“CHI-QUI-TA!”
Edgar Castillo
Saguaro cactuses are silently poised with outstretched limbs as the Arizona sun climbs higher. The few shadows that are left are quickly vanishing. Sunlight has brought another day into the desert, bringing forth a wide array of warm colors. Jagged mountain peaks can be seen in the distance. As if on cue a rhythmic sound emits from across the landscape. “Chi-qui-ta” or “Chi-ca-go” depending on how it is interpreted. I know this familiar sound. If you’ve ever watched an old western, then you know the call. It can be heard in the background of almost every cowboy movie of yonder.
The three-note musical call is made by the Gambel’s quail (Callipepla gambelii), named after American naturalist and ornithologist William Gambel (1823-1849) after discovering the gamebird in the mid-1800s. Gambel’s are easily recognized by their black droopy feathery tufts atop their heads and pale bluish-gray plumage on much of their bodies. The males’ heads are adorned with copper feathers, dark sable faces with a white stripe above the eyes, resembling a sort of bandido-type appearance. They inhabit the desert regions of various southwest states to include, Arizona, New Mexico, and parts of California, Texas, and Colorado, and of course Old Mexico. They certainly personify the image of bands of outlaws chased by bird hunters for their villainous looks, behavior, and the desolate places they call home.
A second, and third hale is heard not far. Across the dried rocky wash, I see a small plump bird scurrying across the sand behind a cadre of its companions. It suddenly stops. Its greyish and cream-colored plumage is visible on its puffed-out chest. Atop the bird’s brick colored crest is a black exclamation point topknot emphasizing its presence. This adversary resembles the quintessential outlaw with its coal black mask. Suddenly the bird leans back… “CHI-QUI-TA! CHI-QUI-TA!” pierces the air. It means, “Where is everyone?” or “I’m right here.” I translate it to be the latter and take it as an invitation for a confrontation between hunter and bird.
The quail nervously looks around as if to see if a posse had found him and his cohorts. For a split second, our eyes meet. Instantly our roles are determined. Predator vs prey. I squint as sun rays hit my face, and I adjust my blaze orange hat. The little quail nervously darts around, stopping and then moving quickly. His little feet are almost invisible as they move very fast as he scurries about. The quail bobbles up and down checking to see if the coast is clear. He stops again and lets out another call…” CHI-QUI-TA!” Farther down the dried-up wash, a series of similar responses are heard.
“There’s more.” I silently whisper to myself.
I load two shells into the shotgun and snap it shut gently. My boots shift slowly creating a soft crunching sound in the granular dirt. I move slowly and silently towards the cocky bird. Only a few feet are gained before my intentions are immediately uncovered. He retreats into the prickly brush. I noisily follow, busting through while getting entangled by sharp appendages. The whir of a single pair of wingbeats flushes from underfoot. “BANG!” A cloud of feathers fills the air. I mark the bird where it falls. The lifeless body is found amidst white-washed cattle bones and coyote tracks. A fitting scene for the recently departed. I hoist the desperado into the blue sky. Nearby the telltale cries of “CHI-QUI-TA” ride the desert’s air current. I quickly reload my shotgun and ready myself for more flushes as I continue to walk. What I encounter are blurs of quail zigzagging their way across my path ahead of me. Gambel’s begin peeling off one by one and disperse across the desert foliage.
My shot had garnered the attention of my own “posse” of bird hunters. We had been spread out walking our own paths when I came across the lone bandit. Sporadic cracks begin to erupt. Each gunslinger facing their own encounters with quail. Looking around I see a white statuesque dog with its hind-end poised up in the air.
“Point!” I yell.
Moving forward, I carefully scoot around clumps of cacti. My leather gloves creak as I tighten my grip on the shotgun. A sudden cloud of birds startles me, and my attention is drawn away from the motionless pointer. A quick succession of shots turns out only to be a desperate attempt to bring down a bird, but none find their mark. Unscathed, the covey of quail flies a hundred yards before settling down.
Feeling like a fool, I pay no attention to the still motionless bird dog. Seeing my error, I hastily move towards the dog reloading on the move. Cautiously, I maneuver around large flat, oval plate-sized cactus. Jumping Cholla cacti dot the area and I suddenly feel a sharp poke.
“Ouch!”
A ball of spiny appendages had become an unwelcome hitchhiker. In front of me a dozen quail are running and immediately disappear into the landscape. Kicking up dirt as I skid to an abrupt stop, I pull my quail call from my shirt pocket.
“CHI-QUI-TA. CHI-QUI-TA”
I wait for a moment.
“CHI-QUI-TA” is heard off to my left! The quail are not far. Maybe fifty yards. Moving through I pick up another cholla. Damn those things hurt! Suddenly, a whir of wingbeats explodes from underfoot near a large gnarly bush. The shotgun barrel follows through a blurry target and erupts. The bird folds instantly. Grey feathers float down like confetti. More birds begin to flush, and my bottom tube finds another target. More feathers begin to drift with the air current. I’m enveloped in a delicate cloud. Both birds are found. A male and female. While admiring their plumage and colors, the moment is suddenly interrupted by multiple calls.
“CHI-QUI-TA! CHI-QUI-TA!”
The over-under is broken open and two empty hulls eject like rockets. They are quickly replaced with a duo of crimson shells. I turn and see the rest of the guys all scattered about. Shots are sporadic. Each is engaged in their own skirmishes. Movement catches my eye. A lone male scampers across my path and stops. He rears back and with all his energy, bellows out a loud…
“CHI-QUI-TA!”
And, just like that I am once again confronted with yet another outlaw quail and thrust back into another showdown. My ears catch the familiar response by nearby desperados answering the call…
“CHI-QUI-TA! CHI-QUI-TA!”
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