forward, and came near shooting the Quartermaster, who sat in a bunch of
sedge-grass, with a dead duck by his side. He was smoking, and was
disgusted with ducks. He joined me, and shortly, as we crossed the road,
the long Texas doctor, who owned the dog, came striding down the way. He
was ready for quail now, and we started.

The quail-hunting is active work. The dog points, but one nearly always
finds the birds running from one prickly-pear bush to another. They do
not stand, rarely flush, and when they do get up it is only to swoop
ahead to the nearest cover, where they settle quickly. One must be sharp
in his shooting--he cannot select his distance, for the cactus lies
thick about, and the little running bird is only on view for the
shortest of moments. You must overrun a dog after his first point, since
he works too close behind them. The covey will keep together if not
pursued with too much haste, and one gets shot after shot; still, at
last you must run lively, as the frightened covey scurry along at a
remarkable pace. Heavy shot are necessary, since the blue quail carry
lead like Marshal Massena, and are much harder to kill than the
bob-white. Three men working together can get shooting enough out of a
bunch--the chase often continuing for a mile, when the covey gradually
separate, the sportsmen following individual birds.

Where the prickly-pear cactus is thickest, there are the blue quail,
since that is their feed and water supply. This same cactus makes a
difficulty of pursuit, for it bristles with spines, which come off on
your clothing, and when they enter the skin make most uncomfortable and
persistent sores. The Quartermaster had an Indian tobacco-bag dangling
at his belt, and as it flopped in his progress it gathered prickers,
which it shortly transferred to his luckless legs, until he at last
detected the reason why he bristled so fiercely. And the poor dog--at