136 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
rose only thirty feet away and zizzagged off. I cut him 
down. Turning to G. Dan I said: 
‘‘Pretty good double that, eh?”’ 
‘‘Fine,’”’ said G. Dan. 
A little farther on a whisp of five snipe got up together 
and darted off, twisting and turning. One came out 
on my side and I fired and downed him. I heard 
G. Dan’s pump go bang! bang! bang! as fast as you 
are reading it. I glanced round and saw three snipe 
falling in the air and as I looked the fourth bird doubled 
up and collapsed. 
“I’m going to sell this pump gun,’’ remarked G. 
Dan, ‘‘and go back to the double barrel. The pump 
gun is too murderous.” 
I made no further remarks about my snipe shooting. 
Fifteen years ago the Indian Territory was a very 
different shooting proposition to what it isto-day. The 
entire settlement near the beautiful Grand River was 
surrounded by Indian farmers. Fortunately for the 
quail they farmed but little of the land; the rest was 
high fence corners and a wilderness of brambles and 
shelter. The quail harvest was sown with lavish hand. 
The Indian boys trapped them sometimes but quail were 
too small game for the warriors to bother with. Shooters 
from the village used occasionally to drive out along 
the road and try to get what they called ‘‘a mess of 
quail.’’ Late in the afternoon of Sunday, the day of 
my arrival, I was sitting on the fence, smoking, when a 
party of village shooters stopped their surrey and a 
pleasant voice said: 
‘‘Can you spare a few matches?” I could, and then 
asked: 
‘‘What luck did you have to-day with the quail?” 
‘“‘Oh,”’ he replied, ‘‘fair, about a bushel.” 
