“Careful, boy. Watch what you’re doin’ in there.” Jimmy Patterson certainly looks the part of a huntmaster. He is a big man decked out in a red vest and suede leather chaps, part dog handler, part hunting guide, part choreographer of the Southern plantation pageant unfolding on this Florida savanna. “Easy, boy,” he coos at an English pointer stalking through broomsedge and blackberry. The pointer twitches with checked energy, then freezes in its tracks. In an instant Patterson stands up in his saddle and signals with a lifted red cap. “Point over he-ah!” he yells, and we’re off the horses, pulling guns from leather scabbards. Lane Green goes right while I stride to the left of the bird dog, fingering two shells into the shotgun. “Careful,” Patterson cautions again, and this time I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the dog. He slashes at the thicket with a leather flushing whip. A few feet away, two mules shuffle in their harnesses. Hitched to a...