I think enough time has passed that I can tell this story without fear of electronic surveillance or a full-press audit from the IRS. Some forms of gambling are illegal, but judging by the number of office pools in progress during the NCAA basketball tourney, authorities look the other way when it comes to low-stakes wagers among friends. Wagers, for instance, like who can bag the rooster with the longest tailfeather on opening weekend of pheasant season.
For several years some of the boys staying in the little public campground at the edge of Plentywood, Montana, had such a bet when the season opener rolled around. Most years it was just me, my hunting partner Joe, a couple of friends from Missoula, and the Mueller brothers from Wisconsin. We’d each throw five dollars in the pot and the winner would buy refreshments at the pizza joint in town. It was innocent enough; bragging rights were all that really mattered.
The Mueller brothers, Bud and Bob, traveled first-class in a Chevy Suburban with their German shorthairs, Gunnar and Heidi. They brought a wall tent with a cozy wood stove and always had a cold beer and a good cigar on hand. The Missoulians, Mike O’Brien and Danny Lee, were part-time fishing guides, part-time carpenters, and most-time hunting and fishing bums. Red-haired, bushy-bearded Mike stood north of six feet tall, while his sidekick Danny topped out at about five-four. They traveled in tandem, Danny in a 1980s- era Toyota pickup with a homemade camper, and Mike in an old Dodge diesel pickup camper. Vehicle problems were not unusual for Mike and Danny, so caravanning had its advantages.
One year on the day before pheasant season opened we were sitting in front of our tents soaking up the afternoon sun when a sleek black Ford Explorer pulled into the campground. Bud Mueller was the first to recognize the lone occupant. “Hide the beer and cigars,” he said. “It’s FBI Frank.”
FBI Frank had appeared in camp one day the previous fall, asking directions to Brush Lake. One thing led to another and before we knew it Frank had weaseled a cold beer and a cigar from the Muellers and launched into a windy brag-fest on his pheasant hunting skills. Before he left for the Sherwood Inn in town, our new friend, who claimed to be an FBI agent from Chicago, had wormed his way into our little tailfeather contest.
Worst of all, he had won … sort of. He had showed up late in the afternoon on Sunday with a tailfeather that measured twenty-six inches. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and we figured some dusty stuffed pheasant in one of the local watering holes was now missing a tailfeather, but we couldn’t prove it. We foolishly hadn’t specified the feather had to be attached to a bird to be legal, but that didn’t keep us from asking questions.
Frank’s blow-by-blow account of the day’s exploits rang a little hollow, and as near as we could tell Frank was a dogless hunter. No doubt about it—we trusting Montanans had been snookered. After he left with our money we agreed a rules change was in order—from now on a winning tailfeather would have to arrive in camp with the bird attached.
So, when this year’s conversation with FBI Frank inevitably turned to the tailfeather contest, Bud Mueller was ready: “Okay, but this time the tailfeather comes along with the bird, or no dice.”
“Twenty bucks up front,” chimed in his brother Bob, “and double on a tail over twenty-five inches.” I swallowed hard, wondering what had happened to our comfortable five-dollar bet. Mike and Danny exchanged surprised glances, but nobody spoke a word in dissent.
FBI Frank did his best to look hurt, but reached for his wallet just the same. “Fine with me,” he said. “I’ve got a line on a widow’s place out at Antelope where the birds never get hunted. They’re dying of old age out there,” he said. With that he jumped in his SUV and left in a swirl of dust.
“If he’s an FBI agent I’m a brain surgeon,” said Bud. “He looks more like a mafia guy who’s been relocated in the witness protection program.”
“Where am I going to find forty bucks if he shows up with a twenty-five-inch tailfeather?” asked Danny.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I have a feeling this is going to be your year.” But if the truth were known, I was concerned. Danny had been mired in a lousy run of luck. His truck had broken down on the trip east from Missoula and he’d spent a good chunk of money getting it fixed.
On opening morning we gathered in the Muellers’ wall tent for coffee in the pre-dawn darkness, then dispersed to our respective hunting spots. Joe and I hunted the Frenchman’s Conservation Reserve fields out by Westby near the North Dakota line, while the Muellers tried their luck at a landowner friend’s place south of town. Mike and Danny hunted the public land at Medicine Lake Wildlife Refuge.
Joe’s young Brittany, Robin, went on a pheasant-chasing tear first thing in the morning, but settled down and made some nice points later on. My eight-year-old Brittany, Groucho, an old hand at the pheasant game, performed his usual magic and I had my limit of three birds by 9 a.m.
Back at camp that afternoon we compared notes. Bob and Bud had taken five roosters, but had quit early when Gunnar got friendly with a porcupine. They were still probing his muzzle for quills with a needle-nose pliers, much to Gunnar’s dismay.
Mike had thrashed through the cattails bordering a waterfowl production pond with his golden retriever, Max, and limited out by mid-morning. Danny had had a rough go. His thirteen-year-old springer spaniel, Katie, hurting from arthritic hips, couldn’t push through the thick cover anymore. They’d poked around and flushed a few hens, and Danny had missed a passing shot at a rooster that had flown his way.
All of our birds were young-of-the-year, and therefore distinctly tailfeather-challenged. We saw no sign of FBI Frank, but at the gas station in town we heard he’d hired a local guide.
As is always the case, on the second day of the season, hunting got tougher. The pheasants had been rousted from their usual haunts and the survivors had earned overnight diplomas in Evasive Tactics 101. Joe and I could account for only a bird apiece by noon; the day was warming up so we went back to camp for lunch.
The rest of the crew was already there when we arrived, except for Danny. They told us he had bagged a nice bird—a mature rooster with sharp spurs and a twenty-four-inch tail. But the wing-tipped bird had led Katie on a merry chase, and the excitement of running it down had given her some sort of seizure. Danny was at the veterinarian’s office having her checked out. She seemed okay, Mike said, but her hunting days were clearly numbered.
While we were eating lunch, a landowner friend from Medicine Lake stopped by to say hello. Jon is a breeder of black Angus cattle, wheat farmer, card player, musician, and all-around good guy. As we were rehashing the morning’s events for him, FBI Frank’s black Ford Explorer rolled into the campground. He got out and pulled a rooster with a very long tail from the back of the SUV.
“Better check it for tire tracks,” said Bud.
“Nope, I took it crossing at sixty-five yards with a load of copper-plated fives,” boasted FBI Frank. “You don’t get any closer to a smart old bird like this one. Who wants to do the measuring honors?”
Missoula Mike plucked the longest tailfeather and applied the tape measure. “Twenty-five and a half inches,” he said.
“No one’s going to beat this rooster,” said Frank. “What do you say we settle up right now?”
“Quitting time this afternoon,” Mike replied. “That’s the rule.”
“Okay, see you then.” FBI Frank jumped in the Explorer and roared away.
“Who’s that guy?” asked our landowner friend, Jon. Bob and Bud tag-teamed in telling the story of last year’s questionable tailfeather.
“I was sure hoping Danny’s bird would hold up,” said Mike. “First he has to get his truck fixed, then Katie has a seizure—I know he’s short of cash. Poor Katie deserves to spend her golden years on the couch. George Clymer’s got a litter of springers coming in about a month, and I know Danny’s been talking to him about one of the pups. The tailfeather money would make a nice down payment. Danny and I figured we’d row George down the Blackfoot River a day or two to make up the difference.”
Jon hadn’t said anything while we explained our dilemma, but now he spoke. “There are a couple of big old roosters in the shelter- belt just west of my house. We usually reserve the shelterbelt for the kids, but they’re in Culbertson today. Those two roosters—we call them Fatty and Tubby—are getting downright feisty—one of ’em put the run on the cat the other day. It wouldn’t hurt to teach them some manners. Bring Danny out about three o’clock.”
When we turned in the driveway to the Angus ranch later that afternoon, Jon barked orders like a drill instructor. “Bob, you and Bud go down the middle of the shelterbelt. Dave, you and Joe each take an edge. We’ll post Danny at the far end and Mike can back him up. We’ll see if Fatty and Tubby are in the shelterbelt today. No dogs for this operation; the less noise we make, the better.”
When we neared the end of the shelterbelt, things began to happen. First a covey of Huns roared up and away, then two hen pheasants clattered through the branches. When I stopped for a moment to listen for the telltale sound of pheasants scuttling through the grass, a hen exploded under my feet. I just about jumped out of my boots. For a few seconds, quiet prevailed. Then two big roosters, tails flowing, flailed skyward, cackling their displeasure.
“Take ’em, Danny!” yelled Jon. Danny’s 20 gauge Remington Wingmaster pump barked once, and the first rooster hit the grain stubble adjacent to the shelterbelt with a satisfying thump. Danny didn’t shoot again.
We gathered in a circle and gazed down in awe at the stricken Tubby. Or was it Fatty? The bird had long, sharp spurs and a whopper of a tail. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Mike exploded. “Now that’s a ROOSTER!”
FBI Frank was waiting when we pulled into the campground just as the setting sun began bathing the western horizon in fiery shades of red and orange. He looked like a fox about to pounce on a flock of chickens.
“Hi, boys,” he chirped. “For a minute I thought you might have skipped town. Everyone got their wallet?”
“Yeah, we have our wallets,” said Bud, “but Danny got a rooster this afternoon that just might put yours in the shade. Let’s find out.”
Missoula Mike retrieved the magnificent Tubby from the back of the truck where he had been lying in repose. He carefully extracted the tailfeather and applied the tape. “Twenty-seven inches on the nose,” he announced. “Looks like we have a winner!”
Speechless for once, FBI Frank turned on his heel to leave.
“Hold it,” said Bob, “A tail over twenty-five inches pays double, remember?”
“Double on the longtail,” affirmed Bud, a note of finality in his voice.
Frank hesitated, appeared to measure the distance to his SUV, then thought better of it. He turned around, grudgingly plucked a second twenty dollar bill from his wallet and threw it on the picnic table. The rest of us reached for our wallets and added to the stash. Frank stomped off toward his Explorer, his face as red as a rooster’s cheek patch. “See you next year,” he sputtered.
But FBI Frank didn’t show up in the campground the next year, or in any of the succeeding years. Danny’s springer pup, which he named Angus, turned out to be a crackerjack pheasant dog, and the six of us resumed our friendly five-dollar bet. We took some fine roosters as time went on, some of them no doubt descendants of the revered Tubby, but none of them possessed his prodigious posterior appendage. Tubby was the bird of a lifetime, and no one appreciated that fact more than Danny Lee.