It was one of those golden autumn days you read about and, as they worked their way through the stand of bluestem grass and past the little plum thicket at the bottom, Dean couldn’t help but smile at Maggie, the pup, bouncing along with all the exuberance of a youngster who had just been turned loose to run wild on the playground. When the rooster “kook-kook-kooked!” out of the grass in front of her, she stopped, stunned, then growled and started to chase. Billy’s 20-gauge barked, the bird dropped, and she stopped, looked back at him over her shoulder, and then approached the thing thrashing weakly in the deep grass with a high level of trepidation and skepticism.
“Hunt dead!” Billy called, but of course she had no reference point for that yet. After a moment, she retreated to Billy, unsure of what the thing was and whether or not she should have anything to do with it. Billy picked up the bird and held it under her nose; she snuffled and seemed mildly interested but still perplexed. He laid the bird on the ground, walked away, pointed to it. “Fetch!” Maggie looked that way, back at him, then sat.
“Don’t worry. She’ll get it,” Dean laughed. Billy slid the bird into his game pocket and they walked on. On the way back out, a second rooster they must have walked over flushed. Dean centered it with the right barrel of his old Fox and brought it down. This invoked another confusing round of actions for Maggie. Dean retrieved his bird, thinking, One each. At least neither of us gets skunked this day.
Billy had come up from Texas with Maggie. She was just six months old; he hadn’t waited long to get another dog after he’d had to put Sara down last fall. Billy had wanted to get her on some birds before heading to South Dakota for his annual week-long hunt with his old college buddies. He had been working with her in the yard and on a few quick trips out into the country, but he figured a pheasant wing on a string was a poor substitute for live birds and, even though she hadn’t yet figured things out, he really wanted to take her along.
“The only way I know to make a bird dog is to take her out and just do it,” Billy said. Dean wasn’t sure he agreed, but she wasn’t his dog; she was Billy’s to train as he saw fit, right or wrong. Dean was always happy to see the boy and he was just as excited about the new pup as Billy was, and he was pleased to take the lad and his dog out to a few of his favorite hunting spots. He was glad they’d found these two birds, and he hoped he could put them on a few more before Billy had to head back.
They turned toward Dean’s truck and, as they walked along the worn two-track, two more birds flushed far ahead, flying a short distance over a fence and ducking into the cover. Dean wasn’t able to get a good look to see if they were hens or roosters, but he marked them down.
“That’s the McCallum place,” Dean said. “John and I have been friends for years, and I’ve hunted that parcel more times than I can count. Let’s go see if we can roust those two.” He handed his gun to Billy and crawled over the barbed wire being careful not to snag his pants. Billy handed him the two guns and stepped nimbly over.
Dean saw the trucks as soon as they topped the hill—new, shiny, black and coming fast. They were identical: four doors, 4-wheel drive, windows tinted dark. As they pulled up in front of him, he hung his open shotgun in the crook of his left arm, thumbed his hat back, and turned his face away from the dust cloud. The doors all seemed to open at once. Two produced several young-looking fellows and the third the driver of the lead truck. He was a bit older, a new-looking Resistol straw on his head, clean jeans, white shirt, good boots. Dean saw the rack in the back window: a bolt action rifle and an autoloading shotgun. The driver strode confidently toward Dean.
“Howdy,” Dean said. The driver didn’t acknowledge the greeting as he walked over. “Looks like you guys are bird hunting. Do you know where you are?”
“Yep, sure do!” said Dean. “I’m Dean Phillips; that’s my nephew Billy over there, with little Maggie and this is the McCallum place.”
“Not anymore,” the driver said. “My name is Willis. Ben Willis. And you’re on my land.”
“Uncle Dean…,” Billy started.
“It’s OK Billy,” Dean said. “Just hang on.”
He stepped over closer to the man. Willis looked at the pheasant feathers Dean and Billy had sticking out of the pouches in their vests. “Shoot those birds on my land, didja?” the man asked. “No sir,” said Dean. “We got them in that walk-in patch down the road. Then we kicked up a couple out of the barrow ditch and we followed them in here. That’s how we came to be in this field. And I wonder if you know where you are? Maybe you got confused. I’ve known the McCallums for years; John and I hunted together for many years before his legs got so bad it was hard for him to walk. This is the old McCallum home place, and I don’t believe it’s ever been for sale. If it was, I believe I’da been one of the first to know. You got any proof on you to that affect?”
“No, I don’t carry paperwork like that around, and I don’t believe it’s my obligation to prove anything to you. I don’t know or care anything about your relationship with John McCallum,” Willis said, “but I do own this land now and I do know that you’re trespassing. If you’d rather, we can let the law sort it out. I’ll take your word on the two you’ve got, but I don’t care where you say those other birds came from, if they flew onto my land, they’re my birds, so you and your boy there had best just move along. I don’t want to have to call the warden, and I really don’t have time to sit around here waiting for him to show up.”
“Hold on,” Dean said. “No reason to get in a huff; it’s just an honest misunderstanding. How would I know I can’t come on land I’ve hunted for 40 years? This is the first I’ve heard about any of this, so surely you can understand that I’m a little confused, and the whole thing does seem more than a little bit strange, so I’ll be giving John McCallum a call just to verify. But I don’t suppose you made it up, so assuming what you say proves true, I’d sure like your permission to keep hunting here. Suppose we can work that out?”
“Nope,” said Willis. “That’s not going to happen, not unless you want to pay your money just like everyone else. I bought this place for the hunting and I’m turning it into a private preserve. If you want to hunt, you can call my office, reserve a time and pay your deposit. Balance due on arrival on the day of the hunt. I can give you my card.”
“Well, that’s not gonna happen either,“ Dean said. “I don’t pay to hunt; never did, never will. Most folks around here won’t either.”
“I couldn’t care less about that,” Willis said. “The shooters I’m catering to won’t be from around here.”
“Oh, you going to be planting birds then?” Dean asked. “The wild ones are getting kind of few and far between in these parts if you don’t know where to look.”
“That’s not really any of your business, is it.” It was a statement, not a question. “We’re done here. I better not see you here again unless you’ve booked a hunt.”
Dean made a quick count—he, Billy and Maggie on one side, a half-dozen or so on the other—and decided it’d be best if they did what the man said. Not that he would have started anything anyway (as much as he would have liked to), but the odds definitely were not in their favor.
“Billy, let’s go. C’mon Maggie. You boys have a nice day now,” he said, having trouble hiding the sarcasm in his voice. They turned toward the road.
That afternoon, hunting another public spot, Dean connected with a fat prairie rooster that Maggie actually ran to, even though she just stood there and looked back at Billy, unsure of what to do next. “She’s gettin’ there,” Dean hollered, and later she actually raised another herself that they both missed.
“Sorry Maggie. That was good work,” Billy said, praising her lavishly. “I think she’s gonna do just fine up north,” Dean said. He looked to the west where the sky was darkening. “I’m not that crazy about hunting in the rain,” he said. “Let’s get back to the house before she hits; a whisky’ll taste damn good right about now, and I thawed a couple of steaks when I heard you were coming.”
The rain blew in just as he had thought, and they spent the evening in front of the fire, remembering some past times and talking about new ones.
Billy and Maggie left for home the next morning and, with them gone and time to think, Dean’s mind began to wander back over the years that he and John McCallum had hunted together, much of it on that piece of ground, first with John’s old Lab, Hap, and later with pretty Bess, his little setter. Both were buried under that big tree in the far corner. Dean had never been able to get another dog after Bess; he believed that a man was entitled to one perfect bird dog in his life, and Bess was his; he was certain he wouldn’t find another, and he knew he didn’t have the patience for anything less.
He remembered the days when they could hunt just about anywhere they wanted; they knew most everyone around, and permission to hunt was the rule, not the exception. Now, a lot of the fields were leased out for private hunting, and many of their favorite spots were owned by descendants of the old landowners who posted it for use by their own family or friends, or sometimes just because they could.
As hunting access dwindled, John’s place became more and more important. There were spots where a man could grab his gun and go out alone for a couple hours and maybe find a bird or two, and larger areas where a fellow could take some friends and their dogs along. And there was the grass draw at the very back that they had named the Promised Land, tucked up next to a field across the fence with its corn stubble and cattails along the little creek trickling through. That spot seldom disappointed; even in the lean years it nearly always held birds.
Snapping back to the present, Dean reached for his phone, dialed John McCallum’s home number and got a disconnect message. John never had a cell phone. Damn; that’s weird, he thought. Doesn’t seem that long since we talked. I sure hope nothing bad has happened. I gotta run a few errands anyway. I’ll stop by his place and make sure he’s OK.
He nosed the truck toward town, stopped by the hardware store, picked up a prescription at the drive through and then headed over to the McCallum place. As he turned into the long drive to the house there was a cable strung between the gateposts with a “No Trespassing” sign swinging in the breeze. A sign was posted on one of the posts and he read: “Coming Soon: Pheasant Run Private Shooting Preserve.” Underneath was a phone number. “Well, that confirms it I guess,” Dean said under his breath. “I can’t believe John didn’t let me know about this, and where the hell is he, anyway?” He turned for home, confused, a little angry but, most of all, worried.
Dean stewed over it for a day or more, when a text message from a number he didn’t recognize popped up on his phone. “Hey Dean,” it began, “it’s John. Dorothy finally made me get a cell phone. Hope I know how to work it. Sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner. Lots has happened and it’s been a whirlwind. We’re at Briarwood, Apt. C23. Give me a call on this number or just come on by when you can. We need to talk.”
“We sure do!” snorted Dean. He knew Briarwood, a retirement community in the next town over. He started to dial John’s number back, and then he decided to just jump in the truck and head over there. He and John had been friends a long time and he kind of thought he deserved an explanation in person.
The Briarwood complex was pretty confusing. Dean drove around a bit, passing the same things a time or two before he found the building that housed C23. He walked up a cobblestone path to a door, didn’t see a bell, and knocked. The door opened and there was John, in rumpled khakis and a plaid wool shirt and that familiar lop-sided grin of his. He stuck out his right hand and his left reached for Dean’s shoulder.
“Hello Dean,” he said. “Good to see you. I guess you got my text. I’m glad you decided to come by instead of calling. Come on in.”
Dean followed him into the living room, noting that his limp seemed a bit more pronounced than he remembered. He was glad to see the same familiar leather furniture, the same wildlife art adorning the walls; the room seemed just as warm and inviting as the one in the old farmhouse.
“Cup of coffee?” John asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean answered.
“Have a seat. Be right back.” John returned with two steaming mugs, handed one to Dean and took a seat in the big old recliner, raising the footrest under his bad leg. “Well,” he said, “I guess I need to tell you a few things.” Dean didn’t respond.
“Things all happened pretty fast,” he said. “This guy approached me about setting up a private preserve. At first we discussed just leasing him the hunting rights, but pretty soon the conversation swung around to him buying the place. I thought he just wanted the land and I’d keep the home place, but he wanted it all, lock, stock and barrel. Dorthy and I had talked for a while about how we oughta think about moving to town; she’s not doing so well, and we really needed to get her closer to her doctors. And as you know, it’s been a while since I could do the things out there that I really love to do.
“The upshot is, not to sound like Marlon Brando or anything, but he made me an offer I just couldn’t refuse, and he wanted us out quick. Dot and I started looking for a place to go and there just wasn’t a lot available. This place came open and I knew we’d have to commit fast or we’d lose it. There was so much to do, and we just didn’t have time for phone calls and the like.
“Luke and Danny came back and helped us move. What a chore! I never realized we had so much stuff. I guess that’s what living in the same place for most of your life will do. I don’t know how we would have made it happen without them. I’ll miss the old place, but you know, I really won’t miss keeping the weeds down, moving the snow, all that. So tell me, have you hunted out there this year? Find any birds?”
Dean took a deep breath. John’s explanation made sense, of course, but he wasn’t happy about how it all went down, even though, deep inside, he knew he had no right to be upset. His friend had done what he had to do and had done it the best way he knew how, just as he himself would have done in any similar situation.
Dean took his time, measuring his words. “I get it John,” he said finally. “I’m not real good at change, you know, but I understand that nothing stays the same forever. I hate to think of you not being there, but I do hope everything has worked out the best for you and Dorothy. Selfish, I know, but I’ll sure miss hunting that old ground. My nephew Billy and his new pup had just stepped onto the place when the new guy came roaring up with his entourage and ran us off. So no, I haven’t hunted it, and I won’t be unless I want to pay for it. And you and I both know that isn’t going to happen.”
John stared at Dean for a moment before he dropped his head and a slow, quiet chuckle slipped out. It annoyed Dean when John started laughing.
“What the hell’s so funny?” Dean asked angrily. “The guy is a real jerk, all high and mighty, and he treated us like we were something he needed to scrape off the sole of his boot.”
“Sorry Dean,” John said, “I sure didn’t plan for it to happen this way. I wish I could have taken the time to talk to you when this was all happening. I’ve got something here you’re gonna want to see.”
He got up from his chair and limped toward the scarred old roll-top desk in the corner. He tilted his head to look through the bottom of his bifocals and began rummaging through a stack of papers there. Finally, he found the document he was looking for and drew it out. He handed it to Dean with a grin.
“Take a look at the ‘Conditions of Sale.’ Page four I think it is.”
Dean flipped through the pages until he found the right section, then read down the page: “1) House and outbuildings sold as is; 2) No warranties given or implied; 3) Liability to be assumed upon signing by purchaser, etc….,” until he came to a passage that read: “Full and unlimited hunting rights to be granted to Dean Phillips and any and all companions he wishes to have with him, for the remainder of his natural life.”
Dean looked at the words for a long time, until finally his eyes drifted up from the page to look incredulously at John, who was still grinning.
“I guess ol’ Willis didn’t read all the terms of the sale,” John said. “He was so anxious to do the deal he could hardly keep his hand from shaking when he wrote the check.”
Dean wasn’t really a big talker, but he was seldom at a total loss for words—until now. John finally cleared his throat and broke the silence.
“You didn’t think I was gonna leave my old partner out in the cold, didja?” he asked. “My lawyer didn’t want to put that in there. He thought it might queer the sale, but I insisted. We’ve shared something special, Dean. There was no way I was gonna let anybody take the place away from you.
“Do you remember the promise I made the first time we hunted that land together? I told you it was yours to hunt whenever you wanted. It was a promise I meant to keep. You just remember some of our good times when you’re out walking that ground. And you remember Bess, and old Hap? I recall you’ve got a nephew or two who might bring a new pup along from time to time. A new dog needs a real place to work, not that public stuff that’s been stomped over a hundred times already.”
Dean sat looking at the paper. Finally he looked up. “John,” he said, “I don’t know what to say. This is something I never expected when Willis informed me that he was the new owner of the place. Thank you, more than I can ever say. I’ll always treat it with the respect it deserves, just as if it were my own.”
John looked down into his coffee cup. “Never a doubt in my mind,” he said.
They sat for a while, the talk between them the kind that only two old friends can share, the coffee mugs refilled a time or two. They talked about the old times, of course, but also about times to come, about hunting and families and a hundred other things. Finally, Dean said, “John, I hate to go. This has been great. You know, the road between us runs both ways. Let’s not let any grass grow on it. And John, what you’ve done for me, I’ll never forget it.”
“You just get a bird or two out there from time to time, and I’ll want to hear all about it; that’ll be payment enough. I hope they’re wild ones, but if you happen to bag a stocked bird that ol’ Willis has brought in, well, things happen, right?”
“I guess they do,” Dean said. “Now, if I can find my way out of your little neighborhood here, there’s a certain landowner who needs to hear from me.”