PART ONE
Al Fowler was riding at the Masters Championship that runs over a number of quail hunting plantations near Albany, Georgia. He was talking with one of the professional trainers that he had become friends with when he was first starting the magazine. They were talking over the dogs they had seen and who they thought the judges might be carrying. It was the typical gallery conversation at a field trial. As they rode along, Al realized that the guy on his left seemed to be listening to their conversation. When Al made eye contact with the man, he stuck out his hand as his horse siddled up to Al’s, “I’m R.J. Smith and this is my son Beau. You’re Al Fowler, aren’t you?”
Al
reached across his horse to shake hands as he sized up the man. He was powerfully built and was wearing
a well-worn pair of brush pants and an equally battered shooting jacket. His horse was extra fancy, like his
clothes his tack was well used but of the best manufacture. He appeared to be a member of the local
plantation set. The young man
riding next to him shared his father’s good looks but without the hard edge of
the elder Smith. As Al nodded to
the son and then remembered who the father was, “Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Last year I judged the Georgia All-Age,
and we used your dog Riverbend Joe as runner-up. That was a really fine performance.” Al always remembered people’s dogs
better than the people, and this time was no different as he could not remember
if Reggie or Beau had been at the trial.
Reggie
held eye contact with Al, “My trainer said that Joe should of won. He claimed he got short changed by a
carpet bagging Yankee judge.”
“I
wouldn’t expect a trainer to say anything else. The fact that Joe beat 98 out of the 100 dogs in the stake
seemed pretty clear to me and the other judge. But he sure as hell didn’t beat the winner.” Al said it in matter of fact way but
left no doubt that he was standing by his decision of the previous winter. Reggie laughed. “Yeah, that’s what my friends who had
ridden the trial said, too.”
Al
laughed along with him and knew that he had just passed some sort of test. And then he remembered something else
about Reggie. He owned a dozen
magazines, a handful of radio stations, and couple of TV stations. Al made a point of getting along with
just about everyone. Through the
dogs and the magazine he had rubbed shoulders with people in all walks of life
including some extremely powerful people.
He was also a good listener and knew instinctively that there was more
that Reggie had to say to him.
“When
are you leaving, Mr. Fowler?”
“Al
is just fine, and I haven’t really decided when I’ll head back to the
North.” Al could have said, “home”
but used the charged North to bait Smith.
Smith
had something in mind, as he ignored the bait, “I’d like you to see Riverbend,
if you’re going to be in town for a couple of days.”
“Sure,
I always enjoy visiting anyplace that has dogs and birds.”
“I
have to go back to Atlanta soon, How about tomorrow morning at 8?”
“Sure.”
“Do
you need directions?” Now Reggie was baiting him, everyone in Albany knew where
Riverbend was. The massive gates
and sign announced it to the world that passed by on the main highway.
“I
think I can find it.”
“Good,
we’ll see you in the morning.”
Reggie
and Beau rode off without further conversation. When Al turned back to the trainer riding next to him the
man was smiling. “You must be able
to walk on water, as I’ve been told that short of Jesus H Christ no one gets
invited onto Riverbend. The talk
among the trainers in town is it’s one of the top five quail plantations in the
whole South.”
Al
just shrugged his shoulders. He
had been invited to some of the greatest ranches and plantations in the
country. Often the owners hoped he
would write about them in the magazine.
Few of them were crass enough to broach the subject, however, when the
places he visited were doing something interesting as far as managing their
quail population, he wrote about it.
When all they wanted was an article that would stroke their egos and
they could show their guests, he didn’t.
At
quarter to eight, he pulled his rig in through the fieldstone pillars from
which the Riverbend sign hung. As
the drive approached the main house, an antebellum mansion that had either been
restored or spared the fate many of the homes in the area had suffered in the
Civil War, the trainer who had run Riverbend Joe under him stepped out into the
drive, Al stopped and rolled down his window.
“Morning
Mr. Fowler, Mr. Smith and Mr. Beau are down at the kennel. I’m supposed to bring you along.” Al wracked his brain and then came up
with the name, Jim Wilson.
“Do
you want to hop in, Jim. Or are you just going to point me in the right
direction.”
“If
you don’t mind sir, I’ll take a ride.
It’s almost half a mile to the kennels.”
Wilson
walked around and got into the passengers seat of Al’s truck. Once they were rolling again and Jim
had him headed down the road to the kennel, Al couldn’t resist playing the
devil. “I heard yesterday, that I
got it wrong last year at the Georgia Championship.”
The
best dog trainers could communicate with a dog with a simple touch of their
hands or a slight change in the tone of their voice. Communicating with people was always much, much harder for
many of them. Wilson visibly
blushed and stared down at his hands.
“Well, sir, I sure would have liked to have been winner, and I had to
tell the Boss something, when he asked why we didn’t win.”
Al
looked at him and laughed lightly, “If I had your boss, I would probably have
said the same thing.”
Then
they both laughed, they were now coconspirators. Equals in the face of the Reggie Smiths of the world. They quickly arrived at the kennel and
barn. A pair of mules was hitched
to a traditional dog wagon and a black man was loading dogs into the wagon
another was holding three horses.
Reggie
came walking out of the barn with a white man who was obviously an
employee. They walked over to the
truck as Al and Jim got out. Jim
went to help load the dogs and make sure things were set for the morning
hunt. Reggie stuck out his hand,
“Morning Al, this is my plantation manager, Paul Faulkner. No relation to the writer.” Faulkner stuck out his hand without
acknowledging the Boss’s joke. It
was probably well worn. “Now, Al
you got any of your little grouse dogs with you that you want to put on the
wagon. The boys will put any other
dogs you have with you in the guest kennel. We also have a pen, if you want to turn out your spare
horses.”
Two
more black helpers appeared and there was a flurry of activity as dogs and
horses were moved. Al had all his
dogs with him as he was on his way back from Texas. He had them put Bess on the wagon. All the other dogs with him were puppies and derbies and
this wasn’t the time or place for them.
He began the process of saddling his horse.
Two
of the black men were soon at his side offering to help. He much preferred to take care of his
own animals, but this was their job and he didn’t want to buck the plantations
customs. Beau came out of the barn
with a shotgun under each arm.
They were both side-by-sides and they looked to be Purdeys or Holland
& Hollands. Beau put the guns
in the rack on the wagon and walked over to him, “Do you have a gun with you
Mr. Fowler? If not we have a guest
gun your welcome to use.”
“Al
is fine.” He reached into the trailer’s tack room and pulled out the case with
his well-worn Winchester. “It may
look a little shabby next to those. But I haven’t shot anything else in so
long, I’m not sure I could.”
Al
saw a twinkle in Beau’s eye as he pulled the gun from the case and repeated the
old homily in a lowered voice that his father wouldn’t hear, “Beware the man
with only one gun.”
Al,
the two Smiths, and Jim Wilson all mounted and rode down a wagon road quietly
for a few minutes. Al was
impressed by how well manicured the piney woods of Riverbend were. It was obvious that Smith and those
working on his plantation had incorporated all the current best practices in
managing their land for quail.
Food plots and cover abounded and there were signs that the woods had
been burned in the last year or two to improve the natural habitat.
“It
is customary for us to put down a guest’s dog in the first pair out of the
wagon. But if you have no
objection, the second hour of the morning course has been holding a few more
birds.” Al nodded his assent. Although he wasn’t really being given a
choice as the two wagon men were already each bringing one of the plantation
dogs up from the wagon. The senior
Smith continued, “These two are littermates by Joe out of one of our brood
bitches. Beau picked them out of
the litter and they’re doing alright.”
Al
assumed that that was an understatement as Smith would only show his best to a
guest with Al’s credentials.
Wilson blew his whistle and the two almost identical pointers were off
with an impressive burst of speed.
Wilson was a good enough handler to let them have their heads for a few
minutes before he called them back in to start hunting. When the dogs came back down the wagon
road, he spoke to them and one went left and the other right.
Al
and the Smiths followed a little behind Wilson as he handled the two dogs. It was not long before the one on the
left slammed into a perfect point well back off a feed plot. Wilson called to the other dog that
swung around and backed his brother.
It was a moment that had been captured by the best sporting artists of
the last 100 years — the towering pines, the dog wagon with a Labrador retriever
on the seat between the wagon men, the handler and the hunters. Many contemporary artists would give
much to have the opportunity to paint the scene in front of them.
One
of the wagon men came forward carrying Al’s gun and one of the doubles. He handed the double to Reggie and the
Winchester to Al. Being left
handed Al had always found it easier to swing his gun on birds going to his
left and without thinking, he instinctively went to the left side of Wilson. Reggie took the right. Wilson went to the dog and then looked
to Al and then his Boss who had spread out on his flanks. When Smith nodded, Wilson stepped into
the cover and the covey exploded.
Al picked out a cock bird that presented a fairly straightforward shot
and squeezed the trigger of his gun as the barrel pulled in front of the
bird. It was a clean kill and the
bird dropped out of the sky like a stone.
At the same time he heard Smith’s double speak twice. While they were flushing the covey, the
other wagon man had brought the Lab up to retrieve the downed birds. The dog picked up two birds on Smith’s
side before coming to get Al’s.
“Our
birds a little fast for you?”
“Excuse
me.” Al had been thinking just the
opposite. In comparison to the
wild quail of West Texas these birds truly deserved the moniker “Gentleman
Bob.”
“I
only heard you shoot once. I
thought maybe you couldn’t catch up to a second bird.” Smith said this matter of factly but Al
sensed the underlying triumph of a hunter who still regularly kept score.
“I
wasn’t sure of the protocol here and didn’t want to appear too eager to kill
your birds.”
“Hell
sir, that’s what I’ve got them for.
Feel free to blast away.”
“I
will.”
They
went back to their horses, handing the guns back to the wagon man, as Wilson
and the other man let the dogs go once again.
“We’ll
let Beau shoot with you on the next covey. He’s almost as good a shot as I am.”
Al
enjoyed the show that Wilson was putting on with the dogs as they stayed to the
front often crossing simultaneously.
They were not running the kind of race that would win a field trial but
their hunting pattern was above reproach.
This was the case with many plantation dogs whose owners saw them as a
means to an end in the killing of birds.
Dogs like Riverbend Joe were the exception on the plantations of the
South. Few had the talent to adapt
to the differences between a genteel quail hunt and the all out go for broke
ground race that was needed to best a hundred other dogs.
Al
was lost in thought about the nature of bird dogs and field trials when Smith
brought him back to the here and now.
“Do you have a son?”
“Yup,
he’s an investment banker in Boston.”
Smith
gave a glance at his son that Al really couldn’t read and then continued. “Then you’ll understand my
problem. Beau here is finishing
his master’s degree in literature and writing at Duke this semester.”
“Congratulations.” Al offered to Beau.
“Thank
you, sir.”
Smith
ignored the interchange. “In fact,
he’s doing his thesis on Nash Buckingham.
His premise is that those good ol’ boy stories about hunting and field
trials are a unique form of Southern literature.”
There
was a hint of pride in Smith’s voice, but there was something else as
well. “I’ve always intended to
turn the business over to Beau.
He’s my only son by my first wife and I’ll probably be long dead by the
time his half brothers are ready to come into the business.”
“Point!”
Wilson called from the front as one of the dogs stacked up by another patch of
cover. They repeated the tableaux,
this time with Beau taking the right side and leaving the left to Al. On the flush, Al quickly picked out one
of the lead birds and dropped it, then swung on a second with the same
result. He was pretty sure that
Beau fired twice as well. He hoped
Beau had not missed. Al was obviously
here for some reason that was as yet unrevealed and felt that somehow he and
Beau would both be a part of it.
