DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY

“And it came to pass in those days that there was a tribe of men called Dukklubbers, who were open of face and of apparent veracity. Their smiles were as the sun shining through a cloud, and of promises they were as full as the sea of fishes.

“But behold, they prophesied only of things that happened yesterday and of the day before, levying their tribute heavily upon the tribe called Dukhunters, who were fools and of abiding faith, paying willingly, yea even to paying their tribute in advance that they might partake of the winged web-footed creatures which swam upon the waters of the earth.

“But behold, the Dukhunters were of a great wrath, because of the winged creatures there were none and the tribute had been enormous. And they went away filled with a great wrath and swore many things. But the Dukklubbers were of great cheer because they were very wise, knowing much about the Dukhunters. Among this knowledge was the fact that the Dukhunter was a great fool, and as soon as his wrath subsided he would again open his ears to their prophecy and come back, bearing tribute. And they knew no man might deny their prophecy nor prove it untrue, because they prophesied only of things that came to pass yesterday and the day before.”

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Telephone conversation via long-distance:

“Hello, Ed? Bill talking. How are they coming?”

“Fine, Bill. Lotsa sprig.”

“How much for four blinds tomorrow?”

“Sixty bucks.”

“Be with you about midnight. Looks good, eh?”

“Ought to be. Good-by.”

Ensues two hundred and thirty miles of auto travel—a search in the night for that darned dirt road, in which everybody loses all sense of direction; eventually the right road, and the club. Ed is there with a lantern.

“Hello, Ed, old boy!”

“Gentlemen!”

“How does she look, Eddie?”

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“Well, I’ll tell you. This morning some of the boys had fair luck. Yesterday wasn’t bad at all, but day before yesterday—Oh, boy!”

And there you are. The duck we got that day cost us just exactly one hundred dollars—and it was a spoonbill. And not a fat spoonie, either. But we didn’t kick because we belonged to the tribe called Dukhunters. If we had been there day before yesterday—Oh, boy! They say it was great.

For seven seasons I have dipped my boots in nearly every duck-puddle from Ensenada, Baja California, to the mythical dead-line between Los Angeles and San Francisco, possibly caused by the fact that Los Angeles folks speak of the big earthquake instead of the fire. I am known as an omnivorous duck hunter—a dreamer of duck dreams in which a limit of birds is the piece de resistance.

They say there are thousands of ducks just south of Bakersfield. It fires my imagination, and I hie me to a certain sporting goods house where everybody talks ducks. I pay my fifteen dollars for a Sunday blind. And about noon of that day I get so darned mad that I shoot an unsuspecting mud-hen and go home. It has cost me about thirty dollars for that mud-hen.

They say the ducks are coming in by the thousands in the Wasco country, a mere 200-mile trip—about thirty miles of curves on the top of the world, a drag of thirty miles through the worst silt muck you have ever seen in anybody’s country, if it rains. But I go. Yeah, verily I go.

“There were quite a few ducks here yesterday, but if you had been here day before yesterday—Well, it was the best flight you ever saw.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“We-e-ll, I don’t know. They seem to have pulled out for some reason or other.”

Los Banos! Ah, there’s a word to conjure with. A place to fill a duck hunter’s heart with delight. A phone call brings the information that the place is filled with birds. In fact, the Chamber of Commerce has had a crew of men digging extra ponds for two weeks to accommodate the increase of ducks from the north.

Los Banos is only a mere three hundred miles. What are three hundred miles to a duck or a hunter? It is a simple matter to make reservations. The ride is nothing. Tomorrow we will each shoot a limit. Twenty-five ducks! Anticipation is at high ebb.

And then we talk to the keeper. It is seldom that the owner shows up. The keeper is usually an inoffensive ex-carpenter from Iowa, who is not to blame.

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“Well,” sez ’e, “I didn’t see many today. Quite a lot of ’em yesterday, but day before yesterday you could knock ’em down with a club.”

All my life I’ve wished for a chance to go hunting day before yesterday, but I’m always two days too late. And then there’s the claim agents to contend with. There are always several of them on hand.

I have found that the way to get ducks is to wait until the other fellows get a whack into ’em, knocking several, fire your gun into the air and yell, “I got two!” Then go and get ’em. Of course, if you shoot a pump or an automatic you may claim more. I’ve been claimed out of more ducks than any man alive, and it is because I’m so damned astonished when I do knock a duck that I forget to yell first.

My last experience was at the Westfield club, run by my good friend Charley Buttles. Yes, Charley speaks very affectionately of day before yesterday, just like the rest.

Anyway, my shooting partner and I were in a double blind, when a flock of sprig hit the water about forty yards away. About a hundred and twenty-five yards away was another double blind. For some unknown reason, one of the occupants of those blinds stood up and threw a load of shot at the ducks, none of which registered.

The sprig hopped up and swung toward us—one of those things you dream about. I doubled on two bull sprig, while my partner emptied his automatic.

“How many did you get?” he asked me, and I told him I killed two.

“Fine!” says he. “I got four.”

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But before we could make a move to get out of the blind, those two claim agents were coming on the run. “I got one with each barrel, and you got four with your pump,” one of them yells. “Boy, that’s shootin’!”

I looked at Fred, and Fred looked at me. They were big fellows, those claim agents.

“How do yuh get that way?” demanded Fred. “We killed all those ducks.”

“Well, of all the nerve!” says one of ’em. “Imagine that!”

And they went back to their blind with the ducks while everybody, except Fred and me, laughed.

A few minutes later, along came a lone spoonie. He was so high that he looked like a sparrow. But I was mad, and when he came over me I knocked him for a loop with my Super Magnum, or whatever they call it. Anyway, it shoots three-inch shells.

The spoonie died in his tracks and hit the muck about twenty feet from a single blind, a hundred yards away. I got up and said to the wide world, “If there’s no argument, I’d like to have that bird.”

“What bird?” asks a distant voice, and I saw the owner of that blind in the act of picking up my bird.

“Oh,” says I sweetly, “did you kill it?”

“Who in hell do you think killed it?” says he, and took it back to his blind.

What could I do? A check of the shooters later on showed a ten-to-one opinion that the man never even fired his gun. But he got the duck. Personally, I think he’s the man who is usually designated as “they,” the party they speak of when remarking “They say,” etc. So much for claim agents.

But don’t misconstrue me. There are limits of birds in California. It may be proved by pictures. In fact, I have been a party to such pictures. The last one I was in on has already been published twice in daily papers. It shows a well-known sportsman with a limit of ducks. There were thirty of us hunters who contributed all our opening-day shoot to make up that limit. You will think it queer that thirty men could contribute a limit of ducks when the limit is twenty-five birds. But the fact of the matter is, in some cases as high as three men held certain claims on a single duck.

In seven years of duck shooting my birds have cost me on an average of seven dollars per duck. Perhaps it is lucky for me that I never have shot—and kept—a limit. And I’m not the worst shot in the world. Figuring my ability from an army standard, I’m possibly a top sergeant. At times I’m a lowly private, and again I’m a Brigadier General. And once in a while I become Commander-in-Chief.

Following the claim agent, or preceding him, as the case may be, comes the high shooter. He is a person who goes out to shoot just for the fun of shooting. Without the slightest conception of how far a shotgun will boost a load of shot, he shoots as long as he can see the bird. All he needs is their address. And sometimes he finishes up his bombardment by drawing a six-shooter and giving the birds a final salute. For fifteen dollars per day he can ruin the shooting for more men than a heavy fog in the San Joaquin on Sunday.

But in spite of it all, we got our limit one day. Of course, nobody believes we did. Before old Buena Vista Lake dried up, my shooting partner and myself managed to knock down fifty birds, and we were looking at the world through rose-colored glasses.

There was an even dozen of mallard drakes, fifteen bull sprig, and the rest were hen sprig and widgeon. Oh, they were nice! We carried ’em concealed in a sack, for fear of meeting a claim agent.

It was a long way home; so we decided to spend the night at the home of a friend, who lived in a rather isolated spot. We drew the ducks, tied their necks together and hung them over a clothes-line. Our host said they’d dry out very cold. They did—very.

In the morning the twelve mallard drakes and the fifteen bull sprig were not on the line. After due deliberation, our host decided that the cat got ’em. I looked at the cat and drew my own conclusions. It may have been a very smart cat, and no doubt it was, because our host told us a number of stories of the cat’s prowess. But I’ll be hanged if I’m gullible enough to think any cat could select all those choice ducks and tie up the bunches again. Still, I may not know much about cats.

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But those are merely the things you have to contend with. If I could only find a duck club where there are no high shooters, no claim agents, no cats, and get a chance to shoot there day before yesterday—Oh, boy!

But I’ll go again because I belong to the tribe called Dukhunters, and the Dukklubbers will probably get me as long as I live—but they can’t deny me free speech.

Of course, I do not mean to say that all duck-club managers use the “day before yesterday” alibi. There was one who was much more conservative. Certainly, his was an exclusive place, with accommodations for only eight shooters.

This place, as he explained it, was the pluribus peritonitis of all clubs. One needed to furnish references in order to secure reservations. No one except dyed-in-the-wool duck hunters need apply, and one must agree to abide by the law regarding the sunrise and sunset regulation bag limit, etc.

Parentage, religious affiliations, financial standing, shooting ability and general conduct were scrutinized. I heard later that halitosis was sufficient cause for refusal to accept application. In fact, one man was refused on the grounds that in 1880 his grandfather spat on a sidewalk.

Oh, it was easy to see that this was worth trying for. And I made it. My friend said it was a lucky fluke that they got my name spelled wrong and looked up another man’s record.

Anyway, I rather gloated over the rest of the gang, who merely paid fifteen dollars to shoot at an ordinary commercial club where there were only sprig, teal and widgeon. I think I bored them with my talk of mallards. There is something noble about a mallard.

I had made my reservations early, and lived in a flutter of excitement for two months. At last came the day before the opening, and we packed the old car full of the usual impedimenta of two anticipating hunters who have purchased everything with which to annihilate the festive water-fowl. I had invested in a made-to-order double gun—one of those 80-yard super guns, bored for 3-inch cases and adorned with a single trigger which, by the way, got a nasty habit of doubling. And if you think a double of 3-inch heavy loads is any loving caress, try it.

But I digress. We arrived safely, after 150 miles of driving over rather bad roads. But one must suffer a little, I suppose, while mallarding.

“Aha!” says I, “We’ve got the old alibi whipped this time. It’s the opening day, and he won’t dare mention the day before yesterday.”

The opening day broke well. At least we had the satisfaction of knowing that something broke well. There were eight of us tucked away in those exclusive blinds, waiting for the zero hour, tuned to the minute. It was the day of days.

Daylight came apace, as they say; but that was all that came. The quack of the festive mallard soundeth not. A few mud hens, like dusky harbingers of disappointment, jerked their way along the rushes, but the horizon was unmarked by the wavering strings of mallards as per the night-before conversation.

We spent a quiet morning consuming much tobacco, nursing grouches and working up a killing complex against all duck liars.

My friend met me near the little clubhouse. His eyes held a lust for gore.

“By the blankety-blank horns on the sacred toad,” quoth he, “this is another of those things, Bill. But there is one satisfaction. The old alibi won’t work this time. There was no day before yesterday in this duck season.”

John was right. We found the keeper of the club, and he shook his head sadly. One could see that he was sorry.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I really don’t understand it. On the opening day last year, with eight men in the blinds—”

But why repeat a lie?