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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 99 Purdey itself took over, and once Bob finally tumbled his first bird, we both knew that the doves of northeast Georgia were in trouble. For the next hour and a half, doves fell from the clear Georgia sky like Newton's apples. I even dropped four or five more myself. Duncan and Chuck saw us coming from a long way off, and by the time we got to them, Bob was well on the way to his 15-bird limit, though I had never before known a limit of birds to be at all important to him. But today it was important—perhaps for the first time in his life. And by the time the sun was brushing the tops of the trees along the far western horizon, and Chuck and Dunc' and the boys were on the road home to South Carolina, Bob and I had wandered back across the field to that little grove of Chinaberry trees, where we sat for a long time watching the sun slip from the clear evening sky as the first stars of the night began to appear. Two young men with two old guns, our shell vests empty, but our souls and spirits and game pouches quite full, thank you. n Editor's Note: Lest anyone become overly concerned about our two itinerant scribes, in the two years since this story was written, they have Butch 'n Sundanced their way across much of North and South America, sometimes together, sometimes apart, from the far western United States to the rivers and plains of Patagonia, leaving in their wakes broad swaths of fins, feathers, fur, and laughter. Michael Altizer's latest books, Nineteen Years To Sunrise and The Last Best Day, can be ordered at SportingClassicsStore.com— click on "BOOKS." Or simply call 1-800- 849-1004. The author always welcomes and appreciates your comments, questions, and input. Please keep in touch at Mike@ AltizerJournal.com. in the field, where the plum-colored shadows stretched farther and farther to the east. "I just can't see 'em like I used to," Bob lamented. Mind you, he wasn't complaining or making excuses, just sharing his day, as he always does so well. Whether from Georgia or Tennessee, Namibia or New Mexico, Alaska or Patagonia, Bob and I have shared our days, our spirits, our prayers, and our brotherhood with one another for years. And today was no different. So here we sat, me with my little A. Hill and Bob with his old Parker, both 16-gauge side-by-sides. Nine birds between us. And all of them, quite uncharacteristically, mine. T he late-afternoon breezes were beginning to build, and I stood for a moment and stretched and took another swig of ice-water. I hadn't felt this good for months. But by now I was almost out of shells, and as I started to make my way over to the truck to re-supply, I had an idea. So I turned back to Bob, took the old Parker from his hands without asking, unloaded it, and headed back toward the truck, where lay as fine a pair of vintage Purdey shotguns as you're likely to find, each waiting faithfully in its big oak-and- leather trunk case. I slid the two little 16s back into their leather gun sleeves and set them on the rear seat of the truck, uncased our Purdeys, slipped them together, stuffed a couple of fresh boxes of low-brass 8s into my vest and strode back over to Bob. "Let's take a walk," I said. I've never seen such a sly and eager grin. Bob stood and took his gun from me without saying a word and emptied a box of shells into his tattered old game belt as we headed up the fencerow, through the open gate and out into the afternoon sun. N ow admittedly, this would be a far better story if I told you that we had only walked a few yards before Bob dropped his first dove of the day. But the truth is that he missed his next four shots. But then, it was as though the old