Wingbeats and Heartbeats: Essays on Game Birds, Gun Dogs, and Days Afield

Jailhouse Blues

58 Jail­ house Blues W e got up be­ fore dawn to let the dogs out of their ­ travel ­ crates and greet the new day—the first morn­ ing of a ­ long-awaited Jan­ u­ ary quail hunt in south­ east­ ern Ar­ i­ zona. Steve McMor­ ran and I had left the cold and snow of Mon­ tana three days ear­ lier; now, 1,400 miles from home, we were­ camped in the Sul­ phur ­ Springs Val­ ley near Will­ cox. We had ­ stopped in south­ ern Utah to pick up ­ Steve’s ­ twenty-year-old daugh­ ter, Jamie, who ­ wasn’t plan­ ning on bird hunt­ ing but ­ wanted to poke ­ around the ­ desert with us. We ­ weren’t ex­ actly ­ camped in a wild­ er­ ness, but Will­ cox was­ thirty miles away and we ­ didn’t ex­ pect to see any­ one but pos­ sibly an­ other ­ hunter or two or a cow­ boy out check­ ing his cat­ tle. We had­ passed some ­ houses in a small set­ tle­ ment on the main road sev­ eral miles away, which we as­ sumed were oc­ cu­ pied by ranch hands or em­ ploy­ ees of the ­ nearby state ­ prison at Fort Grant. Stand­ ing in the dark­ ness wait­ ing for the dogs to ­ stretch their legs, I saw off in the dis­ tance head­ lights mov­ ing in our di­ rec­ tion. Quail 59 Jailhouse Blues hunt­ ers get­ ting an early start to avoid the ­ mid-day heat? Jav­ e­ lina hunt­ ers? I was sur­ prised to see other hunt­ ers on the move so early in this ­ out-of-the-way place. Sur­ prise ­ turned to dis­ ap­ point­ ment when I saw a sec­ ond set of head­ lights, then a third and a ­ fourth. “Steve, I can’t be­ lieve it,” I said. “We just drove 1,400 miles to get to the mid­ dle of the Chi­ hua­ huan ­ desert and the place is crawl­ ing with hunt­ ers.” “I guess we’d bet­ ter roust Jamie and go hunt­ ing while ­ there’s still a few quail left,” he re­ plied. De­ spite day­ time tem­ per­ a­ tures that often reach ­ seventy de­ grees in­ mid-winter, the Ar­ i­ zona ­ desert gets cold at night. Where we were­ camped, at an el­ e­ va­ tion of 4,000 feet, it usu­ ally ­ freezes. Morn­ ings are­ chilly until the sun has been up for an hour or so. By the time we ­ brewed cof­ fee, the sun was peek­ ing over the Pin­ a­ leno Moun­ tains to the east. I had ­ hunted the area be­ fore, so I sug­ gested we drive a mile down the road to an area where I had found­ scaled quail in pre­ vi­ ous years. Scal­ ies get their name from the black mark­ ings on their ­ breast and belly that form a scal­ loped pat­ tern. Often ­ called blue quail or cot­ ton­ tops, these sleek birds have a ­ bluishgray ap­ pear­ ance when ­ they’re ­ hot-footing ­ across the ­ desert or in­ flight. They lack the ­ comma-shaped top­ knot of the ­ Gambel’s quail,­ Arizona’s most com­ mon spe­ cies. In­ stead they have a bushy, ­ whitetipped crest, hence the nick­ name “cot­ ton­ top.” Just as we ­ pulled off the dusty track near a stock tank, an­ official-looking truck ­ roared up be­ hind us. Two men with guns and­ badges ­ jumped out. “Jeez,” said Jamie, “these Ar­ i­ zona game war­ dens 60 Upland Tales sure are ag­ gres­ sive.” But a quick look at the truck dis­ pelled the no­ tion we were in for a li­ cense check. In­ stead of Ar­ i­ zona Game and Fish De­ part­ ment, it said Ar­ i­ zona De­ part­ ment of Cor­ rec­ tions. After an in­ spec­ tion of our truck satis­ fied them we ­ weren’t har­ bor­ ing fu­ gi­ tives, the older of the two, a dead ­ ringer for Wil­ fred Brim­ ley, ex­ plained the sit­ u­ a­ tion. “We’ve got two con­ victs out here,” he ­ growled. “They cut a hole in the fence at Fort Grant last night­ shortly after dark and ­ they’ve been on the run ever since. We’ve been trail­ ing ’em with blood­ hounds all night.” “You mean...