Wildfowling Below Sea Level 
Where Wildfowl in Myriads Harass the Farmers 
and are Regarded as a Nuisance 
[By ALLEN KELLY 
T HIRTY fathoms below the level of the 
sea, two men in a boat sat in the dark 
with guns in hand. One of them laid 
down his gun, filled a pipe and struck a match. 
As he cupped his hand to shelter the flame and 
was about to bring the match over the pipe 
bowl, the other man spoke sharply, “Look out! 
Tc your left!” 
The match dropped, the man seized his gun 
and swung to the left, and then he laughed 
quietly. “Too close and too fast. That was a 
teal, and he was sure going somewhere. Would 
have hit me in the head if he hadn’t swerved. 
Not much chance to get one of those advance 
scouts of the flight when he pops out of the 
dark and passes like he was shot out of a gun.” 
“I wonder how fast he was going. Looked 
to me as if he was beating Clarkson’s hottest 
ball over the plate, and I’ll swear he was mak¬ 
ing better time than the fastest limited train. 
When there is a bit of light so I can see more 
than five yards, I’m going to swing on one of 
those feathered projectiles with this twenty- 
bore, and see what happens.” 
“If anything happens except a noise it’ll be 
a scratch—and rotten bad luck for the teal.” 
“Watch my smoke then. There’s a streak 
of light in the east, and they’ll be moving soon.” 
Just above the eastern horizon line, a faint 
glimmer of pale red showed through the dark 
strata of cloud lying over the Picacho, and a 
whisper of wind ran through the rustling tules 
in which the boat was concealed. The men 
stood up, their shoulders level with the tops of 
the tules, and faced the east, looking up the 
river, alert and intent, with guns at the “ready.” 
A small black spot suddenly darted across the 
light, the twenty-bore went swiftly to the 
shoulder and instantly cracked, swinging to the 
left, and a second later there was a splash in 
the water behind the tules. 
“Hear that?” asked the one who had fired. 
“I seem to have made a noise like a man killing 
a teal.” 
“Queer how bad luck comes to some birds. 
T-iet he was out of sight when you fired.” 
“You win. I swung where he was going; 
pure snap. But listen!” 
A sound like that of wind in the tops of 
forest trees came out of the east, passed over¬ 
head and died away down the river. It seemed 
tc be made by something passing low and near, 
but the men could see nothing above their 
heads in the dark gray sky. 
“Mallards going to Salton Sea; not flying 
high, either. I wonder if the night flight of 
ducks isn’t the simple explanation of old super¬ 
stitions about the passing of the death angel, 
the riding of witches through the air and the 
THE SALTON SEA, WHOSE SURFACE IS FAR BELOW 
THE LEVEL OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 
like. It is uncanny to hear those rushing wings, 
seemingly so close, and to see nothing passing 
overhead.” 
“And when you do see anything,” said the 
other, “it is a bunch of gray ghosts.” 
The rosy glow of dawn now flushed all the 
eastern sky, and the pale gray light of morning 
began to suffuse the air and give credible shape 
to formless blots of shadow that might have 
been anything but clumps of tules in the over¬ 
flow of the Alamo between vertical banks mark¬ 
ing the path of the Colorado’s flood, when it 
left its channel and rushed madly down the 
steep places into Salton Sea. 
Here a shallow arroyo in the desert plain had 
been cut by the runaway river fifty feet deep 
and a mile wide, and through the flat, swampy 
bottom winds the Alamo, carrying the waste 
waters of Imperial Valley’s irrigation canals. 
Tules, grasses, wild rice and willows have 
sprung up in the fertile silt, and here the 
wildfowl find lagoons, pools and sheltered ponds 
in which to rest after nights spent in devastat¬ 
ing the barley fields of desert farmers. 
Upon a bench under the bank left by the 
flood, the El Centro Gun Club has pitched its 
winter camp, and on the flats and on points that 
jut into and across the general trend of the 
river, the members get under the flight of ducks 
that passes back and forth between the region 
of farms and the Salton Sea. Up river in the 
evening and down stream in the morning the 
ducks pass in squadrons, regiments, brigades, 
corps—thousands upon thousands. 
The men in the boat waited and watched, and 
presently a long, dark line showed against the 
morning sky. It seemed at first a thin streak 
of cloud, but it moved steadily and rapidly, and 
it grew more distinct as the seconds passed. 
“Look there,” murmered one, almost in awe. 
“That cloud is a band of ducks. I didn’t know 
there were so many ducks in the world.” 
The advancing cloud grew blacker and more 
distinct, and as it approached it was seen to be 
a series of ranks like those of an army, ac¬ 
curately aligned and dressed, with diagonal lines 
here and there between the ranks, something 
like the meshes of a net. It came swiftly, and 
the sound of rushing wings preceded it by a 
mile or more. The flight passed high overhead, 
out of rifle-shot apparently. The right wing 
of the army seemed to be about a mile to 
the north of the river bank. The left wing was 
so far to the south that it simply faded from 
sight. Five miles of the front, perhaps, could 
be discerned. The numbers of that army could 
not even be guessed. A little interlacing band 
between the ranks, partly counted and the rest 
estimated in blocks by the eye, figured up about 
500 , and that was only a corporal’s squad. 
Rank after rank the army swept on to the 
northwest, and then for a space the sky was 
empty. 
“Here comes a band of widgeon flying low. 
Get ready.” 
The two men stooped below the level of the 
tules and waited. A band of perhaps a hun¬ 
dred widgeon, their wings whistling, came al¬ 
most directly toward them, swerved a little and 
mounted almost out of range. The men arose 
and fired and two birds came tumbling out of 
the sky. Two lucky shots. One of the victims 
was two yards behind the bird the gunner meant 
to hit. 
With the coming up of the sun the flight of 
smaller bands began, and the guns were kept 
busy for half an hour. Thousands passed high 
out of range, but to the right and left and 
straight ahead streamed sprigs, teal, spoonbills 
and mallards, flying low and offering all the 
shots the greediest gunner could ask. It was 
quick, difficult shooting, for the birds were usu¬ 
ally flying at full speed, not “setting up” to 
