Sitting Duck

                                            

                           Everybody thinks this story is about ducks.

                                                       It isn't.

                           It's about the day we damn near got fired.

 

"What's he doing now."

Goddam smartweed. Struggle to free my boot from sticking clay.

"Can you see him?"

Miniature wave ripples across the pond. Breaks against a tule patch.

"Just figured out why a sitting duck is the same thing as ground sluicing."

That's Gene. His voice is deep. Floats from the tule patch. Set to it. Splash across to the patch. Stop. Catch my breath.

"What?"

"Bet you didn't know that."

Voice is low. Quiet. Gene always finds it hard work. This thinking. 

"Lots of expressions are like that. Takes figurin' to get 'em. Danged if this isn't a good 'un though."

"What are you gibbering about?"

Push through head high tules. Fight their clinging grasp. Bathtub size opening where we'd tramped down the stalks. Huge hand reaches up. Pushes Jones cap back, Rubs bald spot on his head.

"Ground sluicing, shooting a bird on the water, that's shooting a sitting duck. Makes it a dead duck. Get it?"

Body leans to one side, then the other. Frees booted feet from sucking mud.

"Used that expression all my life. Watching those mudhens rafted up over there against the check when it come to me. They're sitting ducks. Never thought about it like that."

Pushes his head forward.

"A sitting duck. Get it?"

Toss the drake gadwall with other ducks piled on some mashed down tules. Study him a minute. Gene's my best friend. Good hunter. Good companion. Has my back. Thinking's not his strong suit. Can't help myself.

"Sure it isn't Indian? Sounds to me like it could be Indian. Like Sitting Bull or Standing Horse."

Massive head withdraws. Tilts back. Eyes squint. Study me.

"You're a foolin' with me. Ain't you?"

"It was just a thought. What's the boss doing?"

"He's over there. On the check. Squatted down."

Leans forward. Spits. Shifts his feet. 

"Pretty near fifteen minutes. Just stares at his blind."

Shakes his head. Tugs at his hat brim.

"Didn't think this was going to work. Bet we end up getting fired."

Shit! Doubt we'll actually get fired but could get downright unpleasant for a while. 
Not sure what should have done different. All started like it always does. 

"Take me hunting." 

Get it all the time. Try to ignore the request. Sometimes, just a curt "no". Sometimes, "When it gets good, we'll call you." But this time it was our boss. Never takes no for an answer - especially from subordinates. Relieved that this was the reason we'd been summoned to the front office. But was at a loss for words. 

"I read in the newspaper that this is a bumper year for ducks." 

He piles it on. I study the floor. Look for a way out.

"Everybody tells me that you two are great duck hunters. I haven't been duck hunting in years. I want to try it, again."

Glance at Gene. Frowns. Blinks. Shifts size fourteen boots. Not much help. 

"When?"

"How about this weekend." 

"Wednesdays are better. Of course we'd need the day off."

The boss has these bushy eyebrows. Kinda like big fuzzy caterpillars. Has this way of looking under them and then to one side when he doubts what he's hearing. Gives me the look.

"Next Wednesday it is."

Sigh. Glance at Gene. Opens, then closes mouth several times. Looks at me. Turns. Walks out of the room with his head down. I follow close behind. Get outside. Stands. Shuffles his feet. Wrings his hands.

"I can't believe it. What we going to do? Can't take him to the Refuge." 

Has a point. We hunt public shooting areas of the state wildlife refuges, not organized duck club boss envisiones. Oh well.

"Not to worry big fellow. It'll be fine. We get the day off, right? Going on a Wednesday. Won't be much pressure. Walk right in. Little luck we can be all alone on our favorite pond." 

Gene squints his eyes in concentration. Listens to me run my mouth.

"Need to build one of those camo blinds like we used to make out of ski poles and burlap. Can sit him down on a tule stool and he'll think he's at a duck club."

Got his eyes shut. Sways back and forth. Huge head bobs cadence to my voice.

 "Put them together this weekend. Be good to go."

And we were. Worked slick. Set up on our favorite pond hour before sunup.
Nobody else around. Clear and sunny forecast encourages most hunters to stay home. Got the boss and blind stashed in the pond's sweet spot. Gene burrows into the center of a tule patch fifty yards away. I claim a smaller clump of tules another thirty yards out. 

Got two dozen decoys in open water fronts the boss. Another dozen scattered amongst some smartweed each side of his blind. Sun comes up and birds start working. Not a lot. But steady. Couple hours in Gene and I have bagged a few birds. Boss hasn't fired a shot.

"What's he doing now. Can't see him."

Shifts his bulk in the mud. Stretches his neck. Looks over the tules.

"Just sits there squatted down on the check."

Hesitates. Thinks. Quits eyeing the boss. Turns to me.

"You know, earlier. Had some widgeon working right over his blind. I hollered: 'Over you! Straight up.' Could see the burlap on his blind bulge like he was moving around. But, he didn't shoot." 

Takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Frowns.

"Then another flock of widgeon start working . Shit. Weren’t a stone throw over his head. So I holler again, 'Over you! Right over you!' Didn't see no bulges this time." 

Sighs. Looks down. Shifts his feet.

"No shots. No words. Nothing. That's when I saw him over on the check. Just a sitting there. I can't believe it. Think we ought to go talk to him?"

Wade over to the check. Climb out of the waist deep water. Crouch down beside him. 
Doesn't say shit. Ignores us. Stares fixedly at the burlap blind. Got a bloody handkerchief wrapped around his right index finger. Gene breaks off a tule stem. Chews on it. I trace designs in the mud with my forefinger. 

"Just studying it."

Breaks the silence. Voice barely audible. Stares at the blind.

"Damn thing's trying to get me. But, I ain't going to let it."

"What thing?"

Turns those eyes on me. Caterpillars crawl across his forehead.

"The blind, you idiot. What thing did you think?"

Gene pulls the tule stem from his mouth. Examines the frayed end. I braid a couple of green tule stalks. Watch blood drip from the finger. Mix with the mud.

"Look. I did what you said. I put the stool in the opening and managed to get myself and my gun around the stool and into the blind." 

Grunts. Turns. Stares at the blind.

"Goddam burlap kept flapping me in the face. Didn't leave much room to sit, hold my gun and look for ducks."

His head swivels. Eyes lock on mine.

"When that first group of widgeons came over, I tried to jump up off of the stool, get my gun free of the blind and get on the birds."

Sighs. Hangs his head. Studies his handkerchief wrapped hand.

"Damn gun gets tangled in the blind when I go to turn. Stool trips me. Try to catch myself on the blind. Burlap comes loose from the pole. Go headfirst into the water. Lose my gun on the way down. Ends up at the bottom of the pond in the mud." 

Sucks in a breath, eyes glare out from under the caterpillars.

"Try to get the mud out of my gun. Put in some dry shells. Damn finger slips. Gets caught in the bolt when it closes."

Raises his bandaged hand.

 "Took a hunk out of my finger."

Gene takes the tule stem from his mouth. Frowns.

 "I always face the open part of the blind. Pretty hard to shoot with your gun and head stuck in that burlap."

"About decided that myself. Too bad you weren't as helpful earlier."

Gene hangs his head. Resumes chewing.

"Widgeon working."

 Whisper. Watch from corner of my eye. Pair has broken off from a larger flock. wheel in lazy circles above our set.

Suddenly, from far side of our pond beyond the check. A shot. Widgeon flare. Coots erupt from where they've been rafted up next to the check. More shots. Two coots drop at the edge of our pond. Two men appear on top of the check. Talk excitedly to each other. Point at the coots. Our decoys. Drop into our pond. Thrash through the water towards the downed coots. 

Gene stands up. Bellows.

 "I can't believe it. What in the Sam Hill are you fellows doing? Can't you see we're set up here?"

The pair looks up from retrieving their birds. Wave at Gene. He takes a deep breath, shouts again.

"You! I'm talking to you! What do you think you're doing?"

The two men look at each other. Then turn. Hold up their coots for display. Fasten the birds to game straps worn diagonally across their chests. Wave once more. Disappear behind the check.

"What language were they talking?"

"Beats me, but it sure ain't English." 

"What do you boys call those birds they were shooting? Been bunched up on the edge of the pond all morning. Some were even swimming around in the decoys."

"Coots. They ain't..." Gene starts.

"Also called Common Gallinule." I interrupt. "Indians had a word for it that roughly translates to 'sitting duck'. Called them that 'cause they could sneak up and shoot them on the water with an arrow." 

Gene looks at me. Eyes wide. Deep frown.

 "A real delicacy for some folks. Skin them. Breast them. Saving them for you later in the day. Make great shooting." 

Gene just stares at me. Mouth hangs open.

 "The best way to hunt them, 'cause they don't fly much, is to have someone circle them and flush them toward you. You know, like they do in Europe, when they drive pheasants?"

Gene sucks in a deep breath. Catches tule stem in the back of his throat. Chokes. Has fit of coughing. Recovers. Pulls the tule stem from his mouth. Looks at it. Shakes his head.

"Sitting ducks?"

"Like I said, we were saving them for later in the day. Gene and I can sneak around them along the far side of that check. Come up on them fast. Flush right over your blind. Should get some good shooting." 

Gene looks at me, eyes wide.

"Best ones are males. You can tell them by the splotch of red at the base of their beak. This is one of the few places in the country that we have Gallinule with red on their beaks." 

Gene shuts his mouth. Blinks rapidly. Shudders. Turn to face him.

"You love those old black birds, don't you, big fellow?"

The boss stares at me. After long moment. Turns away. Looks out over the pond.

"What now?"

"We can hunt some more. Not that late. Might still get a couple birds to work the spread. Let the Gallinule settle down. Then we can go scare them up for you."

Turn to Gene.

"Right, big fellow?"

Gene opens and closes his mouth several times. Answers in low, strained voice. 

"Sure."

Boss slides off the check. Turns. Hesitates. Shakes his head. Slogs back to the blind. 

Gene's got his head down. Studies the frayed tule stem as if it holds the answer. 

"What're we gonna to do? We're in real trouble, here. I can't believe it."

Whack him on the shoulder.

"How 'bout we find him some sitting ducks?" 

                                                   ***

Later that evening, am bent over my kitchen sink, hands bloody to the wrist.

 "Last one."

Hand Gene a filleted breast.

"Thank god." He lays the breast on a paper towel to drain. "You think we're going to get away with this?"

"Well at least we talked him out of having the one with the red patch on it's beak stuffed. That's something."

 Fasten top of plastic bag contains three coot breasts. Gene pats the breast dry with a paper towel. Stuffs it in a plastic bag. Looks off. Frowns.

"Warden at the check station sure gave us a look when we checked out. Thought he was going to spill the beans."

Yeah. Did give us a look. But kept his mouth shut. Done deal. Move on.

"Say, where's that piece of paper boss scribbled his address on? Got to get these birds over to his place."

Gene wipes his hands on a paper towel. Reaches into his shirt pocket. Pulls out a crumpled piece of note paper. Unfolds it. Reads it slowly. Lips move. Frowns. Lips move again. Eyes squint in concentration. Raises his head from the paper. Hands it to me with a blank look.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

Frown. Smooth the paper. Hold it to the light.

"Boys: Thanks! It was a fine hunt. I had a great time. You may want to work on your bird identification, though. When I was a kid we called Gallinule, mudhens, and rice farmers would buy us shells if we would come shoot them on their property. You are the first I ever knew to eat them. Since you like them so much, you keep them. Just bring a mallard and a widgeon to work tomorrow. --- Thanks  again."