Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/433799
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 6 5 S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 6 5 Congress, where he serves with distinction, a living terror to his colleagues who have managed to keep their sundry indiscretions out of the press, mostly. But I digress. Don't cry for me Argentina, I will cry for you. The long drives to the dove fields, the gauchos hooked over coffee outside the daybreak cantinas, saddles tied and bundled waiting for a ride to the next batch of steers, and where the baños in the truckstops say Donas or Caballeros (Ladies or Horsemen). The short hops on Areolinas, the national airline, where they mostly fly on time. The money spent, the powder burned, the great clouds of palomas, the shotguns too hot to touch. Brush and snarl-wood and kindling vines kicked together and fired for a field lunch of suckling goat, dove breasts, and flatbread, the white-linen- topped table in the shade and yes, it is perfectly kosher to drink local Chablis and still shoot, but you may not shoot quite so well. Cheaper than a south Georgia quail shoot but I gotta get there first. Too stove for a sardine seat, and lawdy . . . business class to Izieza will eat you alive. But maybe I could swing it if I shook the money bush hard. Real hard. I was dreaming of Argentina when the telephone rang. It was Wick, sometimes boss, always friend, fresh back from a hunt for driven partridge in Spain. "The shooting was mighty good," he drawled, "but if I'da known what they were fixing to charge me per bird, I wouldn't have shot so many." He told me the number, which I won't disclose, but will say it would have bought a barrel of very good whiskey. "I got this sunflower field and we got birds coming in every evening. Can't say for sure if it will be worthwhile, but we gonna try it on Saturday. You welcome to come." "Where's that field?" "Down at Pinckney Colony." Pinckney Colony was where a lot of my kin hid out after the Yankees shelled and burnt Charleston. There were shrimp and oysters, fish, turkeys, and deer, so at least they could eat. "Pinckney Colony? How can I possibly say no?" "I reckon you can't. You welcome to bring the boy." The boy, Number Two of three. Number one was off and running and Two was just coming to the gun. He rifled a wild hog in Texas, knocked over a fat doe with buckshot in Carolina, and now it was time to break him in on birds, and a dove shoot is a perfect way to do it. Give him a jug of water, a box of low-brass eights, and a double gun. couple side-by-sides yields a mess of doves that creates a delicious appetizer. A