It was mid-October in eastern Montana. The warm afternoon sun slipped below the horizon as a cool breeze swept across my face. I had filled my pronghorn tag earlier that day, leaving me with time to scour the prairie for coveys of upland delicacies. A fluttering glimpse of flushing quail caught my eye and I moved toward their landing zone. My Mossberg instinctively settled into my shoulder upon the unexpected burst of fast-beating wings. I swung through one bird, dropped it, and then moved onto the next in line. Two shots, two small gray birds. I carefully plucked their feathers on the tailgate of my F150, taking an occasional break to glass mule deer as they materialized from nearby folds. Pushing a shopping cart to procure a meal will never yield this level of satisfaction.