by Jay Cassell
So the Judge and I, in rare good humor (I forgot to add that there had been a dusty bottle of the Judge’s famous port), as becomes sportsmen blessed with a perfect day’s imperfect duck shooting, had discussed each individual bird brought to bag, with reasons, pro and con, why an undeniably large quota had escaped uninjured. We bordered upon that indecisive moment when bedtime should be imminent, were it not for the delightful trouble of getting started in that direction. As I recollect it, ruminating upon our sumptuous repast, the Judge had just countered upon my remark that I had never gotten enough hot turkey hash and beaten biscuits, by stating decisively that his craving for smothered quail remained inviolate, when the door opened softly and in slid “Ho’ace”! He had come, following a custom of many years, to tale final breakfast instructions before packing the embers in “Steamboat Bill,” the stove, and dousing our glim.
Seeing upon the center table, t’wixt the Judge and me, a bottle and the unmistakable ingredients and tools of the former’s ironclad rule for a hunter’s nightcap, Ho’ace paused in embarrassed hesitation and seated himself quickly upon an empty shell case. His attitude was a cross between that of a timid gazelle’s scenting danger and a wary hunter’s sighting game and effacing himself gently from the landscape.
Long experience in the imperative issue of securing an invitation to “get his’n” had taught Ho’ace that it were ever best to appear humbly disinterested and thoroughly foreign to the subject until negotiations, if need be even much later, were opened with him directly or indirectly. With old-time members he steered along the above lines. But with newer ones or their uninitiated guests, he believed in quicker campaigning, or, conditions warranting, higher pressure sales methods. The Judge, reaching for the sugar bowl, mixed his sweetening water with adroit twirl and careful scrutiny as to texture; fastening upon Ho’ace meanwhile a melting look of liquid mercy. In a twinkling, however, his humor changed and the darky found himself in the glare of a forbidding menace, creditable in his palmiest days to the late Mister Chief Justice Jeffries himself.
“Ho’ace,” demanded the Judge, tilting into his now ready receptacle a gurgling, man-size libation, “who is the best shot—the best duck-shot—you have ever paddled on this lake—barring—of course—a-h-e-m-m—myself?” Surveying himself with the coyness of a juvenile, the Judge stirred his now beading toddy dreamily and awaited the encore. Ho’ace squirmed a bit as the closing words of the Judge’s query struck home with appalling menace upon his ears. He plucked nervously at his battered headpiece. His eyes, exhibiting a vast expanse of white, roamed pictured walls and smoke-dimmed ceiling in furtive, reflective, helpless quandary. Then speaking slowly and gradually warming to his subject, he fashioned the following alibi.
“Jedge, y’know, suh, us all has ouh good an’ ouh bad days wid de ducks. Yes, my Lawdy, us sho’do. Dey’s times whin de ducks flies all ovah ev’ything an’ev’ybody, an’still us kain’t none o’us hit nuthin’—lak me an’ you wuz dis mawnin’.” At this juncture the Judge interrupted, reminding Ho’ace that he meant when the Judge—and not the Judge and Ho’ace—was shooting.
“An’ den deys times whin h’it look lak dey ain’t no shot too hard nur nary a duck too far not t’be kilt. But Mister Buckin’ham yonder—Mister Nash—he brung down de shootin’est gent’man what took all de cake. H’it’s lots o’ d’ members here whut’s darin’ shooters, but dat fren’ o’ Mister Nash’s—uummppphhh—don’t never talk t’ me ‘bout him whur de ducks kin hear. ’Cause dey’ll leave de laik ef dey hears he’s even comin’ dis way.
“Dat gent’man rode me jes’ lak I wuz’ er saddle, an’ he done had on rooster spurs. Mister Nash he brung him on down here an’ say, ‘Ho’ace,’ he say, ‘here’s a gent’man frum Englan’,’ he say, ‘Mister Money—Mister Harol’ Money—an’ say I wants you t’ paddle him tomorrow an’ see dat he gits er gran’ shoot—unnerstan’?’ I say, ‘Yaas, suh, Mister Nash,’ I say, ‘dat I’ll sho’ly do, suh. Mister Money gwi’ hav’ er fine picnic ef I has t’ see dat he do my sef—but kin he shoot, suh?’
“Mister Nash, he say, ‘Uh—why—uh—yaas, Ho’ace, Mister Money he’s—uh—ve’y fair shot—’bout lak Mister Immitt Joyner or Mister Hal Howard.’ I say t’ mysef, I say, ‘Uuummmpphhh—huuummmppphhh—well—he’ah now—ef dats d’case, me an’ Mister Money gwi’ do some shootin’ in d’ mawnin.’
“Mister Money he talk so kin’er queer an’ brief like, dat I hadda pay clos’t inspection t’ whut he all de time asayin’. But nex’ mawnin’, whin me an’ him goes out in de bote, I seen he had a gre’t big ol’ happy bottle o’ Brooklyn Handicap in dat shell box so I say t’ m’sef, I say, ‘ W-e-l-l-l—me an’ Mister Money gwi’ got erlong someway, us is.’
“I paddles him on up de laik an’ he say t’ me, say, ‘Hawrice—uh—hav yo’—er—got anny wager,’ he say, ‘or proposition t’ mek t’ me, as regards,” he say, ‘t’ shootin’ dem dar eloosive wil’fowls?’ he say.
“I kinder studies a minit, ‘cause, lak I done say, he talk so brief. Den I says, ‘I guess you is right ‘bout dat, suh.’
“He say, ‘Does you follow me, Hawrice, or is I alone?’ he say.
“I says, ‘Naw, suh, Mister, I’m right wid you in dis bote.’
“ ‘You has no proposition t’ mek wid me den?’ he say.
“S’ I, ‘Naw, suh, Boss, I leaves all dat wid you, suh, trustin’ t’ yo’ gin’rosir y, suh.’
“ ‘Ve’y good, Hawrice,’ he say, ‘I sees you doan grasp de principul. Now I will mek you de proposition,’ he say. I jes’ kep’ on paddlin’. He say, ‘Ev’y time I miss er duck you gits er dram frum dis hu’ah bottle—ev’y time I kills er duck—I gits de drink—which is h’it—come—come—speak up, my man.’
“I didn’ b’lieve I done heard Mister Money rightly, an’ I say, ‘Uh—Mister Money,’ I say, ‘suh, does you mean dat I kin d’ chice whedder you misses or kills ev’y time an’ gits er drink?’
“He say, ‘Dat’s my defi’,’ he say.
“I says, ‘Well, den—w-e-l-l—den—ef dat’s de case, I gwi’ choose ev’y time yo’ misses, suh.’ Den I say t ’m’sef, I say, ‘Ho’ace, right hu’ah whar you gotta be keerful, ‘ginst you fall outa d’ bote an’ git fired frum d’ lodge; ‘cause ef ’n you gits er drink ev’y time dis gent ’man misses an’ he shoot lak Mister Hal Howard, you an’ him sho’ gwi’ drink er worl’ o’ liquah—er worl’ o’ liquah.’
“I pushes on up nurly to de Han’werker stan’, an’ I peeks in back by da li’l pocket whut shallers off ’n de laik, an’ sees some sev’ul blackjacks—four on ‘em—settin’ in dar. Dey done seen us, too. An’ up come dey haids. I spy ‘em twis’in’, an’ turnin’—gittin’ raidy t ’ pull dey freight frum dar. I says, ‘Mister Money,’ I says, ‘yawnder sets some ducks—look out now, suh, ‘cause dey gwi’ try t’ rush on out pas’ us whin dey come outa dat pocket.’ Den I think, ‘ W-e-l-l-l, hu’ah whar I knocks d’ gol’ fillin’ outa d’ mouf’ o’ Mister Money’s bottle o’ Brooklyn Handicap!’
“I raised de lid o’ d’ shell box an’ dar laid dat ol’ bottle—still dar. I say, ‘Uuummmppphhh—hummmph. ’ Jus’ ‘ bout dat time up goes dem black-haids an’ outa dar dey come—dey did—flyin’ low t’ d’ watah—an’ sorta raisin’ lak—y ’ knows how dey does h’it, Jedge?’
“Mister Money he jus’ pick up dat fas’ feedin’ gun—t ’war er pump—not one o’ dese hu’ah new af romatics—an’ whin he did, I done reach f ’d ’ bottle, ‘cause I jes’ natcherly know’d dat my time had done come. Mister Money he swings down on dem bullies. Ker-py—ker-py-powie-powie—splamp-splamp-splamp—ker-splash—Lawdy mussy—gent ’-mans—fo’ times, right in d’ same place, h’it sounded lak—an’ d’ las’ duck fell kerflop almos’ in ouh bote.
“I done let go d’ bottle, an’ Mister Money say—mighty cool lak—say, ‘Hawrice, say, kin’ly to examine dat las’ chap clos’ly,’ he say, ‘an’ obsurve,’ he say, ‘ef’n he ain’ shot thru de eye.’
“I rakes in dat blackjack, an’ sho’ nuff—bofe eyes done shot plum out—yaas, suh, bofe on ‘em right on out. Mister Money say, ‘I wuz—er—slightly afraid,’ he say, ‘dat I had unknowin’ly struck dat fella er trifle too far t’ win’ward,’ he say. ‘A ve’y fair start, Hawrice,’ he say. ‘You’d bettah place me in my station, so we may continue on wid’out interruption,’he say.
“ ‘Yaas, suh,’ I say. ‘I’m on my way right dar now, suh, ‘an I say t’ m’sef, I say, ‘Mek haste, Man, an’ put dis gent’man in his bline an’ giv’ him er proper chanc’t to miss er duck. I didn’ hones’ly b’lieve but whut killin’all four o’ dem other ducks so peart lak wuz er sorter accident. So I put him on de Han’ werker bline. He seen I kep’ de main shell bucket an’ d’ liquah, but he never said nuthin’. I put out d’ m ‘coys an’ den creep back wid d’ bote into d’ willows t’ watch.
“Pretty soon, hu’ah come er big ole drake flyin’ mighty high. Ouh ole hen bird she holler t’ him, an’ d’ drake he sorter twis’ his haid an’ look down. ‘Warn’t figurin’ nuthin’ but whut Mister Money gwi’ let dat drake circle an’ come ‘mongst d’ m ‘coys—but—aw—aw! All uv er sudden he jus’ raise up sharp lak an’—kerzowie! Dat ole drake jus’ throw his haid on his back an’ ride on down—looked t’ me lak he fell er mile—an’ whin he hit he thow’d watah fo’ feet. Mister Money he nuvver said er word—jus’ sot dar!
“Hu’ah come another drake—way off t’ d’ lef ’—up over back o’ me. He turn eroun’—quick lak—he did an’—kerzowie—he cut him on down, too. Dat drake fall way back in d’ willows an’ cose I hadda wade after ‘im.
“Whilst I wuz gone, Mister Money shoot twice. An’ whin I come stumblin’ back, dar laid two mo’ ducks wid dey feets in de air. Befo’ I hav’ time t’ git in de bote again he done knock down er hen away off in d’ elbow brush.
“I say, ‘Mister Money, suh, I hav’ behin’ some farknockin’ guns in my time an’ I’se er willin’ worker, shoe—but ef you doan, please suh, kill dem ducks closer lak, you gwi’ kill yo’ willin’ supporter Ho’ace in de mud.’ He say, ‘Da’s all right ‘bout dat,’ he say. ‘Go git d’bird—he kain’t git er-way ‘cause h’its dead ez er wedge.’
“Whin I crawls back t’ d’ bote dat las’ time—it done got mighty col’. Dar us set—me in one en’ ashiverin’ an’ dat ole big bottle wid de gol’ haid in de far en’. Might jus’ ez well bin ten miles so far ez my chances had done gone.
“Five mo’ ducks come in—three singles an’ er pair o’ sprigs. An’ Mister Money he chewed ‘em all up lak good eatin’. One time, tho’ he had t’ shoot one o’ them high-flyin’ sprigs twice, an’ I done got halfway in de bote reachin’ fer dat bottle—but de las’ shot got ‘im. Aftah while, Mister Money say—’Hawrice,’ he say, ‘how is you hittin’ off—my man?’
“ ‘Mister Money’ I say, ‘I’se pow ’ful col’, suh, an’ ef you wants er ‘unable, no ‘count paddler t’ tell you d’ truth, suh, I b’ lieves I done made er pow’ful po’ bet.’ He say ‘Poss’bly so, Hawrice, poss’bly so.’ But dat ‘poss’bly ’ didn’ git me nuthin’.
“Jedge, y’Honor, you know dat gent’man sot dar an’ kill ev’ry duck come in, an’had his limit long befo’de eight-o’clock train runned. I done gone t’ watchin’ an’ de las’ duck whut come by wuz one o’ dem lightnin’-express teals. Hu’ah he come—er greenwing drake—look lak’ somebody done blowed er buckshot pas’ us. I riz’ up an’ hollered, ‘Fly fas’, ole teal, do yo’ bes’—caus’ Ho’ace needs er drink.’ But Mister Money jus’ jumped up an’ thow’d him forty feet—skippin’ ‘long d’ watah. I say, ‘Hol’ on, Mister Money, hol’ on—you done kilt d’ limit.’
“‘Oh,’ he say, ‘I hav’—hav I’ I?’
“I say, ‘Yaas, suh, an’ you ain’t bin long ‘bout h’it—neither.
“He say, ‘What are you doin’ gittin’ so col’ then?’
“I say, ‘I spec’ findin’ out dat I hav’ done made er bad bet had er lot t’ do wid d’ air.’
“An’ dar laid dat Brooklyn Handicap all dat time—he nuvver touched none—an’ me neither. I paddles him on back to de house, an’ he comes er stalkin’ on in hu’ah, he did—lookin’ kinda mad lak—never said nuthin’ bout no drink. Finally he say, ‘Hawrice,’ he say, ‘git me a bucket o’ col’ watah.’ I say t’ m’sef, I say, ‘ W-e-l-l-l, das mo’ lak h’it—ef he wants er bucket o’ watah. Boy—you gwi’ see some real drinkin’ now.’
“Whin I come in wid d’ pail, Mister Money took offin all his clothes an’ step out onto d’ side po’ch an’ say, ‘Th’ow dat watah ovah me, Hawrice. I am lit ’rully compel,’ he say, ‘t’ have my col’ tub ev’y mawnin’.’ M-a-n-n-n-n! I sho’ tow’d dat ice col’ watah onto him wid all my heart an’ soul. But he jus’ gasp an’ hollah, an’ jump up an’ down an’ slap hisse’f. Den he had me rub him red wid er big rough towel. I sho’ rubbed him, too. Come on in d’ clubroom hu’ah, he did, an’ mek hisse’f comfort’ble in dat big ol’ rockin’ chair yonder—an’ went t’ readin’. I brought in his shell bucket an’ begin cleanin’ his gun. But I seen him kinder smilin’ t’ hisse’f. Atta while, he says ‘Hawrice,’ he say, ‘you hav’ done los’ yo’ bet?’
“I kinder hang my haid lak, an’ ‘low, ‘Yaas, suh, Mister Money, I don’ said farewell t’ d’ liquah!’
“He say, ‘Yo’ admits den dat you hav’ done los’ fair an’ square—an’ dat yo’ realizes h’it?’
“‘Yaas, suh!’
“He say, ‘Yo’ judgmint,’ he say, ‘wuz ve’y fair, considerin’,’ he say, ‘de great law uv’ av’ridge—but circumstance,’ he say, ‘has done render de ult’mate outcome subjec’ t’ d’ mighty whims o’ chance?’
“I say, ‘Yaas, suh,’ ve’y mournful lak.
“He say, ‘In so far as realizin’ on anything ‘ceptin’ de mercy o’ d’ Cote—say—you is absolutely nonest—eh, my man?’
“I say, ‘Yaas, suh, barrin’ yo’ mercy, suh.’
“Den he think er moment, an’ say, ‘Verrree—verree—good!’
“Den he ‘low, ‘Sence you acknowledges d’ cawn, an’ admits dat you hav’ done got grabbed,’ he say, ‘step up,’ he say, ‘an’ git you a tumbler—po’ yo’sef er drink—po’ er big one, too.’
“I never stopped f’ nuthin’ den—jes’ runned an’ got me a glass outa de kitchen. Ole Molly, she say, ‘Whur you goin’ so fas’?’ I say, ‘Doan stop me now ole ‘ooman—I got business—p’ticler business—an’ I sho’ poh’d me er big bait o’ liquah—er whole sloo’ o’ liquah. Mister Money say, ‘Hawrice—de size o’ yo’ po’tion,’ he say, ‘is primus facious ev’dence,’ he say, ‘dat you gwi’ spout er toast in honor,’ he say, ‘o’ d’ occasion.’
“I say, ‘Mister Money, suh,’ I say, ‘all I got t’ say, suh, is dat you is de kingpin, champeen duck shotter so far as I hav’ done bin’ in dis life—an’ ve’y prob’ ly as far as I’se likely t’ keep on goin’, too.’ He sorter smile t’ hisse’f!
“‘Now, suh, please, suh, tell me dis—is you ever missed er duck—anywhar’—anytime—anyhow—suh? ’
“He say ‘Really, Hawrice,’ he say, ‘you embarrasses me,’ he say, ‘so hav’ another snifter—there is mo’, considerably mo’,’ he say, ‘in yo’ system what demands utt’rance,’ he say.
“I done poh’d me another slug o’ Brooklyn Handicap an’ say, ‘Mister Money,’ I say, ‘does you expec’ t’ ever miss another duck ez long ez you lives, suh?’
“He say, ‘Hawrice,’ he say, ‘you embarrasses me,’ he say, ‘beyon’ words—you overwhelms me,’ he say. ‘Git t’ hell outa hu’ah befo’ you gits us bofe drunk.’”
Thinking Like a Mountain
ALDO LEOPOLD
A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world.
Every living thing (and per
haps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.
Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night, or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf, it is implicit in a hundred small events: the midnight whinny of a pack horse, the rattle of rolling rocks, the bound of a fleeing deer, the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves, or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.
My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error: it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.
