138 ‘COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
ing team and he had four dogs, two for morning and 
two for afternoon work. The dogs were fastened and 
kept apart in the wagon by a simple device—two feet 
of clothesline, a small round hole in the wagon bed, 
a knot at one end of the clothesline under the wagon 
bed, a harness snap on the other, and the dog with the 
spring snapped on his collar was safely in place to stay. 
The land was all owned by Indians. Before going on 
a man’s farm we would drive to his house and after 
showing the ‘‘chief’’—all Indians are chief’s when you 
want to shoot over their land—the head chief’s permit 
to shoot in the Territory and presenting him with a 
cigar or two and something in the money line, anywhere 
from two bits to a dollar, he would grant permission to 
shoot on his farm for the day. On one occasion the 
cigars were taken but the dollar was scornfully refused. 
We were allowed to shoot and there certainly were 
plenty of quail, they buzzed about like bees. Before 
going home I called again on the chief. He was seated 
in the same rocking chair under the same tree as in the 
morning and apparently had been doing just about 
nothing all day. We had shot thirty quail and desired 
to show our appreciation of his kindness in allowing us 
to shoot. I walked over to him, bowed, and offered him 
a dozen quail. He looked at the quail and then at me 
and grunted out: 
‘‘VYou skin ’um, me eat ’um.’”’ 
The days were short in late November. We would 
get a daylight start and get home after dark. The best 
shooting was across the beautiful Grand River. It was 
the only wild river I ever made good friends with. I 
had a strange feeling that I had known the river long 
ago. Even the skyline of the distant hills seemed 
familiar. 
