Dirt: Shotgun

17

Achilles set out iron, dark grey trophies,
ten double-headed axes, ten with single heads.
He stepped the mast of a dark-prowed man-of-war
far down the beach and tethered a fluttering dove
atop the pole, its foot looped with a light cord,
then challenged men to shoot and hit that mark...

Homer, The Iliad

1950

The Hudson stopped at the gate to the pasture. Two adults were in the front seat, my grandfather driving, my uncle on the passenger side. Queenie and I shared the back seat. It was my job to get out of the car, without letting Queenie out, and open the gate. I held the gate open while the Hudson drove through, carefully closed it, and got back in the car. The guns were in the trunk, all in sheepskin-lined cases except for my little single-shot .410 — Papaw’s 16 gauge Remington automatic and Uncle Russell’s autoloading 12 gauge.

We followed the faint path up to a fence line where we stopped and we all got out for some preliminary practice. Russell opened the trunk so we could get to our shotguns and ammunition. Uncle Russell gave me some tin cans that I put on fence posts before I could take my shotgun out.

The .410 was a little big for me, but I’d been assured that I would grow into it. My grandfather reminded me of all that he’d shown me in the backyard of the house on the hill: carry the gun with the breech open; never point a gun at a person; keep a gun unloaded until just before you plan to shoot; always keep the safety on; keep an eye on the people you are hunting with.

Finally, after we were facing the fenceline, I with the open shotgun in my left hand, Papaw let me put a shell into the chamber and close the it. He made sure I put the hammer on half-cock and kept the barrel pointed toward the ground. When he said OK, I put the shotgun to my shoulder, resting my cheek on the polished walnut stock. At last, I was looking down the barrel knowing something was going to happen, not like all those backyard practice sessions. This time the hammer wouldn’t just make a snapping sound when it hit the firing pin. I reached up with my thumb and pulled the hammer all the way back. I sighted down the barrel and put the bead right on top of the can. Take a breath. Let a little out and hold the rest in. Steady on the target. Squeeze the trigger.

BANG!

Even though I’d been expecting it, the bang and the kick surprised me. The can didn’t move.

“Try it again, boy.”

I pushed the lever that opened the breech, broke the gun open, and pulled out the empty shell, smelling the sweet gunsmoke and noticing the little wisps that came out of the barrel. I put the warm shell into my left pocket, got a live shell from my right, and reloaded the gun.

“Squeeze the trigger, boy, don’t jerk it.”

I was ready for the bang and the kick this time, but I missed again.

“You just flinched a bit. Keep the stock firm against your shoulder. It won’t hurt you.”

I nodded and got another fresh shell and re-loaded the gun. This time I watched the bead on the can very carefully and saw it wavering around. I waited until it seemed to be swinging towards the can and then I pulled the trigger. This time the can popped up into the air and bounced on the ground on the other side of the fence.

I swung around with a big grin on my face. “I got it!” I said.

“Watch that gun!” both my grandfather and my uncle shouted at me.

“Pay attention to where you point that thing!” my grandfather said.

“Don’t ever point a gun at someone,” my uncle said.

I flushed with embarrassment as I pointed the barrel of the gun to the ground and turned back towards the fence. I never forgot that lesson. But I also never forgot the thrill of hitting that can.

I shot a few more cans off fence posts before my grandfather and uncle got their shotguns out. Then I put my .410 back in the car and started throwing cans for them. When one of them would shout, “Pull!” my job was to throw the can into the air. Not straight up, but away from them, kind of like a quail might fly from them after being flushed. Neither of them missed very often, even when I tried to trick them by throwing off at an angle, or throwing harder or softer.

After a while it was my turn and they talked to me about leading, about sensing how fast the bird was flying and getting a steady swing to the gun just in front of the bird and following through as I pulled the trigger. I didn’t hit very many cans. It was so hard to remember all the things I was supposed to do.

“That little .410’s got the tightest choke I’ve ever seen,” my uncle said. “Shoots like a rifle.”

“Pretty good for squirrels and rabbits,” my grandfather said. “We’ll see about quail.”

They let Queenie, who’d been whining and yipping all this time, out of the back seat. Queenie was my grandfather’s favorite pointer bitch. She was a little fat and a little old, but she had a wonderful nose and could quarter across the field at a steady lope, her nose swinging across the ground, her tail curved up into the air.

We crossed over into another field and began strolling behind her, spread loosely apart. My grandfather and uncle had their shotguns loaded with the safeties on. I had my .410 with the breech open and a shell in the chamber. It rested in the crook of my left elbow the way my grandfather had showed me.

Queenie worked her way up to a pile of brush near the center of the pasture and suddenly froze, quivering, nose pointed at the brush, tail straight behind her, left forepaw off the ground. My grandfather motioned with his hand. I quietly closed the shotgun and held it halfway up towards my shoulder, my thumb on the hammer, my finger outside the trigger guard.

Queenie was beginning to tremble. The .410 felt heavy in my hands.

“Hut! Hut! Hut!”

Queenie jumped forward in a bound. The covey of quail broke skyward in a rattling whoosh. The birds scattered forward, right, left. I brought the .410 the rest of the way up to my shoulder and cocked the hammer in the same motion. I looked down the barrel and tried to find one of the gray, fluttering shapes.

Bang! Boom! Boom! Boom!

I heard my own gun fire once and couldn’t count the times my grandfather’s and uncle’s fired. I saw bursts of feathers in the air and awkward shapes fluttering to the ground and more whirring shapes diving off into the distance and dropping into the tall grass. Queenie ran towards the fallen shapes.

I pulled the spent, warm shell out of the breech and loaded a new one while Queenie brought the birds back to us, carrying them gently in her mouth. The dead ones my grandfather put into the pouch on the back of his hunting jacket. One of the birds was still squirming, struggling to escape.

“This one must be yours,” my grandfather said as he took the bird from Queenie. “Good shooting.”

My grandfather put his shotgun in the crook of his left arm, freeing his left hand to hold the bird’s body. He pinched the bird’s head in the fingers of his right hand and, with a quick shake, snapped the head off. The quail quivered once, then died. He put the bird into the game pouch.

We walked down some of the single birds from that covey and found two more coveys that morning. I shot five or six more times, but was sure that I missed each time. My uncle and grandfather each got several more birds.

Back home we cleaned the birds and confirmed that, yes, it was my little .410 that had winged that crippled bird.

“See here,” Papaw said, showing me the dark pellet under the skin near the breast. “That’s a number 6 shot, all I could find for that .410 down at the hardware store. I was shooting 8’s and they’re a lot smaller. Make sure your grandma knows that was your bird so she cooks it just for you.” Which I did and she did and I ate it crunching the bones and feeling like a hero at the kitchen table, my hands still smelling of the solvent and gun oil I’d used cleaning my shotgun.

All my life I have been unable to recall all of the exact details of that moment, just how it all fit together, the thrumming rush of the birds into the air, the little .410 kicking into my shoulder, the fluttering of the bird to the ground. Later, after many more days in the field with many different shotguns, I reached the point where I could see it all — the beat of the wings against the blue sky, the quick rise into the air and the tailing off at the top of the curve, the bead of the shotgun just ahead of a bird, the trigger pull and shot, the crumpling of the wings and puff of feathers, and erratic fall to the ground. But that was the result of experience and practice.