Rogers leveled his
shot gun at some birds and killed a beautiful one with a top knot on his
head, and colors bright all down his neck. It was a California quail. We
said birds always lived where human beings did, and we had great hopes
born to us of a better land. I told John that if the folks were only
there now I could kill game enough for them.
We dressed our three birds and got them boiling in the camp kettle, and
while they were cooking talked over the outlook which was so flattering
that our tongues got loose and we rattled away in strange contrast to
the ominous silence of a week ago. While eating our stew of crow and
hawk, we could see willows alders and big sage brush around and we had
noticed what seemed to be cottonwoods farther down the canon, and green
trees on the slope of the mountain. We were sure we were on the edge of
the promised land and were quite light hearted, till we began to tell of
plans to get the good people out who were waiting for us beside the
little spring in the desert. We talked of going back at once, but our
meat was too near gone, and we must take them something to encourage
them a little and make them strong for the fearful trip. As to these
birds--the quail was as superb a morsel as ever a man did eat; the hawk
was pretty fair and quite good eating; but that abominable crow! His
flesh was about as black as his feathers and full of tough and bony
sinews. We concluded we did not want any more of that kind of bird, and
ever since that day, when I have heard people talk of "eating crow" as a
bitter pill, I think I know all about it from experience.
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