
IME was, when the general im- 
pression prevailed throughout the 
Mississippi Valley that the 
grouse, and its smooth-legged cousin, 
the prairie chicken, were almost as 
rare as the dodo, but, thanks to intelli- 
gent conservation, and a few mild 
winters, these delectable feathered 
bipeds are again on the “hope list” of 
the ambitious sportsman of the Middle 
West. 
The season is short, and the restric- 
tions severe in some of the States, par- 
ticularly Kansas, but in others, as 
Nebraska, the ethical grouse hunter is 
not only welcomed, but every facility 
provided for his entertainment and 
enjoyment. 
Up in Northwestern Nebraska, along 
the middle fork of the Loup, and the 
Big and Little Dismal, the cowboy still 
reigns supreme, and it is here that one 
can still get a taste of the old West. 
The ranches are large, and the little 
villages few and far between. The 
endless sand hills, like huge African 
kopjes, extend far away beyond the 
horizon, and many of the valleys, popu- 
lated by white faced cattle, serve as 
settings for clear, cold, fresh water 
lakes. By the time the grouse season 
opens, October first, the local ducks 
also are ready for the table, and, under 
the guidance of a skilled cicerone, sev- 
eral weeks of excellent mixed shooting 
can be had. 
My old friend, Ben Weber, of 
Eclipse, occupies about the same rela- 
tive position in the Nebraska grouse 
field that Jack Dempsey does among 
the knights of the squared circle, and 
when Ben writes me that the chickens 
are ripe, I usually act on that impulse. 
Grouse hunting in the sand hills is 
hard work, however, and with the pass- 
ing of the years, and the accumulation 
604 
ary 

The author with his day’s bag, shot with the twenty bore. 
of much surplus adipose tissue, I find 
that I am not as supple and as 
sprightly as I once was. We have al- 
ways made it a point of honor not to 
shoot from a car, or even from a buck- 
board, and so a fat man generally 
earns about all the game he gets. 
Perhaps it was due to the artistic 
word painting of Askins and of 
Crossman, or, possibly, it was a sub- 
conscious desire to escape some of this 
gruelling labor, but in an unguarded 
moment I cajoled myseif into the belief 
that I might use a twenty-bore to ad- 
vantage, particularly in dealing with 
upland game. So I forwarded the 
measurements to an old and dependable 
Eastern friend who is in the gun busi- 
ness, and promptly forgot all about the 
matter. Several weeks later, the gun 
arrived, and when I freed it of its oiled 
paper nightgown, it was about the 
prettiest little thing that a confirmed 
gun crank ever beheld. The barrels 
were only twenty-six inches long, and 
the weight, six pounds, so in my col- 
lection of sturdy twelve bores, it looked 
like a gold encrusted toy. But it 
handled and balanced like a real gun, 
and was as firmly and solidly con- 
structed as any of its larger brethren. 
R. M. L. BISHOFF, a former uni- 
versity classmate, and one of my 
most intimate “brother shotgun luna- 
tics,” as the wife fondly calls him, took 
charge of the newcomer for a few days, 
and targeted it for me. The patterns 
were not large—what could one expect 
from seven-eighths of an ounce of 
shot?—but. at forty yards practically 
every. pellet was accounted for within a 
thirty-six inch circle, and the penetra- 
tion, estimated: by means of some old 
medical magazines, was. excellent. 
When I wrote Ben that I was going to 
The Twenty 
Bore as a 
Grouse Gun 
The Little Arm Proves a 
Winner in the 
Nebraskan Hills 
By RICHARD L. SUTTON, M.D 
bring a twenty-gauge, he wired back, 
“Come, but for goodness’ sake, bring a 
REAL GUN.” This curt advice nettled 
me, and when I packed up my old reli- 
able twelve-bore Purdy, I just slipped 
the smaller gun in, too. The journey 
to Mullen was a comfortable and un- 
eventful one, and Ben, in a leather 
= 
jerkin, and a seven-inch Stetson, met — 
us at the train. 
USED to wonder what ever became 
of the used motor cars, after they had 
served their day 
towns. I do not wonder any more. 
They are taken into western Nebraska, 
for the ranchmen. Ben’s front yard 
resembles and automobile cemetery. A 
1907 Oldsmobile, and No. 23 of the 
original Ford (you may recall that the 
ten millionth Lizzie was recently born 
at Detroit), are the oldest in the col- 
lection, but a 1915 Dodge, a 1916 Ford 
and a 1917 Buick complete the list. 
These farmer-ranchers are for the most 
part born mechanics, and the way they 
can repair, and switch parts around on 
semi-defunct gasoline wagons, would 
give a Chicago mechanic the delirium 
tremens. Mr. Weber’s favorite is the 
antiquated Buick, an old seven pas- 
senger car with a broken down top 
which is ingeniously held in place by a 
few strands of barb wire. The brake 
bands are worn out, and when Ben 
wants to stop, he just lets her drift 
until she hits a sand bank. 
One night, the engine died just as 
we reached the summit of a high, steep 
hill. There were only five men, four 
dogs, and about a hundred ducks in | 
the car. It coasted backward for a 
distance of about five hundred. yards, 
gaining speed at every revolution of 
the wheels. The ducks were the only 
(Continued on page 633) 
in the cities and — 
SN Oe, Sa a PE te cy 

