went to other
winter feeding grounds, except during years when there was a plentiful
sweet mast. This bend was about midway between the ranch and Shepherd's,
contained about two thousand acres, and was heavily timbered with ash,
pecan, and hackberry. The feeding grounds lay distant, extending from
the encinal ridges on the Las Palomas lands to live-oak groves a hundred
miles to the southward. But however far the pigeons might go for food,
they always returned to the roosting place at night.

"That means pigeon pie," said Uncle Lance, on receiving Glenn's report.
"Everybody and the cook can go. We only have a sweet mast about every
three or four years in the encinal, but it always brings the wild
pigeons. We'll take a couple of pack mules and the little and the big
pot and the two biggest Dutch ovens on the ranch. Oh, you got to parboil
a pigeon if you want a tender pie. Next to a fish fry, a good pigeon pie
makes the finest eating going. I've made many a one, and I give notice
right now that the making of the pie falls to me or I won't play. And
another thing, not a bird shall be killed more than we can use. Of
course we'll bring home a mess, and a few apiece for the Mexicans."

We had got up our horses during the forenoon, and as soon as dinner was
over the white contingent saddled up and started for the roost. Tiburcio
and Enrique accompanied us, and, riding leisurely, we reached the bend
several hours before the return of the birds. The roost had been in
use but a short time, but as we scouted through the timber there was
abundant evidence of an immense flight of pigeons. The ground was
literally covered with feathers; broken limbs hung from nearly every
tree, while in one instance a forked hackberry had split from the weight
of the birds.

We made camp on the outskirts of the timber, and at early dusk great
flocks of pigeons began to arrive at their roosting place. We only had
four shotguns, and, dividing into pairs, we entered the roost shortly
after dark. Glenn Gallup fell to me as my pardner. I carried the gunny
sack for the birds, not caring for a gun in such unfair shooting. The
flights continued to arrive for fully an hour after we entered the
roost, and in half a dozen shots we bagged over fifty birds. Remembering
the admonition of Uncle Lance, Gallup refused to kill more, and we sat
down and listened to the rumbling noises of the grove. There was a
constant chattering of the pigeons, and as they settled in