It was as though all the dust devils that ever ghosted across the desert before the days of irrigation had returned to haunt California's Imperial Valley. Over fields of flax reddened by a dawning sun, thousands upon thousands of mourning doves wheeled and circled, their whistling wings deepening the sense of speed. Below, Cattleman Virgil Torrance tightened his grip on a 12-gauge single-barreled shotgun. The doves' cries were tender and doleful: "Whee-eet, whee-eet, whee-eet." Torrance smiled: "When I hear that, it's all I can do to pull the trigger." And he proceeded...
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