We got up before dawn to let the dogs out of their travel crates and greet the new day—the first morning of a long-awaited January quail hunt in southeastern Arizona. Steve McMorran and I had left the cold and snow of Montana three days earlier; now, 1,400 miles from home, we were camped in the Sulphur Springs Valley near Willcox. We had stopped in southern Utah to pick up Steve’s twenty-year-old daughter, Jamie, who wasn’t planning on bird hunting but wanted to poke around the desert with us.
We weren’t exactly camped in a wilderness, but Willcox was thirty miles away and we didn’t expect to see anyone but possibly another hunter or two or a cowboy out checking his cattle. We had passed some houses in a small settlement on the main road several miles away, which we assumed were occupied by ranch hands or employees of the nearby state prison at Fort Grant.
Standing in the darkness waiting for the dogs to stretch their legs, I saw off in the distance headlights moving in our direction. Quail hunters getting an early start to avoid the mid-day heat? Javelina hunters? I was surprised to see other hunters on the move so early in this out-of-the-way place. Surprise turned to disappointment when I saw a second set of headlights, then a third and a fourth. “Steve, I can’t believe it,” I said. “We just drove 1,400 miles to get to the middle of the Chihuahuan desert and the place is crawling with hunters.”
“I guess we’d better roust Jamie and go hunting while there’s still a few quail left,” he replied.
Despite daytime temperatures that often reach seventy degrees in mid-winter, the Arizona desert gets cold at night. Where we were camped, at an elevation of 4,000 feet, it usually freezes. Mornings are chilly until the sun has been up for an hour or so.
By the time we brewed coffee, the sun was peeking over the Pinaleno Mountains to the east. I had hunted the area before, so I suggested we drive a mile down the road to an area where I had found scaled quail in previous years. Scalies get their name from the black markings on their breast and belly that form a scalloped pattern. Often called blue quail or cottontops, these sleek birds have a bluish- gray appearance when they’re hot-footing across the desert or in flight. They lack the comma-shaped topknot of the Gambel’s quail, Arizona’s most common species. Instead they have a bushy, white- tipped crest, hence the nickname “cottontop.”
Just as we pulled off the dusty track near a stock tank, an official-looking truck roared up behind us. Two men with guns and badges jumped out. “Jeez,” said Jamie, “these Arizona game wardens sure are aggressive.” But a quick look at the truck dispelled the notion we were in for a license check. Instead of Arizona Game and Fish Department, it said Arizona Department of Corrections.
After an inspection of our truck satisfied them we weren’t harboring fugitives, the older of the two, a dead ringer for Wilfred Brimley, explained the situation. “We’ve got two convicts out here,” he growled. “They cut a hole in the fence at Fort Grant last night shortly after dark and they’ve been on the run ever since. We’ve been trailing ’em with bloodhounds all night.”
“You mean these guys have been loose out here while we’ve been asleep in our tent?” I asked.
Wilfred spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped his white walrus mustache with the sleeve of his coat. “’Fraid so.”
“Do you want us to pack up and leave?”
“No, that won’t be necessary just yet. But you need to go back to your camp and lock up any food, water, clothing, or weapons—we don’t want them to get ahold of anything that’ll help ’em escape.”
The radio crackled in the truck and Wilfred barked, “Get that, Sam.”
His sidekick, a young guy who looked more like a college student than a prison guard, hustled back to the cab. When he emerged he pointed toward brown hills several miles distant. “See the canyon that comes down beneath that big gray rock outcrop? That’s where the dogs are now. They’re headed this way.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. She asked the question that was on all our minds. “So are these guys killers or bank robbers, or what?”
“No, they’re in for drug trafficking—but we consider them dangerous,” said Wilfred.
“Is it okay if we keep hunting?” asked Steve.
“Yes, once you get your food and gear secured. But keep your eyes open and be sure to keep your truck locked. You’ll see us around. We have several vehicles in this area. We’ll catch ’em—it’s just a matter of time.”
With that, they jumped in their truck and took off, leaving us looking at each other in disbelief. On the way back to camp we discussed our options. Pack up and leave? Keep hunting? Sit in camp with loaded shotguns? Finally we decided to hunt until noon, then re-evaluate. We’d be hunting in open country where it would be hard for anyone to sneak up on us, let alone convicts clad in orange jumpsuits. But we were certain of one thing: if they weren’t caught we’d break camp before nightfall.
Once we’d stowed our food and water in the truck and returned to our hunting spot, I let my Brittany, Groucho, out of his travel crate. I knew he’d point quail, but I wondered aloud if he’d point jailbirds. We laughed nervously, hoping we wouldn’t find out.
Steve had never hunted quail so I explained the drill. “Keep an eye on Groucho—if he points, or if he’s out of sight and his bell stops, we have to get there in a hurry. These scalies are runners and they’ll be moving ahead. If you see them, rush in and try to get them to fly. Once we break up a covey the singles will hold tight. That’s when we’ll get our best shooting.”
Typical Arizona scaled quail habitat lay before us: open grassland interspersed with occasional prickly pear cactus, soapweed yucca, “wait-a-minute” thorn, and scattered shrubs and mesquite trees. We had walked only about a quarter of a mile when Groucho veered sharply to the left, pointed, then resumed a stealthy walk. I motioned to Steve and Jamie to follow him. The start-and-stop routine continued for seventy yards — then the covey flushed at the edge of shotgun range. We marked them down and had just started to move ahead when a lone quail buzzed up in front of Steve and Jamie. Startled, Jamie jumped two feet in the air. Laughing at Jamie, Steve hadn’t fired a shot.
Jamie smiled sheepishly. “Dang, that thing scared me. That was a quail, right?”
“Naw, that was one of those jailbirds they’re looking for,” Steve kidded. “How am I supposed to shoot a quail if you’re jumping over the moon every time one takes off?”
In truth we were all a little keyed up. Jamie’s reaction broke the tension and gave us a good laugh.
“Let’s get after the covey,” I said. “If Groucho points a bird or if we kick one up, there should be more in the area. We’ll want to work back and forth several times.”
We hadn’t gone 300 yards when Groucho wheeled and pointed. This time Jamie hung back while Steve moved in, shotgun ready. A quail skittered out of the bunchgrass and Steve bagged his first blue quail. I took a step and two birds flushed off to my left; I dropped one with the improved cylinder barrel of my Browning 12 gauge and missed the other.
Groucho was occupied with Steve’s quail, so I hurried to the spot where I had seen mine fall. Blue quail are notorious escape artists; if they aren’t hit hard they’ll streak away into the desert. This one, though, was dead and lying in plain sight. Groucho delivered Steve’s bird to me, nuzzled the one already in my hand, and bolted away to chase down more of the alluring scent.
We circled the area a few times and flushed several more singles. Steve collected one and missed another, while I got one and missed two more. I always marvel at how fast a blue quail can make its getaway. Coming from Montana where my late-season hunting consists of pheasants and mallards I’m not ready for a seven-ounce quail that seems jet-propelled. I know it’s an illusion—quail and pheasants top out at about the same speed and a mallard in full flight will put both in the shade—but their small size and explosive flush make blue quail tricky targets. Once I’ve had a few days to adjust, my shooting gets better.
After walking another hour we crossed a sandy wash; Groucho came to a sudden halt on the far side. As we hurried ahead a small covey lifted in good gun range. We each shot twice and brought down a bird apiece. During the next twenty minutes we located a few singles but the rest of the covey melted away into the desert.
By now the morning had begun to heat up. Despite several drinks from our water bottles, Groucho was hot and panting hard. It was time to get back to the truck and find a stock tank where he could take a swim.
Driving back to camp we ran into the prison guards again. Wilfred gave us a progress report. “The convicts are out of the canyon and headed south along the base of the hills,” he said, pointing to the low line of hills a scant half-mile from our camp. “We’ve got a couple dozen men in the brush out there waiting for them.”
Back at camp we laid our quail in the shade and opened cold drinks. We kept our guns loaded. I let my black Lab, Jenny, out of the truck to stand guard, despite her propensity for licking strangers’ faces. At least she has a loud bark, I reasoned. Steve made sandwiches while Jamie stood on the truck tailgate with binoculars and gave us a blow-by-blow account of the action.
“I can see three guys—no, four guys—in camouflage getting out of a truck. They’ve got guns. Now they’re walking into the desert.” We all had a turn with binoculars, and sure enough, we could see several vehicles deployed at strategic points along the range of hills. This was getting interesting. I half expected to hear bloodhounds baying in the distance.
A half hour passed, then an hour. We started to wonder if Wilfred’s confidence about catching the convicts had been more for our benefit than a realistic assessment. Then Jamie announced, “I see a bunch of guys walking back toward the truck. Hey, they’re all coming out!”
“That means one of two things,” I said. “Either they’ve got the convicts or they’re giving up. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Before long our friends from the prison stopped by to give us the news—they had captured the escapees. I felt like hugging Wilfred, but I shook his hand instead. It would be a major understatement to say we felt relieved. We didn’t want to break camp and leave all those blue quail behind.
That night, to celebrate, we marinated our quail in Italian dressing and grilled them over mesquite coals. Accompanied by fried potatoes and onions, salad and a good bottle of wine, they were the perfect antidote for the jailhouse blues.