132 WILDFOWL SHOOTING IN THE WESTERN STATES. 



the greater part of the payment was to be taken from 

 the results, we closed with him. 



Next day we returned soon after noon. With us 

 we brought a good supply of Bourbon, and were ex- 

 tremely liberal in dispensing it. The first glass had 

 a visible effect upon our host, the second improved 

 him further, but after he had imbibed a third, we 

 spoke to and of him as " the old gentleman/' Some 

 might have taken this as a doubtful compliment ; 

 however he did not, and appreciated it in no sinister 

 manner, as some thin-skinned people might have 

 done. 



About a mile from his tumble-down old caboose 

 our guide and mentor pointed out a sheet of water, 

 addled and feather strewn by the wildfowl that fre- 

 quented it. Near by was a grass knowe, on which 

 he pegged out his decoys, there being a distance of a 

 few yards between each bird. This important 

 business performed, he placed my friend among some 

 dwarf persimmon bushes, and myself behind a clump 

 of reeds. This done to his satisfaction, the fine old 

 fellow mounted his venerable moke (it might have 

 been Balaam's ass), and told us to look out for the 

 game as soon as we heard him shoot. 



I had forgotten to say that this grand old sport 

 had brought a gun with him, quite his coeval. It 

 had gone through many mutations in time, for it bore 

 unquestionable evidence that in its early existence it 

 had rejoiced in flint and steel ignition. As our new 

 acquaintance departed to perform his self-imposed 

 task, an onlooker would have sworn that he gazed 

 upon one of Fenimore Cooper's heroes returned from 

 the unknown, yet, if I mistake not, very densely 

 populated land. 



The hero that Joe Jefferson so inimitably repre- 

 sented, and Washington Irving created seemed to be 

 before me, while in the dim distance beyond I could 

 almost vow that I saw dog Snider, Sleepy Hollow, 



