(See front cover)
A year ago, about three miles from Grand Junction, Tenn., a white and liver pointer bitch stopped short crossing a field and stood with her head turned into the wind, toward a patch of scrub oak 20 yards away. A moment later, a bevy of quail slanted into the air and someone blew a whittle. A shot gun went off, loud in the quiet fields, and there was a sudden babble of men's voices. "Did you see her on that last find? . . . As great a bitch as ever won...
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