Cambers Partridge 397 



distance that is so deadly to a bit of pattern 

 paper. But it is much more likely seventy yards 

 or more, where no one but a tenderfoot would 

 think of shooting into the flock. Perhaps this is 

 on the deep bottom lands of the Colorado River, 

 where the mesquite, that on the open plain forms 

 such a light shade with its feathery foliage, is 

 massed into solid green that forms long winding 

 arcades, or stands alone in clumps of giant size 

 in a tangle of a thousand twisting arms as snaky 

 as the head of Medusa. 



Probably the flock does not deign to rise at 

 your approach, but vanishes down one of the 

 shaded aisles of the timber on the most deceptive 

 legs that ever carried a bird, and out of the 

 wagon leaps the tenderfoot to sneak upon it. 

 He keeps out of sight behind a mesquite, and 

 with determination glistening in his eye moves 

 on as rapid a walk as he can. By all means let 

 his determination glisten. You will get no shoot- 

 ing until the birds are scattered, and a dozen 

 tenderfeet in full run would only improve matters. 



By the time the tenderfoot emerges from the 

 cover where he last saw the birds he hears them 

 calling over a hundred yards away. He hastens 

 there only to find the call sounding still as far 

 ahead, if not a little more so. Nothing on the 

 ground, nothing in the trees, no sound of buzzing 

 wings or rustling feet, and even the tender 



