AND ONE MORE MAKES
We were in the
middle of one of three hides spread across two miles of shoreline that day. Dr.
Rieveschl and Harold McGregor, hunting a mile to the northwest of us, got their
limit of five geese each by 10:30. Harry Loynd, Irving Winkler and Nick
Laskaris were hunting to our southeast with Jimmy Cheecho. They had 10 more by
noon. By then I had three geese and my day's limit of eight ducks, mallards and
In the next two
days the score of geese mounted and mounted until, on the third afternoon, our
last in camp, 48 geese had been shot, of which four had been roasted for dinner
one night; 16 more would fill the 10-geese possession limits for our six
The hunters went
out at 4 that last afternoon and in an hour had 15 geese. One to go. If a flock
came in, who would shoot?
spotted the answer—a lone goose hundreds of yards away, high, bound for
somewhere far. Jimmy piercingly invited him in. The goose kept going on. Jimmy
pleaded and cajoled, held out he alone knew what inducements and one of them
touched this goose at least momentarily. He turned toward the hide, looking
down, 200 yards, 100, 80—and then in a manner plainly saying to hell with it he
banked abruptly and went the other way. No one will ever know what Jimmy
Cheecho said to that goose then, but it was different from any other call,
strident and insistent, a direct order. The goose obeyed. He banked again, set
his wings, coasted in. He was the 60th.