The 20-gauge Silver Pigeon II. Note the deep-relief game-scene engraving.

It wasn't a double with both birds in the air at the same time, but it was close enough for me, as I immediately exclaimed, "Double. A double!" It was the only one I made at Castle Valley in three days, and the only chance I had at a double--typical of a pheasant hunt, where single-bird rises are the norm.

Within the next 20 minutes we had worked back into the area where Jim Fauver had seen the long-tailed black-phase rooster. I saw that one on the ground, or at least I saw a black cock with a heck of a long tail. But he was running and would not flush. A hen did, so I swung the Beretta on it. Again the light 3?4-ounce Federal 81?2s toppled the bird end over end, dead in midair.

After Sid brought that one back I hurried after the long-tailed black runner. Jeremy and I kept walking in semi circles, hoping to flush that one. But he outsmarted us, going out so far behind I didn't want to chance the light 81?2 28-gauge load. But we watched him down and soon were in pursuit again. We flushed this one again, a pretty wild, out-of-range flush, but we watched carefully where he lit, then hurried again in that direction.

The area where that rooster landed was replete with high sage and scrub cedar, so it was hard to see the dogs. This time the rooster sat tighter, but the flush was still well off to my left, not exactly where I expected it. At the shot the big black-phase came down, but both Jeremy and I knew this one was far from stone dead.

It didn't take Belle long to ferret that cripple out of the thick vegetation, however. That bird lost a tail feather or two in the battle with Belle, but Jeremy still measured what was left at 22 inches, long for any ringneck rooster, but I was particularly pleased to have bagged an unusual black-phase cock bird with such trophy-length tail feathers.

The author with a black-phase Castle Valley rooster, and the new Beretta Silver Pigeon V--in 28 gauge--built on the new, smaller 28-gauge frame.

Shortly we were back at the vehicle, and Jeremy suggested we try "the corral." I didn't have a clue what that meant. It was a short drive away, and when we stopped the truck I had an inkling about what was about to ensue. I could see several birds trying to scurry out of sight as we got out of the truck.

Jeremy took Jason on a wide, curving path around the corral. Casey took me to a position on the same side of the corral as Jason, but 100 yards to his left. Casey told me to wait there, and then he went completely around the corral. Shortly he was flushing birds toward us.

I've shot driven pheasants in the Czech Republic, a very formal affair. The ensuing minutes in Utah didn't have that driven-shoot formality, but they did have the excitement. Soon Casey had hens and ringnecks galore flying overhead. I'd kill one bird, reload, only to have three fly unmolested overhead. I longed for two guns and a secretario, common in Spain on red-legged partridge shoots.

When the corral shoot was over Jason and I knew it was a perfect time to call the end to that day. At the truck Jeremy and Casey counted up the birds. We had shot 31 pheasants. Not a one had been planted that day. Our hunt lasted a full four hours, trudging in mostly six inches of snow and over quite uneven terrain. Our legs knew they had been somewhere. In all my 67 years I can't recall a better, more meaningful or more productive pheasant hunt.

Despite three days of banner success in the Utah desert with pheasants, then and now I can't quit thinking about the dogs and the dog work. Even when only Jason and I hunted, we had four dogs down in front. Continually, they just kept doing everything right. If there was one mistake on their part in three days of shooting, I never saw it. Though I've had my own so-called European breeds in years past, I've long been mostly a so-called "pointer and setter man," but all the dogs I saw at Castle Valley really impressed me, giving me the impetus to come home and try to bring my own dogs up to their standards.