Almost always our sporting expeditions were of this casual character, sandwiched in among other occupations.  Guns were handy, as was the game.  To seize the one and pursue the other on the whim of the moment was the normal and usual thing.  Thus one day Mrs. Kitty drove me over to look at a horse I was thinking of buying.  On the way home, in a corner of brush, I hopped out and bagged twelve quail; and a little farther on, by a lucky sneak, I managed to gather in five ducks from an irrigation pond.  On another occasion, having a spare hour before lunch, I started out afoot from the ranch house at five minutes past eleven, found my quail within a quarter mile, had luck in scattering them, secured my limit of twenty-five, and was back at the house at twelve twenty-five!  Before this I had been to drive with Mrs. Kitty; and after lunch we drove twelve miles to call on a neighbour.  Although I had enjoyed a full day’s quail shoot, it had been, as it were, merely an interpolation.

Occasionally, however, it was elected to make a grand and formal raid on the game.  This could be either a get-up-early-in-the-morning session in the blinds, a formal quail hunt, or the Grand Tour.

To take the Grand Tour we got out the Liver Invigorator and as many saddle horses as might be needed to accommodate the shooters.  On reaching the hog field it was proper to disembark, and to line up for an advance on the corner of the irrigation ditch where I had so unexpectedly jumped the ducks my first morning on the ranch.  In extended order we approached.  If ducks were there, they got a great hammering.  Everybody shot joyously—­whether in sure range or not, it must be confessed.  The birds went into a common bag, for it would be impossible to say who had killed what.  After congratulations and reproaches, both of which might be looked upon as sacrifices to the great god Josh, we swung to the left and tramped a half mile to the artesian well.  The Invigorator and saddle horses followed at a respectful distance.  When we had investigated the chances at the well, we climbed aboard again and rattlety-banged across country to the Slough.

The Slough comprised a wide and varied country.  In proper application it was a little winding ravine sunk eight or ten feet below the flat plain, and filled with water.  This water had been grown thick with trees, but occasionally, for some reason to me unknown, the growth gave space for tiny open ponds or channels.  These were further screened by occasional willows or greasewood growing on the banks.  They were famous loafing places for mallards.

It was great fun to slip from bend to bend of the Slough, peering keenly, moving softly, trying to spy through the thick growth to a glimpse of the clear water.  The ducks were very wary.  It was necessary to know the exact location of each piece of open water, its surroundings, and how best it was to be approached.  Only too often, peer as cautiously as we might, the wily old mallards would catch a glimpse of some slight motion.  At once they would begin to swim back and forth uneasily.  Always then we would withdraw cautiously, hoping against hope that suspicion would die.  It never did.  Our stalk would disclose to us only a troubled surface of water on which floated lightly a half dozen feathers.