When Ben Reach heard Bill Bain had gone to work as dog trainer on Twisted Pine Plantation, he cringed.
Bill had for many years been a for-the-public-over-the-road trainer-handler of all-age pointing dogs. He’d given it up to take the plantation job for the usual reason — economics. He’d found it impossible to make a living any longer, for his expenses had overwhelmed his revenue. He’d had bad luck of several sorts — best customer quit the game, two best dogs sustained disabling injuries, two others were taken from him by their owners who sensed his operation was collapsing. That had been the last straw for Bill. He’d sold his horses at the last trial he attended, returned the rest of his string of dogs to their owners, dropped off his horse trailer at the dealership that held the lien, done the same with his dually. That left him with only a ten-year-old midsize Dodge pickup and two sets of tack, which he took with him to Twisted Pine.
Bill enjoyed a reputation as a man with a touch with a dog, meaning he could take one from green pup to finished (or “broke”) all-age dog without removing any of its desire or fire. Few men or women possessed the touch. These few were by-and-large perfectionists, obsessive and not good at public relations, also known as schmoozing the customer. Bill fit the profile.
Ben Reach had cringed on learning of Bill Bain’s move because of his knowledge of Harley Grant, manager of Twisted Pine. Harley was a strong personality, to put it mildly. He had enjoyed a twenty year Navy career, retiring as a Chief Petty Officer. Ben feared the two men’s personalities would clash. He regarded both men as friends, and was glad Bill had not consulted him about taking the job, but at the same time he felt regret he had not had the opportunity to forewarn Bill.
Ben was surprised to see Bill’s name on his appointment book on arriving at the office Monday morning after breakfast at Millie’s Diner. Joanne said Bill had just called and asked for the first available appointment. He had not said what advice he needed and Joanne had not asked, as was Ben’s policy. But Joanne had known Ben would want to accommodate his old friend (most folks Ben knew in the plantation culture were Ben’s friends, particularly the dog trainers).
When an hour later Ben entered the library-conference room to meet with Bill he knew immediately Bill had troubles. The look on the dog trainer’s face told the story: Ben could tell Bill’s job at Twisted Pine had ended.
Bill stood, extended his callused right hand to shake and nodded in response to Ben’s “Good morning,” but did not speak. “How can I help you, Bill,” Ben asked.
“Harley fired me,” Bill said without preamble.
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” Bill said, resuming his seat.
“I thought things were going well enough. Mr. Johnson (Twisted Pine’s owner) seemed to like the way I ran the hunts, liked the dogs I brought home from the prairie. He and Mrs. Johnson complimented their work on most every hunt. I could tell that sort of irritated Harley sometimes, but he didn’t say nothing.
“The trouble started when Mr. Johnson invited too many guests for a weekend to hunt in one party. He told Harley to set up to hunt two outfits, me leading one, him the other. That should have been no problem, we had two hunting wagons, two teams of mules, enough broke wagon dogs and with the Garmins we had enough crew for two rigs.
“ The tip off came when Harley told me the dogs to put on his wagon. He included a first-year pointer bitch named Nell that Mr. Johnson liked a lot. (Mr. Johnson was going to hunt with his party in the morning, with me in the afternoon.) I tried to talk Harley out of taking Nell. She’s a little soft, you got to handle her a certain way.
“Harley picked the birdiest course for the morning, put me on the least. When we met for lunch in the field, my team had twice as many finds as Harley’s. I could tell Harley was pissed about that, and then Mr. Johnson kidded him about it in front of his guests. He turned red.
“We went back at three. Both wagons had fresh dogs, but I put Nell on mine, figured I’d hunt her in the last brace of the day. We had another good hunt, only two birds left for the wagon limit when I put Nell down despite the fact the four guns were all poor shots except Mr. Johnson.
“Five minutes down and my scout lifts his cap. I ride over to him and there stands a dog most under his horse’s front feet. Then I realize it’s backing, Nell’s twenty yards ahead flat on her belly. My heart sinks. I know what’s happened. Then Mr. Johnson walks up to shoot. ‘She did that this morning too,’ he says.
“I had warned Harley, ‘Don’t let anybody shoot close to Nell.’
“ Mr. Johnson and the other gun each killed a bird from the rise so we went in early.
When Harley rode in at dark I said while I was taking the dogs off his wagon, ‘I told you not to let anyone shoot close to Nell.’
“ ‘I didn’t,’ he said.
“ ‘You are a damned liar,’ I said, and knew what was coming as soon as I did.
“ ‘You are fired,’ Harley said.”
Ben slowly shook his head.
“Do you mind If I talk to Mr. Johnson about this?” Ben asked.
“No, Sir,” Bill said. “But I came just to ask you to let me know if you hear of an opening for a trainer.”
“I’ll do that too, of course,” Ben said.
As soon as Bill had left his office, Ben called Mr. Johnson, who was a client and friend. They had a long conversation.
A week later, Ben got a call from Bill. As soon as Joanne told him who was on the line, Ben knew what he was about to hear.
“I am back on at Twisted Pine. I’m dog trainer and manager, thank you for whatever you said to Mr. Johnson,” Bill said.
It took Bill the rest of the quail season to get Nell off the ground on her finds, but he finally did it.