The Triggerman Dance

Then, the ground before him seemed to bunch and gather and the air above it exploded with dark shapes as the covey rose with the wooden knock of wings. Holt's heart jumped into his throat, the same way it had for the three decades he'd hunted here, no diminishment of the rush at all, a charge of purest adrenaline streaking through his body. There were ninety of them, he guessed, bringing up the gun and flicking off the safety. He picked out a large male and shot it, then another, then another. Sally jumped to the first bird while Holt stood and watched the cove bend away in front of him and toward the others, fingering three more shells into his magazine without having to look at then getting them pointed in the right direction by feeling for the brass base. Shotguns popped to his left now, as the birds accelerate across the meadow. He saw Titisi blasting away into the cove hitting nothing. Then Randell picked up a single as the birds sped toward Valerie. Holt watched her drop two, then saw her loyal little springers—Lewis and Clark—nosing their way toward the first bird. God, she's great! On the far side, Lane Fargo shot double at about sixty yards. When Holt stepped toward his dog, two stragglers came up, wings whirring, necks straining, together. He shot the male first, then rode out the hen and knocked her down just as she started her turn. He stood, marking the falls and sliding two new shells into his gun. Sally dropped the first bird at his feet, pivoted and bolted back toward the second.

The covey disappeared, almost as quickly as it had risen. Holt watched them put down mid-meadow, happy that they were still naive enough to allow a second jump. By noon, he knew, they'd be skittish, and in one week so spooked you'd have to get them the first time because there would be no second. That was when the hunting was a true challenge.

To his left, Titisi cursed and examined a handful of shells as if they were responsible for the fact that he had missed. Randell found his bird on the outskirts of a cactus patch. Lewis and Clark managed to come up with Valerie's first quail, but proceeded to fight over it, which brought Valerie bounding forth to land a boot squarely on the butt of each dog. Lane Fargo just stood there and watched, having already collected his kill. Sally, methodical as always, followed Holt's hand signals and easily found all four of his other quail. Holt picked up each one as she dropped it on his boots, felt their warmth and heft, admired the handsome plumage of the cocks and the more subtle beauty of the hens, then slipped them one at a time into the game pouch on his vest. Five birds in the first jump, he thought: it's going to be a good day.

After Holt pocketed his last bird he reached down and gave Sally a hearty "attagirl," rubbing behind her ears with his hand. She sat and looked up at him, her little stump of tail vibrating in the dirt. Before he even straightened, Sally was off again, nose down, zigging and zagging her way thirty yards ahead of him— never more—looking back every few seconds to make sure her master was paying attention. Holt shot a single that had stayed behind only to burst into the air almost at his feet. Lane Fargo did likewise, out to Holt's far left. Randell and Titisi unloaded on a pair of stragglers, hitting nothing but air. Lewis and Clark started to sprint after the flying birds, but responded nicely when Valerie called them back with her whistle. Tough to call a young dog off a bird, Holt thought, that's why a good shooter makes a good trainer. With pride he watched Valerie praise her dogs as they returned; she slipped a little something to each of them from her pocket. Holt never used food reinforcement for his dogs, but Valerie always did, and her results, he thought, were superb. He looked out to the rising sun, and breathed deeply the fine clean air of the desert. The birds in his vest were warm and heavy against his back. Sally, he thought, is probably the best dog I've ever had. Fleetingly, he remembered Patrick—how beautiful he was out here with his own dog, how gentle he was with her, and how he didn't really care if he shot ten birds or none. But he let Patrick's image flutter on past, like a quail, going out of sight. Sometimes, he reminded himself, you have to remember to forget.

By 9:30, Holt had his limit of ten quail. Valerie had nine an Lane Fargo had thirteen. They all hunted until almost eleven, giving Titisi and Randell a chance to knock a few down—which they did.

By 11:30 they had cleaned the birds, put them on ice, and loaded into the two Land Rovers for the drive into town. Holt was hungry now, and he could almost smell those burgers on the grill. Best in the desert, he thought.

"My treat at Olie's," he said, happy for the moment, glad to be thinking about nothing but birds and burgers and Valerie who sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding his hand on her lap.

CHAPTER 14