A few years ago, before a great industry had been developed in the vicinity of Sulphur City, La., the natural conditions in that locality were favorable to the increase of migratory game. The ground was low and marshy, but generally quite flat; forests of resinous pine spread over a considerable portion of the country. In some places the trees grew to immense size, their massive trunks ascending for seventy-five or eighty feet without a branch. The soil in such localities being free from underbrush and covered with thick layers of pine needles, yielded pleasantly under the step like a soft plush carpet. Currents of air caressing the treetops imparted the sound of the surf beating the shore at a distance. Stretches of open prairie covered with tall grass furnished feeding spots for large flocks of ducks and geese. When the attention was not too much absorbed with larger game, one might frequently hear the jacksnipe emit its peculiar whistle as it shaped a zigzag course in its flight. Other game was in less abundance.

I engaged an old “red bone” to act as my guide. Legrand—the name by which I will introduce the new acquaintance—was really a Creole, but was said to have a cross of Indian blood, just enough to enable him to detect signs which escape the common eye. A faithful, quiet, uncomplaining man, but an excellent hunter according to his lights, Legrand had no liking for the new-fangled notions of modern sportsmen. He could crawl through the brush or long grass with all the stealthiness of a cat, every sense alert, and in spite of wet, cold or any kind of discomfort would doggedly stick to his task until his game was secured. To this old-fashioned hunter every cartridge must represent something. He was not satisfied with “punching holes in the air.” A story is told of Legrand upon which I would not care to stake my reputation for veracity, although somewhat characteristic of the man.

A ranchman living in that locality noticed a small bunch of teal that were in the habit of using in a pond not far from his dwelling. He requested Legrand to try his luck with them the next morning, when they could be easily found. Legrand, however, was short of ammunition, so the ranchman gave him a shell which he jokingly remarked was enough for a good shot, and he expected him to come back with the whole bunch, numbering six. On the ensuing day Legrand departed before sunrise, but returned to breakfast empty handed. “No ducks, Legrand?” He shook his head; “No ducks.” The next morning the result was the same. “No ducks, Legrand?” “No ducks.”

The third morning a shot was heard. Legrand returned with three beautiful blue-winged teal hanging from each shoulder.

“Legrand, how did you manage to have so much luck all of a sudden, when you were not able to get anything the two preceding mornings?”

“To-day,” he replied, “was the first time I could get them lined up so that I could bag them all at one shot.”

It was my good fortune to make another interesting acquaintance in a somewhat singular way. One afternoon, when shooting on the edge of a marsh close by the house where I was sojourning, I became conscious of someone near at hand. Turning around I discovered an elderly man of dignified bearing, whose round ruddy face, ornamented with a long white flowing beard, rested upon broad shoulders and sturdy frame. The expression of his countenance was mild and kindly, possessing a reflective cast, which was somewhat accentuated by a habit of slowly stroking his beard. Much impressed, I regarded him with a feeling of reverence. Had I been present at a revival meeting, the pose and genial appearance would have suited the occasion, silence having been secured by the exhortation, “Let us pray.” I broke the magic spell by politely asking the new arrival whether he was a sportsman and fond of shooting. “Can I shoot? By——” (a blue streak a yard long imparted all necessary emphasis). “Young man, before my eyes went back on me, old Uncle Dave could hit any living creature.”

After a brief conversation my new acquaintance cordially invited me to visit him, and also extended the privilege of occupying his lodge at a place called Sabine Pass, about twenty miles away. This is not the noted Sabine Pass in Texas, but merely a local name. All reports seemed to confirm the reputation of Sabine Pass, so I concluded to fit out an expedition. I chartered a prairie schooner and secured two horses which the guide said he could get for nothing. I was willing, however, to pay for what I got, but was put off with some dignity. The old saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth” seems somewhat in point, so I will be sparing of comments. It was a very safe team, but not much at annihilating space. A young man was engaged as cook. There was no other addition to the party, save an old one-eyed dog.

A long, wearisome day’s travel brought us to a sheet of water which surrounded the lodge. This resulted from the great quantity of moisture that had accumulated from heavy rainfalls. The cook rode ahead, exploring the way. The team tremulously negotiated the pass, but were soon in difficulties. One of them falling down in about four feet of water energetically strove to rise. Legrand, jumping into the icy water, began to fix the harness, which was no easy task. It was too dark to do anything, so the horses were uncoupled from the schooner and driven ashore. I mounted one horse behind the cook. The animal became refractory and varied the monotonous experience of the day by bucking for a brief space. Finally the shipwrecked crew were able to leave the schooner in safety, with a few things absolutely necessary, but by no means with all that were desired.

The bright glow of a fire in the open hearth of the lodge dispelled the gloom and discomfort of our surroundings, but Legrand was chilled to the bone and looked peaked and miserable. My sympathy was excited, and I prescribed a liberal dose from my flask which immediately revived him. Fortunately we had taken the precaution to cover the contents of the wagon, which otherwise would have suffered on account of the rain that fell during the night. Our meagre repast finished, it was not a great while before one after another dozed off into fitful slumber. One blanket covered the forms of three men, and in place of under bedding and spring mattress we had the board floor. The steady pour of the rain resounded continually upon the roof, while the snap of the pine fagots mingled with the hiss of drops of water falling on the burning embers. It is not easy for three persons to sleep under one blanket resting upon a hard surface. The disposition to change position became a fixed habit with all three, but invariably the one who attempted it met with unreasonable objections and muttered protests from the other two. If one turned over all three had to follow suit. It seemed to be a case where the minority ruled, while the majority swore at the minority. The one-eyed dog, becoming restless from the cold when the fire went out, repeatedly attempted to find a place for himself under the blanket, but discovered that a triple alliance had been formed to eliminate him completely. Finally he offered to compromise by lying down on the outside of the blanket above our prostrate forms, but this accommodation was likewise unfeelingly rejected. During that awful night every man’s hand appeared to be against his neighbor and all three united against the dog.

I was at length awakened from a semi-conscious condition by Legrand, who was about to light a fire.

“What is the matter, Legrand?” I inquired. “Are you getting cold?”

“It’s time to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“About 4 o’clock.”

How he knew I could not guess, but I was only too ready to accept any excuse that would rescue me from almost the worst night I ever experienced. It was pitch dark, but the rain had ceased, and the noise of game stirring outside betokened the coming dawn. A dense fog hung over the prairie and when light began to make an impression it was like illuminating an opaque substance. It was impossible to distinguish anything over six yards away. Having removed everything from the schooner the problem of dragging it to dry land did not concern us.

The growing day was heralded by a perfect Babel of voices. Invisible flocks of ducks numbering thousands frequently stirred the air with the rapid movements of their wings, which sounded like an express train. The measured honk of wild geese gave evidence of their presence in no beggarly numbers. At intervals the brant in the long sour bog grass invited an easy shot. When matters were straightened out no time was lost in starting out for feathered game.

The hunt began as soon as we stepped outdoors. Small bunches of ducks were passed by unnoticed. Legrand did not believe in wasting ammunition; I only had five hundred shells. Presently we heard the calling of a large number of brant. That interested Legrand. The fog had lifted somewhat, but still rendered objects indistinct unless they were close at hand. I imitated Legrand in all his movements; first the quiet, cautious approach, gradually bending, until finally we were crawling on our stomachs through the grass and mud. We were already quite near the brant and I was becoming apprehensive lest we should delay too long. A large flock of teal unexpectedly attracted my attention on the left side and I motioned to Legrand. He shook his head, but I signified that I was satisfied to try my luck with them. Legrand disapproved but yielded to my suggestion, except that he drew a bead on the brant. The report of four barrels seemed almost muffled in the uproar caused by great flocks of birds rising in every direction, churning the air with their wings and filling space with a discordant conglomeration of sounds from every species of web-footed fowl on the prairie. When the gray mist had swallowed the black mass, a pleasant sight welcomed our eyes. The ground was plentifully covered with limp forms, a handsome tribute to the prowess of our guns. The beam of joy on Legrand’s weatherbeaten face satisfied me that so far we had not been unduly wasteful of ammunition. Fearing lest there might be some lingering doubt in his mind on the subject, I sought to console him with the reflection that I still had four hundred and ninety-six shells left.

No time was lost in collecting the game. I stuffed the big pockets of my hunting coat with teal and brant. Legrand fastened them to the fringes of his jacket until he was almost covered with the dark bodies of brant and the beautifully colored teal. I warned Legrand to kill every bird he gathered, but he was careless in carrying out my suggestion. On the way back to the lodge I heard behind me a flutter of wings and several quacks and caught a glimpse of a duck disappearing in the fog. Legrand was standing in a state of stupefaction, staring in the direction the duck had flown. I could not help laughing. Needless to say he made sure of the rest.

Surfeited with abundance of game, the pastime soon palled on me. After several days’ sport I was ready to return to more comfortable quarters where the shooting was productive of smaller results, but more to my taste. Jacksnipe, which were quite plentiful, furnished an opportunity for skillful marksmanship, but the high standard of economy in using ammunition established for me by Legrand was shamefully lowered. Jacksnipe did not swarm before the muzzle of my gun, nor was one bagged in every shot. This kind of shooting is excellent for training the eye, and no sportsman need be chagrined at an occasional miss.