Page:Stewart Edward White--The Rose Dawn.djvu/322

Rh the confounded thing would take surreptitious looks ahead toward the end of the day, and the big ranch room with the fire, and how much fun it was going to be to see the gang again, and as to pigeons—Ken had shot quail over here a number of times, but he had never happened to get away when the pigeons were in. They told great stories of the pigeons, how swarms of them fed across open spaces, the birds behind fluttering over those in front in order to get first pickings, and the rear rank fluttering in turn over them, until it was like a wave advancing; how they darted over the passes in the hills, on their way to water, travelling so fast that you had to hold fifteen feet ahead of them; how wary they were, so that in spite of abundance the hunter had to use all his craft; and how the falcons swooped after the killed birds, so that sometimes these swift hawks actually caught the falling pigeon before it hit the ground, leaving the hunter cursing—unless he had a second barrel for the thief! Tall story, that last! Wonder if the shooting is as hard as they make out? Corbell said five to eight shells to a bird; and Corbell was a crack shot. Ken wondered if he was going to disgrace himself. He was a pretty good quail shot now; but this overhead work! Looked as though he'd be kept pretty busy loading up those brass shells of his. And while his introspective mind raced thus like a dog new loosed, sending little thrills of enthusiasm and anticipation through his veins, his surface mind was observing and noting various matters outside. That brush rabbit thought he was hid when he crouched in that shadow; wonder if that's an eagle or a red-tailed hawk sailing yonder—by Jove, it looks a little as if it might be a condor! Those fellows are scarce! Hullo, snake track in the dust! Good deal of water in the river for this time of year—wonder how that will affect the fishing? Something made a whacking rustle in the brush— And at the same time his ordinary, physical senses were calling attention to the comfortable, warm, soaking-in feeling of the sunshine on the back of his neck, or the homely creaking of the saddle leather, or the spice smell of the sage, or the touch of the breeze on his cheek. His consciousness suddenly took command of all these things to discover that he was whistling a lilting tune and jangling his spur chains in rhythm to it! Shocked