More About William Newport and a Quail Preserve

Was going through another old book, this one entitled, "My Seventy Years in California, 1857-1927", by Jackson Alpheus Graves. Graves was born in Iowa in 1852. His family left there in 1857 to go to California.

Graves grew up in Northern California, but later moved to Los Angeles. In his book he describes his life's memories, and shares some information about the politics, the social scene, and industry of Southern California. And he also mentions something about the way of life in Menifee, though he doesn't mention Menifee by name.

Here are some paragraphs I found, located in Chapter XXIII of this book, concerning William Newport, and a "quail preserve":

Harry was as good a fisherman as he was a shot. Whenever we went out, we always got game. A crowd of us had a quail preserve of 2,000 acres fenced and posted, some nine miles south of Perris, in Riverside County. We had good shooting there until the March flying field was built there, during the war. They actually scared all the quail out of that section.

I sometimes think that it is a wonder that I am alive, considering some of the fool things I have done for the sake of shooting. After I lost my left limb, and before I had an artificial limb, I went out to our grounds several times, quail shooting. We used to stop at Billy Newport's (a bluff, hale, good-natured Englishman). He was a good sport and a good shot. He would drive me around in a wagon, and he would get in the most impossible places. One day we were away up on a hillside, amid rocks, boulders and brush. The ground was so steep that the wagon absolutely careened. Chanslor, Schwarz and Klokke were in good shooting, near the foot of this small mountain. All at once, and immense flock of quail flew up in front of them, clear to the top of the mountain. Newport handed me the reins, and jumped out, and said he would run around and head them off. He went around the side of the mountain, until he got opposite where the quail lit, and then started up to the summit. Pretty soon I heard him shooting, and the quail began to whiz past me. I sat there in the wagon and killed six, which fell in various places on that steep hillside. When the flight ceased, I tied the reins to the spring of the seat, so the horses could not move, got out of the wagon, and on my crutches wandered around on that sidehill, and got my six birds. The last one was on a flat rock at the foot of a steep declivity, which I could not possibly negotiate with my crutches. I laid them down, sat down, and went down the hill on my hands with my one foot out in front of me. I got the bird, again sat down, and went up the declivity backwards on my hands, got to my crutches, and when Newport came back I was in the wagon, my six birds lying on the seat. He could hardly believe that I had done this.

Could the "quail preserve", which Graves described as being nine miles south of Perris, be why Quail Valley got its name?

By the way, the "Harry" that Graves mentions in the first paragraph refers to his chauffeur, Harry Graves, no relation.