The immensity of the wheat-fields in Dakota is astonishing to a stranger. They begin on the edge of town, and we drive all day and are never out of them, and on either side they stretch away as far as one’s eye can travel. The wheat had been cut and “shocked,” which left a stubble some eight inches high. The farm-houses are far apart, and, indeed, not often in sight, but as the threshing was in progress, we saw many groups of men and horses, and the great steam-threshers blowing clouds of black smoke, and the flying straw as it was belched from the bowels of the monsters.
A CONFERENCE IN THE MUD
During the heat of the day the chickens lie in the cover of the grass at the sides of the fields, or in the rank growth of some slough-hole, but at early morning and evening they feed in the wheat stubble. As we ride along, the dogs range out in front, now leaping gracefully along, now stopping and carrying their noses in the air to detect some scent, and finally—“There’s a point! Stop, driver!” and we pile out, breaking our guns and shoving in the cartridges.
“No hurry—no hurry,” says the Doctor; “the dog will stay there a month.” But, fired with the anticipations, we move briskly up. “You take the right and I’ll take the left. Don’t fire over the dog,” adds the portly sportsman, with an admonishing frown. We go more slowly, and suddenly, with a “whir,” up get two chickens and go sailing off. Bang! bang! The Doctor bags his and I miss mine. We load and advance, when up comes the remainder of the covey, and the bewildering plenty of the flying objects rattles me. The Doctor shoots well, and indeed prairie-chickens are not difficult, but I am discouraged. As the great sportsman Mr. Soapy Sponge used to say, “I’m a good shooter, but a bad hitter.” It was in this distressful time that I remembered the words of the old hunter who had charge of my early education in .45 calibres, which ran, “Take yer time, sonny, and always see your hind sight,” and by dint of doing this I soon improved to a satisfactory extent. The walking over the stubble is good exercise, and it becomes fascinating to watch the well-trained Llewellyn setters “make game,” or stand pointing with their tails wagging violently in the nervous thrill of their excitement, then the shooting, and the marking down of the birds who escape the fire, that we may go to them for another “flush.” With care and patience one can bag at last the whole covey.
At noon we met the other wagons in a green swale, and had lunch, and, seated in a row under the shadow side of a straw stack, we plucked chickens, while the phlebotomist did the necessary surgery to prepare them for the cook. At three o’clock the soldier, a couple of residents, and myself started together for the evening shooting. We banged away at a thousand-yards range at some teal on a big marsh, but later gave it up, and confined ourselves to chicken. In the midst of a covey and a lot of banging I heard the Captain uttering distressful cries. His gun was leaning on a wheat “shock,” and he was clawing himself wildly. “Come, help me—I am being eaten alive.” Sure enough he was, for in Dakota there is a little insect which is like a winged ant, and they go in swarms, and their bite is sharp and painful. I attempted his rescue, and was attacked in turn, so that we ended by a precipitous retreat, leaving the covey of chickens and their protectors, the ants, on the field.
"DON'T SHOOT!"
We next pushed a covey of grouse into some standing oats, and were tempted to go in a short way, but some farmers who were threshing on the neighboring hill blew the engine whistle and made a “sortie,” whereat we bolted. At a slough which we were tramping through to kick up some birds “marked down,” one suddenly got up under our feet and flew directly over the Captain, who yelled “Don’t shoot!” as he dropped to the ground. It was a well—considered thing to do, since a flying bird looks bigger than a man to an excited and enthusiastic sportsman. We walked along through the stubble until the red sunset no longer gave sufficient light, and then got into our wagon to do the fourteen miles to our car and supper. Late at night we reached our car, and from it could hear “the sound of revelry.” The cook did big Chicago beefsteaks by the half-dozen, for an all day’s tramp is a sauce which tells.
After some days at this place we were hauled up to Devil’s Lake, on the Great Northern road, which locality is without doubt the best for duck-shooting in Dakota. We were driven some sixteen miles to a spur of the lake, where we found a settler. There were hundreds of teal in the water back of his cabin, and as we took position well up the wind and fired, they got up in clouds, and we had five minutes of shooting which was gluttony. We gave the “bag” to the old settler, and the Doctor admonished him to “fry them,” which I have no doubt he did.