas brand. No, honest, if I thought drinking gave me that hideous
dream, here would be one lad ripe for reform.”
“It strikes me,” said Uncle Lance, rising and lifting a pot lid, “that
these birds are parboiled by this time. Bring me a fork, Enrique. Well,
I should say they were. I hope hell ain’t any hotter than that fire.
Now, Tiburcio, if you have everything ready, we’ll put them in the
oven, and bake them a couple of hours.”
Several of us assisted in fixing the fire and properly coaling the
ovens. When this had been attended to, and we had again resumed our
easy positions around the fire, Trotter remarked: “Aaron, you ought to
cut drinking out of your amusements; you haven’t the constitution to
stand it. Now with me it’s different. I can drink a week and never
sleep; that’s the kind of a build to have if you expect to travel and
meet all comers. Last year I was working for a Kansas City man on the
trail, and after the cattle were delivered about a hundred miles
beyond,—Ellsworth, up in Kansas,—he sent us home by way of Kansas City.
In fact, that was about the only route we could take. Well, it was a
successful trip, and as this man was plum white, anyhow, he concluded
to show us the sights around his burg. He was interested in a
commission firm out at the stockyards, and the night we reached there
all the office men, including the old man himself, turned themselves
loose to show us a good time.
“We had been drinking alkali water all summer, and along about midnight
they began to drop out until there was no one left to face the music
except a little cattle salesman and myself. After all the others quit
us, we went into a feed trough on a back street, and had a good supper.
I had been drinking everything like a good fellow, and at several
places there was no salt to put in the beer. The idea struck me that I
would buy a sack of salt from this eating ranch and take it with me.
The landlord gave me a funny look, but after some little parley went to
the rear and brought out a five-pound sack of table salt.
“It was just what I wanted, and after paying for it the salesman and I
started out to make a night of it. This yard man was a short, fat
Dutchman, and we made a team for your whiskers. I carried the sack of
salt under my arm, and the quantity of beer we killed before daylight
was a caution. About daybreak, the salesman wanted me to go to our
hotel and go to bed, but as I never drink and sleep at the same time, I
declined. Finally he explained to me that he would have to be at the
yards at eight o’clock, and begged me to excuse him. By this time he
was several sheets in the wind, while I could walk a chalk line without
a waver. Somehow we drifted around to the hotel where the outfit were
supposed to be stopping, and lined up at the bar for a final drink. It
was just daybreak, and between that Dutch cattle salesman and the
barkeeper and myself, it would have taken a bookkeeper to have kept a
check on the drinks we consumed—every one the last.
“Then the Dutchman gave me the slip and was gone, and I wandered into
the office of the hotel. A newsboy sold me a paper, and the next minute
a bootblack wanted to give me a shine. Well, I took a seat for a shine,
and for two hours I sat there as full as a tick, and as dignified as a
judge on the bench. All the newsboys and bootblacks caught on, and
before any of the outfit showed up that morning to rescue me, I had
bought a dozen papers and had my boots shined for the tenth time. If
I’d been foxy enough to have got rid of that sack of salt, no one could
have told I was off the reservation; but there it was under my arm. If
ever I make another trip over the trail, and touch at Kansas City
returning, I’ll hunt up that cattle salesman, for he’s the only man I
ever met that can pace in my class.”
“Did you hear that tree break a few minutes ago?” inquired Mr. Nathan.
“There goes another one. It hardly looks possible that enough pigeons
could settle on a tree to break it down. Honestly, I’d give a purty to
know how many birds are in that roost to-night. More than there are
cattle in Texas, I’ll bet. Why, Hugh killed, with both barrels,
twenty-two at one shot.”
We had brought blankets along, but it was early and no one thought of
sleeping for an hour yet. Mr. Nathan was quite a sportsman, and after
he and Uncle Lance had discussed the safest method of hunting
_javalina_, it again devolved on the boys to entertain the party with
stories.
“I was working on a ranch once,” said Glenn Gallup, “out on the Concho
River. It was a stag outfit, there being few women then out Concho way.
One day two of the boys were riding in home when an accident occurred.
They had been shooting more or less during the morning, and one of
them, named Bill Cook, had carelessly left the hammer of his
six-shooter on a cartridge. As Bill jumped his horse over a dry
_arroyo_, his pistol was thrown from its holster, and, falling on the
hard ground, was discharged. The bullet struck him in the ankle, ranged
upward, shattering the large bone in his leg into fragments, and
finally lodged in the saddle.
“They were about five miles from camp when the accident happened. After
they realized how bad he was hurt, Bill remounted his horse and rode
nearly a mile; but the wound bled so then that the fellow with him
insisted on his getting off and lying on the ground while he went into
the ranch for a wagon. Well, it’s to be supposed that he lost no time
riding in, and I was sent to San Angelo for a doctor. It was just noon
when I got off. I had to ride thirty miles. Talk about your good
horses—I had one that day. I took a free gait from the start, but the
last ten miles was the fastest, for I covered the entire distance in
less than three hours. There was a doctor in the town who’d been on the
frontier all of his life, and was used to such calls. Well, before dark
that evening we drove into the ranch.
“They had got the lad into the ranch, had checked the flow of blood and
eased the pain by standing on a chair and pouring water on the wound
from a height. But Bill looked pale as a ghost from the loss of blood.
The doctor gave the leg a single look, and, turning to us, said: ‘Boys,
she has to come off.’
“The doctor talked to Bill freely and frankly, telling him that it was
the only chance for his life. He readily consented to the operation,
and while the doctor was getting him under the influence of opiates we
fixed up an operating table. When all was ready, the doctor took the
leg off below the knee, cursing us generally for being so sensitive to
cutting and the sight of blood. There was quite a number of boys at the
ranch, but it affected them all alike. It was interesting to watch him
cut and tie arteries and saw the bones, and I think I stood it better
than any of them. When the operation was over, we gave the fellow the
best bed the ranch afforded and fixed him up comfortable. The doctor
took the bloody stump and wrapped it up in an old newspaper, saying he
would take it home with him.
“After supper the surgeon took a sleep, saying we would start back to
town by two o’clock, so as to be there by daylight. He gave
instructions to call him in case Bill awoke, but he hoped the boy would
take a good sleep. As I had left my horse in town, I was expected to go
back with him. Shortly after midnight the fellow awoke, so we aroused
the doctor, who reported him doing well. The old Doc sat by his bed for
an hour and told him all kinds of stories. He had been a surgeon in the
Confederate army, and from the drift of his talk you’d think it was
impossible to kill a man without cutting off his head.
“‘Now take a young fellow like you,’ said the doctor to his patient,
‘if he was all shot to pieces, just so the parts would hang together, I
could fix him up and he would get well. You have no idea, son, how much
lead a young man can carry.’ We had coffee and lunch before starting,
the doctor promising to send me back at once with necessary medicines.
“We had a very pleasant trip driving back to town that night. The
stories he could tell were like a song with ninety verses, no two
alike. It was hardly daybreak when we reached San Angelo, rustled out a
sleepy hostler at the livery stable where the team belonged, and had
the horses cared for; and as we left the stable the doctor gave me his
instrument case, while he carried the amputated leg in the paper. We
both felt the need of a bracer after our night’s ride, so we looked
around to see if any saloons were open. There was only one that showed
any signs of life, and we headed for that. The doctor was in the lead
as we entered, and we both knew the barkeeper well. This barkeeper was
a practical joker himself, and he and the doctor were great hunting
companions. We walked up to the bar together, when the doctor laid the
package on the counter and asked: ‘Is this good for two drinks?’ The
barkeeper, with a look of expectation in his face as if the package
might contain half a dozen quail or some fresh fish, broke the string
and unrolled it. Without a word he walked straight from behind the bar
and out of the house. If he had been shot himself he couldn’t have
looked whiter.
“The doctor went behind the bar and said: ‘Glenn, what are you going to
take?’ ‘Let her come straight, doctor,’ was my reply, and we both took
the same. We had the house all to ourselves, and after a second round
of drinks took our leave. As we left by the front door, we saw the
barkeeper leaning against a hitching post half a block below. The
doctor called to him as we were leaving: ‘Billy, if the drinks ain’t on
you, charge them to me.’”
The moon was just rising, and at Uncle Lance’s suggestion we each
carried in a turn of wood. Piling a portion of it on the fire, the
blaze soon lighted up the camp, throwing shafts of light far into the
recesses of the woods around us. “In another hour,” said Uncle Lance,
recoaling the oven lids, “that smaller pie will be all ready to serve,
but we’ll keep the big one for breakfast. So, boys, if you want to sit
up awhile longer, we’ll have a midnight lunch, and then all turn in for
about forty winks.” As the oven lid was removed from time to time to
take note of the baking, savory odors of the pie were wafted to our
anxious nostrils. On the intimation that one oven would be ready in an
hour, not a man suggested blankets, and, taking advantage of the lull,
Theodore Quayle claimed attention.
“Another fellow and myself,” said Quayle, “were knocking around Fort
Worth one time seeing the sights. We had drunk until it didn’t taste
right any longer. This chum of mine was queer in his drinking. If he
ever got enough once, he didn’t want any more for several days: you
could cure him by offering him plenty. But with just the right amount
on board, he was a hail fellow. He was a big, ambling, awkward cuss,
who could be led into anything on a hint or suggestion. We had been
knocking around the town for a week, until there was nothing new to be
seen.
“Several times as we passed a millinery shop, kept by a little blonde,
we had seen her standing at the door. Something—it might have been his
ambling walk, but, anyway, something—about my chum amused her, for she
smiled and watched him as we passed. He never could walk along beside
you for any distance, but would trail behind and look into the windows.
He could not be hurried—not in town. I mentioned to him that he had
made a mash on the little blond milliner, and he at once insisted that
I should show her to him. We passed down on the opposite side of the
street and I pointed out the place. Then we walked by several times,
and finally passed when she was standing in the doorway talking to some
customers. As we came up he straightened himself, caught her eye, and
tipped his hat with the politeness of a dancing master. She blushed to
the roots of her hair, and he walked on very erect some little
distance, then we turned a corner and held a confab. He was for playing
the whole string, discount or no discount, anyway.
“An excuse to go in was wanting, but we thought we could invent one;
however, he needed a drink or two to facilitate his thinking and loosen
his tongue. To get them was easier than the excuse; but with the drinks
the motive was born. ‘You wait here,’ said he to me, ‘until I go round
to the livery stable and get my coat off my saddle.’ He never
encumbered himself with extra clothing. We had not seen our horses,
saddles, or any of our belongings during the week of our visit. When he
returned he inquired, ‘Do I need a shave?’
“‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘you need no shave. You may have a drink too many,
or lack one of having enough. It’s hard to make a close calculation on
you.’
“‘Then I’m all ready,’ said he, ‘for I’ve just the right gauge of
steam.’ He led the way as we entered. It was getting dark and the shop
was empty of customers. Where he ever got the manners, heaven only
knows. Once inside the door we halted, and she kept a counter between
us as she approached. She ought to have called the police and had us
run in. She was probably scared, but her voice was fairly steady as she
spoke. ‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
“‘My friend here,’ said he, with a bow and a wave of the hand, ‘was
unfortunate enough to lose a wager made between us. The terms of the
bet were that the loser was to buy a new hat for one of the dining-room
girls at our hotel. As we are leaving town to-morrow, we have just
dropped in to see if you have anything suitable. We are both totally
incompetent to decide on such a delicate matter, but we will trust
entirely to your judgment in the selection.’ The milliner was quite
collected by this time, as she asked: ‘Any particular style?—and about
what price?’
“‘The price is immaterial,’ said he disdainfully. ‘Any man who will
wager on the average weight of a train-load of cattle, his own cattle,
mind you, and miss them twenty pounds, ought to pay for his lack of
judgment. Don’t you think so, Miss—er—er. Excuse me for being unable to
call your name—but—but—’ ‘De Ment is my name,’ said she with some
little embarrassment.
“‘Livingstone is mine,’ said he with a profound bow,’ and this
gentleman is Mr. Ochiltree, youngest brother of Congressman Tom. Now
regarding the style, we will depend entirely upon your selection. But
possibly the loser is entitled to some choice in the matter. Mr.
Ochiltree, have you any preference in regard to style?’
“‘Why, no, I can generally tell whether a hat becomes a lady or not,
but as to selecting one I am at sea. We had better depend on Miss De
Ment’s judgment. Still, I always like an abundance of flowers on a
lady’s hat. Whenever a girl walks down the street ahead of me, I like
to watch the posies, grass, and buds on her hat wave and nod with the
motion of her walk. Miss De Ment, don’t you agree with me that an
abundance of flowers becomes a young lady? And this girl can’t be over
twenty.’
“‘Well, now,’ said she, going into matters in earnest, ‘I can scarcely
advise you. Is the young lady a brunette or blonde?’
“‘What difference does that make?’ he innocently asked.
“‘Oh,’ said she, smiling, ‘we must harmonize colors. What would suit
one complexion would not become another. What color is her hair?’
“‘Nearly the color of yours,’ said he. ‘Not so heavy and lacks the
natural wave which yours has—but she’s all right. She can ride a string
of my horses until they all have sore backs. I tell you she is a cute
trick. But, say, Miss De Ment, what do you think of a green hat, broad
brimmed, turned up behind and on one side, long black feathers run
round and turned up behind, with a blue bird on the other side swooping
down like a pigeon hawk, long tail feathers and an arrow in its beak?
That strikes me as about the mustard. What do you think of that kind of
a hat, dear?’
“‘Why, sir, the colors don’t harmonize,’ she replied, blushing.
“‘Theodore, do you know anything about this harmony of colors? Excuse
me, madam,—and I crave your pardon, Mr. Ochiltree, for using your given
name,—but really this harmony of colors is all French to me.’
“‘Well, if the young lady is in town, why can’t you have her drop in
and make her own selection?’ suggested the blond milliner. He studied a
moment, and then awoke as if from a trance. ‘Just as easy as not; this
very evening or in the morning. Strange we didn’t think of that sooner.
Yes; the landlady of the hotel can join us, and we can count on your
assistance in selecting the hat.’ With a number of comments on her
attractive place, inquiries regarding trade, and a flattering
compliment on having made such a charming acquaintance, we edged
towards the door. ‘This evening then, or in the morning at the
farthest, you may expect another call, when my friend must pay the
penalty of his folly by settling the bill. Put it on heavy.’ And he
gave her a parting wink.
“Together we bowed ourselves out, and once safe in the street he said:
‘Didn’t she help us out of that easy? If she wasn’t a blonde, I’d go
back and buy her two hats for suggesting it as she did.’
“‘Rather good looking too,’ I remarked.
“‘Oh, well, that’s a matter of taste. I like people with red blood in
them. Now if you was to saw her arm off, it wouldn’t bleed; just a
little white water might ooze out, possibly. The best-looking girl I
ever saw was down in the lower Rio Grande country, and she was milking
a goat. Theodore, my dear fellow, when I’m led blushingly to the altar,
you’ll be proud of my choice. I’m a judge of beauty.’”
It was after midnight when we disposed of the first oven of pigeon
pot-pie, and, wrapping ourselves in blankets, lay down around the fire.
With the first sign of dawn, we were aroused by Mr. Nathan and Uncle
Lance to witness the return flight of the birds to their feeding
grounds. Hurrying to the nearest opening, we saw the immense flight of
pigeons blackening the sky overhead. Stiffened by their night’s rest,
they flew low; but the beauty and immensity of the flight overawed us,
and we stood in mute admiration, no one firing a shot. For fully a
half-hour the flight continued, ending in a few scattering birds.