SEPTEMBER, 1917 
FOREST AND STREAM 
399 
John, beat it out with all the abandon of 
fast, wide-going dogs, that had been con¬ 
fined in a crate for three long days of 
travel. 
“They sure go like all fire!” remarked 
the Kansas, “even if they have never seen 
a chicken before.” That their experience 
on game had not previously included 
chickens worried Ray in no little manner, 
for he had continually referred to it dur¬ 
ing the entire trip, and had already twice 
that day refreshed my mind on the sub¬ 
ject. 
“Yes,” I agreed, “but don’t get the fid¬ 
gets until you see how they perform on 
the first flock.” 
Into the drooping golden rod banged 
the dogs, John, the son, starting to draw 
first in an unseemly cringing way, as 
though afraid of loosing something, finally 
landing a point, high-headed against the 
wind. His fast sire dashed up instantly 
back of him. He appeared to discover 
nothing of interest in the golden rod, and 
deliberately blundered into the midst of a 
big flock of chickens. The birds flushed 
wild, scattering in a wide draw a mile 
ahead of us. 
Ray fingered his twenty 
affectionately as he gazed at 
the dropping flock. His eyes 
lingered kindly on the, young 
dog, but soon gained a severe 
glint as they rested on Master. 
“Old Top,” he predicted, 
“you had better watch out or 
that rangy pup of yours is go¬ 
ing to make you look foolish!” 
“It looks like it already, 
doesn’t it?” I joined in, 
touched a little on my sensitive 
spot, old Master, which I had 
always regarded as impeccable. 
But so far the scent of those 
chickens had brought not the 
slightest recognition from his 
nose. 
We walked quickly down 
into the draw, the driver wait¬ 
ing half asleep on the hill. 
Master cast down wide to the 
right. John proceeded direct 
for the center of the draw. 
Master promptly roaded a sin¬ 
gle. It ran, then flushed.. We 
followed him with our eyes 
while he forged on. We caught sight of 
John pointing again. Master recognized 
the act, came within twenty feet of him 
and backed. The old campaigner was still 
puzzled, and very excited to crowd the 
point. Plentiful use of the whistle cau¬ 
tioned him into stopping where he was. 
Fifteen yards in advance, and to Ray’s 
side, a big old hen spewed out of the 
bunch grass, towering immediately, whip¬ 
ping with all her might to the left of him. 
That little twenty pitched her on her back 
into the grass. 
Two birds flushed wild. Master drew, 
then swinging into his old method of 
handling a running covey of quails on bare 
ground, he pointed. I was interested in 
his act. John was retrieving Ray’s bird. 
At twenty yards I clipped a few feathers 
from the chicken, but it continued flying 
no worse for my shot. 
John grabbed another single. It was my 
good fortune to kill it, and Ray effected a 
pretty double over the old dog, who finally 
discovered that the problem of chickens 
was possible of easy solution merely by 
change of tactics. When the tall Kansas 
shot, the balance of the birds flew over a 
rise to his left where further sight of them 
was not to be had. 
“I am glad,” observed Ray, “that the 
balance got away.” 
“Why,” I said inquisitively, “don’t you 
want a big bag?” 
“Yes,”’ he replied, “I want my fair 
amount of kills, like the other fellow, but 
still—” 
“Still what?” I tried to hasten. 
“I dread the repetition of the crime we 
have all been so guilty of—the continuous 
following of scattered birds, until we kill 
them all out. The accepted authorities on 
pinnated and sharp tailed grouse have 
been perverse in their adherence to their one 
theory that modern farming is the reason 
of their extermination in many places. It 
is true. But they have given little con¬ 
sideration to the deplorable practice in the 
open countries of sportsmen following a 
flock of chickens until the last one has 
been shot.” 
“And that is the unpardonable sin,” I 
added, “that has been committed by sports¬ 
men, not only on chickens but—” 
“On quails,” he said. “Come on before 
we stand here talking, and get cold again. ’ 
In a rolling prairie north of the Platte 
we cast the dogs. Another mile found 
the old-timer on game, John falling in with 
a pretty acknowledgment of the point. 
The chickens ran in the short grass and 
flushed wild. But a belated single in 
some manner separated herself from the 
main body, and pounded in to us at a fast 
incoming clip. It was a question as to 
whom the shot belonged. Both of us, how¬ 
ever, working on the old adage, when in 
doubt go ahead, fired. The sound of the 
twenties could not be distinguished, as the 
old cock crumpled up, and dropped dead 
in the red-tinted short grass. 
“A twenty is the only thing for chick¬ 
ens,” I averred. “It is sportsmanlike; kills 
them cleanly with its proper dose of num¬ 
ber seven chilled shot, and it assists much 
in game conservation.” 
Ray smiled quizzically. “Generally you 
get the legal limit on quails and other 
game with your twenty, don’t you?” 
“Sure,” I responded, quite proud of the 
fact that I could accomplish something 
with the small arm. 
“There’s where you and I are one. But 
how does a twenty save game? We de¬ 
light to boast of our kills with twenty 
gauges, for we are somewhat conceited 
from the fact that we kill with a smaller 
though easier to align gun. Then the 
other fellow is sure we must be good 
shots—and we like him to think so, too. 
But when it comes down to them as game 
protectors, I can’t tell the difference for 
the life of me between fifteen birds killed 
in a day by a twelve or a twenty. But, 
ah, there’s those two black and whites 
frozen stiff in that narrow wash between 
the hills!” 
This was a much larger flock of chick¬ 
ens than the first. They were almost as 
close-lying as quails. But their flight puz¬ 
zled somewhat, many birds starting off like 
jumping mallards, and others going away 
low and straightaway. Later they scattered 
nicely into a draw that merged with the 
river valley. The shooting was excellent. 
What birds layed to the dogs were hard 
fliers, though most of the number had 
found refuge across the river. 
“Here we are!” remarked Ray after 
lunch, as we hugged the long river flat. 
“Those birds have been shot at consider¬ 
ably, yet they stick pretty well to the 
dogs’ points. That bunch is scattered 
somewhere in these cottonwoods.” 
A big flock had flushed from some un¬ 
known cause from the side of a sandhill 
that had a trifle of cover along one of 
the washouts. 
“And,” I later put in, “its going to be 
no joke shooting them.” I eyed the briar 
growths and interminglings of willows and 
giant weeds apprehensively. 
“Something like your southern shooting, 
eh? Where’s the dogs?” 
Nowhere were the dogs visible. We 
Masters of the Pinnated Grouse 
