“Lady, whoa.” The German shorthair keened and quivered. She looked at each of us in turn to make sure we were ready. During the end of November, our group had prepared for the hunt of a lifetime in Arizona. Bill Valentine thumbed three rounds of No. 8s into his Browning. My dad broke his borrowed over/under and dropped two loads into the chambers. Clunk-clunk. Drops of dew clung to the tops of the yellowed chest-high grass and glistened on the cholla and the prickly pear. “This early in the season, the birds are out in the tall grass in the flats. Later in the day, we’ll find them up in the brush.” Lady cut back and forth and bounced on her back legs to catch a glimpse of her master. Then, at the mouth of a canyon, her head lifted and she sorted out scents borne on tendrils of wind…