Ambush! Major L. Boddicker
the quarry became louder. We were in place and ready. Tweet! The whistle! I jumped up,
picked out a body above me, and fi red. The quarry scattered in panic toward the doors and windows but found them barred. The boys fi red and reloaded, fi red and reloaded, over and over. Bod- ies dropped with thuds onto the fl oor or softly into the hay. Blood, feathers, and dust fl ew. New shafts of light appeared, driving down through new holes in the rotting roof. From the fi rst shot to the last, it
The domestic pigeon, or rock dove, is found worldwide from the cold of northern Siberia to the steamy cities on the equator. These were my 4-H white king pigeons.
shotgun and skooched around a pile of dead grass. Kenny squeezed into a gap between a grass hump and the barn siding and inched upward into posi- tion. His .22 rifl e was held close to his chest, ready for battle. Topper crawled along the shaded side of the barn and laid up against the door, his lean frame cocked like a trap spring; his pump gun was loaded and ready. I inched my way through a crack in the barn wall and up the ladder into the loft, slowly and quietly; my trusty, worn, old Stevens .410 was ready. The loft was dark with tiny shafts
The ambush was developing.
It takes two or three pigeons per person to make a meal. Properly prepared, pigeons are fi ne eating. Feedlot pigeons are usually plump and in great shape for gourmet eating.
Page 124 October — December 2011
of light streaming down through the old wood-shingled roof. The aroma of the old barn was sweet. Dust bits fl oated through the air in the shafts of light. The barn was 100° F, sweltering in the August sun, with water-soaked air. Kenny was the point man and
was to signal (with a whistle) when the moment of ambush was to commence. Beads of sweat rolled down my face. My heart was pounding. The sounds of
Jim loaded his old single-barrel
took three minutes, then a moment of silence, then four whooping boys hol- lered for joy at the successful execution of the ambush. Empty shell cases littered the fl oor, splashing red and brass gold among the blue and white dead forms. The boys stopped and silently contem- plated the deed they had done. We picked up the bodies, cut off
their heads, tied them in a bundle, and carried them to a shady place down by the creek. Our neighbor hated pigeons and
gave us permission to shoot inside his barn. We used the barn as a trap and executed ambushes about four times each year. Pigeons were precious; we ate
them. If we shot enough pigeons with the ammo we had, our fathers would buy more ammo. In my family, I needed to get fi ve critters to eat with every box of .410 shells. The take that morning was 22 birds, a great success. We carried the birds to the creek
and picked and gutted them there. The dressed birds were divvied up fi ve to each kid, with the extra two going to the McAndrews’ brothers. Their family had more kids so they got the leftovers after the divvy. I would hunt pigeons until I had
two birds per person for my family (14 pigeons). Mom would fi x them for a banquet. We all enjoyed the roasted pigeons, with stuffi ng, as a special treat. The lowly barn pigeon provides
sport for young and old, rich and poor. Pigeons can be shot with a 16-gauge sin-
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