4. Arquitectura del DSP TMS320C6713 46
4.3. Conjunto de Instrucciones
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Swift bullets are the best hunting bullets made!
For twenty fi ve years, Swift Bullet Company’s innovative designs and construction have led the way in bonded core hunting bullet technology. Whether you choose Swift A-Frame® or Scirocco®, with the signature black polymer tip, you get terminal performance without equal and excellent accuracy. A-Frame® and Scirocco® bullets provide the best
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W
e started to walk down the road, heading home. The dogs had been circling, quartering and stopping as dogs will to carve their personal initials on the likelier-looking bushes. All of a sudden I saw a patch of white where the liver-and-white setter, Sandy, had headed into bush. It refused to move, this white patch.I said to the Old Man, “Either Sandy’s froze stiff, or he’s found a covey of birds. Look yonder.”
The Old Man snorted again. “Couldn’t be birds. This place is shot out. I got it on the best authority. Probably nothing but field larks. Sandy had a hot nose when I turned him loose this morning. Better unlimber the guns, though. Probably a rattler or a horse terrapin. Couldn’t be any birds along here. Too public. Where’s the shell bag?”
I was in a fever when I opened the cowhide cases and started to fit the guns. Maybe you remember, the Old Man had a real peculiarity about guns. He wouldn’t use one of those cases that took a whole gun. He said a broken gun never killed anybody, and he wouldn’t ride in a car with a gun that was all in one piece. While I was fumbling the guns together – and you can get the Old Man wasn’t helping me any – I kept one eye on that patch of white showing through the dark green of the gallberries, and it never looked like moving.
With shaky fingers I handed the Old Man a fitted-together shotgun and half a box of shells, and dropped the other half into my canvas hunting coat. We loaded as we walked up to the patch of white, and there was old Sandy, as stark as a statue, and old Frank, looking like a twin to a burnt stump, just behind him.
“I don’t think this would be larks,” the Old Man murmured.
“Or a rattlesnake. Or a terrapin. Let’s us go see.”
We walked up to the dogs, walked past, scuffed the twisted low-broom, and what amounted to two million birds got up. I fired into the middle of the two million and saw nothing fall. The Old Man unleashed his ancient weapon, too, although I never heard it.
I looked at him and he looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and he shrugged his.
“Must have been snakes,” he said. “But have you got any idea where the single snakes went?”
“They looked like they were going down either into that patch of broom or off into those little scrubby oaks,” I said. “How many birds would you say were in that covey?”
“Less than a hundred thousand,” the Old Man replied, putting fresh shells in his gun. “Twenty-five at least. Looked like old birds, too. Let’s go see if the dogs can smell singles.”
We went to where the singles seemed to have lit, and
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 28
they stuck fast as glue. It was one of the few times we ever overshot a quota, but it seemed in the Old Man’s logic that a covey of 25 or 30 birds could spare eight, and eight was what we shot.
“Just like,” the Old Man said sternly, popping the proceeds of a neat double into his coat, “all the other roadside hunters. Game hogs.”
W
e walked along theroad and waved the dogs from one side to the other.
In something less than five miles to the city limits, the dogs found five coveys, one of which was bivouacked in the front yard of a suburban friend. We did not shoot that covey, since it involved firing through the windows of the living room.
But we shot sufficient birds to have a heavy-hanging hunting coat by the time we approached the general vicinity of Gus McNeill’s filling station. I would like to tamper with the truth a little and say we filled our limit just abaft the gas pumps, but I cannot tell a lie. There were no birds in the vicinity, only Gus and a few shiftless friends.
“Where you-all been?” Gus asked as we trudged down the road, the dogs leashed again, both of us carrying a sheathed gun.
“Huntin’, the Old Man said dryly.
“Huntin’ what?” Gus asked.
“Birds.”
“Twenty, more or less.”
“The car broke down?”
“Yep. Can you send somebody to tow her home?”
“Sure. Where’d you get the birds? They’ve been kinda scarce lately.”
“Oh, we hunted up ’way ahead of the car. I got a couple of farms the folks let me use from time to time.
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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 30
You know the way it is.”
The Old Man slipped me a wink.
Gus was a shotgun man, too.
“You want to use the car tonight, or will tomorrow be okay?” Gus inquired.
“Tomorrow’ll do,” the Old Man said. “But we would appreciate it if you’d give us a lift home now. My feet are killing me from pounding all this asphalt. Seems to me walking was easier when we had clay roads.
At least they fit my feet better.”
We drove home and Gus let us out. I took the dogs to pen and came back to take the guns off the front porch to clean them, and then went back to where the Old Man had a rather massive pile of quail on the back steps.
“Some farms that folks let me use. Do not tell a lie,” I said reprovingly. “Never tell a lie.
It says so in Sunday School.”
The Old Man was counting the little beautiful bobwhites. “Twenty-two,” he announced happily. “All out of a shot-out area. Now, what did I tell you about the curse of the machine age? If that Liz had held together, we would of run right past the birds, and probably come home with nothing. The auto is the curse of the hunting man. And just think all we had to do was walk down a road.”
“Do not tell a lie, like Miss Lottie says,” I said sternly, for me.
“Miss Lottie be blowed,” the Old Man said, still happy. “She never knew anything about quail hunting or game conservation. We are game conservationists, protecting the national resources from tourists. We are protecting them for ourselves, which is conservation of a sort, even if it’s selfish.”
“I suppose I’d better start cleaning them, like always,” I said.
“Tonight, I’ll help you,” the Old Man said, and I’d like to have dropped dead from shock. – Yr. Ob’t Sv’t Bob Ruark
© 1954 by Robert Ruark, renewed 1982 by the estate of Robert Ruark.
Permission to reprint granted by Harold Matson Co., Inc.
By John Seerey-Lester