Not Your Ordinary Snake Stories: "Incredible True Snake Stories...Everyone We Know Has One...But Wait Til You Read These!"

Not Your Ordinary

Snake Stories

"Incredible true snake stories…

everyone we know has one…

but wait til you read these!"

Jim Pepper

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2011 by Jim Pepper. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse   09/01/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9956-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9953-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9955-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915760

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

‘Bojie’s Snake Bite’

‘Two Dons Lazarus’

Rowdy’s Remarkable Luck

‘First Grade Blacksnake’

‘Mr. Wright’s Rattler’

‘Tobacco Patch Blue Racer’

Big Boots and Cottonmouths

When a Snake Bite Wasn’t

Three Rivers Rattler

Ranger Buddies

Kathy’s Copperhead

Foxhole Face-Off

Carolyn’s Catastrophe

‘Tobacco Road… Reptiles’

‘Caddo Cottonmouths’

‘Prickly Situation’

‘Frog Huntin With Bubba’

‘Llano Legend’

‘One Boy… Two Snakes… Three Shots’

Poth Potty Poacher

Dedication

"To our sharp as ever, still driving, e-mailing,

ninety-one year old Mom…aka 'Grandma Bojie'.

And to all the other exciting, true life charcters described in

this work of genuine respect and brotherly love. Thanks!"

—

James Notley Pepper

 ‘Bojie’s Snake Bite’

I don’t recall how old I was the first time I noticed my Mom’s scar? Not very old. Maybe four? Actually there were two scars. Small round blemishes an inch apart on top of Mom’s left forearm midway between her elbow and wrist. Minor imperfections barely noticeable at a glance but not quite ignorable if you looked; the results of shallow puncture wounds inflicted by tiny fangs. Mom never talked much about the two symmetrical scars, but eventually told us kids the scary story describing how she acquired them; an interesting narrative about life during the 1920s and events contributing to Mom becoming a dyed in the wool snake-a-phobe. In the name of her four children; Sandy, Ben, Jim, & Mitzi; I dedicate this Louisiana tall tale to our ninety-one year old snake bite survivor Mom; aka Bojie.

[Footnote: Bojie is a term of endearment… an affectionate nickname our Dad hung on our Mom in 1941 during their first year of marriage… a nickname that has lived on for more than seventy years. All thirteen of Mom’s grandchildren call her Grandma Bojie… exclusively… thus my use of Bojie in the title.]

During two decades of sharing life under our parent’s roof, Brother Ben and I were allowed to catch, capture, barter for, or otherwise legitimately possess as pets nearly every living creature indigenous to northwest Missouri.

And a few that were NOT!

The first six years of my life our family lived on a farm, after that we lived in town; where miles of river bluff forest butted up against our family property. With ease of access, plenty of time to spare, and energy to burn, Bro Ben and I carried home and dragged in our Mom’s front door every living creature upon which we stumbled.

There are bound to be a few of God’s humble critters I’ve forgotten, but among the menagerie Ben and I acquired and held near and dear as pets were; toads, frogs, lizards, rabbits, squirrels, dogs, cats, mice, rats, fish, insects-in-a-jar, ant farms, tadpoles, gerbils, hamsters, turtles; "birds . . . of a feather that stuck together; raccoons, moles, an orphaned fox, a baby groundhog, a spotted pony, fat pigs, skinny calves, bleating goats, gaggling geese, dozens of ducks, flocks of chickens; coveys of quail, guineas, partridge and pheasant; buckets of earthworms, night crawlers and tobacco worms; tree limbs and fallen leaves covered in colorful caterpillars and ugly insect larvae; one blind bat, two musk-less muskrats, three slick weasels, four pelted mink, five fighting roosters, six hardened crustaceans; and an uu-aa-gly opossum inna pear treeeeeee!"

A long list… most effectively read aloud to the tune of Twelve Days of Christmas… IF you please!

"Oh Yes! I almost forgot! Older Sister Sandy had two bummed out boyfriends who seemed more like pets than legitimate suitors? Ben and I counted them too!"

All in all I guesstimate that something on the order of a couple hundred living creatures ended up ending up (dying) in the possession of we two wanttabee zoologist. Back in those days; during the 1950s and ’60s; if Bro Ben and I could capture it alive, we were allowed to keep it and call it a pet. Have it, hold it, name it, bath it, groom it, feed it, water it, love it, and make a pet of it. Until, of course, IT died. Which typically occurred sooner rather than later whenever Brother Ben or I were named primary caregivers of any given pet?

BUT! And it was an enormous B-U-T! Bro Ben and I, in our shared boyhood lives, never had, nor thought of having, even ONE pet snake! Never desired or dreamed of possessing a pet snake. It was a simple proposition based on two inalterable precepts.

First; Ben and I were born with Mom’s predisposition for finding loathsome the notion of having a snake around as a companion. A hard and fast predisposition genetically passed along to Ben and me and pounded in our heads after our safe arrival.

Believe me… Bro Ben and I had NO say in the matter!

Second; Mom had a Golden Rule!

Brother Ben and I; and our mean as HELL sisters… Mitzi and Sandy; were forced to learn many rules growing up; adhere to a multitude of strict disciplines and dictates. Our Mom and Dad were Ward and June Cleaver-like parents. BUT! NO rule; no GOLDEN RULE; was ever more rigidly enforced or the repercussions more universally feared, if broken, than Mom’s BIG rule concerning snakes. Mom’s SIMPLE rule regarding snakes! Which was… ?

No snake shall EVER be allowed IN this (our) house!

No snake of any size, species, color, length, girth, gender, toxicity or timidity, vapid-ness or viciousness; could EVER be brought IN the house! The particulars didn’t matter to our Mom. Not one iota! No snakes. Period! Not in Mom’s house!

Mom was born in 1920; youngest of six kids, second of two daughters. Mom’s family of eight lived on a small cotton and grain farm in extreme northeastern Louisiana near a speck of a village named Forest; equidistant from the Arkansas state line due north and the Mississippi line due east. Mom was born at home WAY out in the sticks; a mile to their nearest neighbor. Five miles into town on a lightly traveled slightly graveled narrow road that became barely passable during heavy rain. Impossible when hurricane winds toppled massive trees from a moss shrouded impenetrable forest that grew to within feet of the barely serviceable road. A long and lonesome road that for better or worse was the family’s only passageway into town or to neighboring homesteads.

Years later Mom enjoyed telling us four kids colorful stories about her life growing up in pre WW II, backwoods Louisiana. Among Mom’s fondest childhood memories and favorite stories were recollections of being carried around like a rag doll by her older sister Hazel. That would be the same older sister Hazel, who, during the 1940s, eventually became ‘Aunt Hazel’ to us four hungry Pepper Kids up in Missouri.

"Mom says she can remember as far back as 1922… when she was two? Can clearly recall Aunt Hazel carrying her (Mom) around like a rag doll . . . AFTER Mom was old enough to remember being carried! Whadaya think? Sound reasonable? Carrying a real live baby around like a rag doll must have been something girls were into back then… I guess? But it DID happen! And in this spooky snake story… Mom being carried around like a rag doll led to a frightening event in family history."

Hazel was eight years older than Mom. As ‘Older Sister’, Hazel became Mom’s part time nanny and fulltime loving sister. Back then; nearly a hundred years ago; older siblings routinely took care of younger siblings. It wasn’t necessary for the age difference to be significant for the responsibility of caring for a younger child to automatically fall on an older child; especially an older GIRL child caring for her younger brothers or sisters.

Aunt Hazel was a brilliant woman; some folks say her IQ exceeded one-fifty? Whatever the case, Hazel WAS intelligent. Long recognized within her fraternal clan of six siblings as being tops among them, Hazel was an intellectually gifted child in a litter that eventually included engineers, contractors, artists, pilots, and war heroes. But! God gifted intelligence, high IQ, extraordinary life skills and experiences aside; ineffective childish screaming was the only thing Hazel could muster the morning she spotted a bad snake cozied up WAY too close to her baby sister; our Mom.

Hazel had run ahead into a bedroom where our six month old Mom was soundly sleeping. Hazel was intent on helping Grandma Ashley; our Aunt Hazel and Mom’s mom; get ‘Baby’; our Mom; out of the crib and dressed for church. Big Sis Hazel loved helping dress Baby. When Grandma Ashley arrived, Hazel reached in the crib and grabbed Mom’s lacy baby bonnet; in order to be THE person best in position to place the bonnet on Baby’s head.

Not that morning. Not that bonnet. Hazel instead let out a blood curdling scream and the tiny bonnet was sent sailing! Went flying across the bedroom the instant Hazel realized a foot long grass snake had coiled itself up INSIDE Baby’s fancy bonnet. Yep! A tiny white bonnet, flung far and wide; as Baby was abruptly awakened by Hazel’s hysterical screaming.

Many things we learn come upon us as imperceptible tidbits; onion skin layers of piecemeal information eventually processed into long-term conceptual thinking. Mom’s powerful lifelong distaste and discord with snakes was likely triggered that very Sunday morning. Aunt Hazel could scream LOUD! And she did!

*     *     *

"Fair to say Mom and snakes got off to a BAAAAAD beginning! Snakes have haunted Mom since infancy. Turned out the innocuous little grass snake… napping in Baby’s bonnet… was small potatoes. Really! Best anyone can remember… Mom was barely two when a different kind of snake lunged out of the bushes and bit Mom on the arm! I would say that qualifies as a BAAAAAD beginning. No wonder Mom hated snakes! Here’s her bite story."

Fast forward eighteen months after the grass snake was unceremoniously evicted from Baby’s church bonnet. Hazel was ten, our Mom two. Hazel was busy doing what she had done every day that hot sticky summer; entertaining Baby. No one remembers the day of the week or date on the calendar. Medical records that might have disclosed such seemingly important but trivial information long ago went missing. For the sake of simplicity let’s agree that it was; summer… 1922… on a small farm near Forest Louisiana.

We know the correct year. We know the correct state. We know the precise rural location. We know details of events. And we know what happened to whom. Fortunately geriatric Aunt Hazel and our aging Mom WERE able to corroborate information critical to accurately retelling this ancient family legend.

Hazel was walking our two year old toddler Mom in the family’s hand-me-down four wheel buggy; one of those old fashioned buggies with a flip-up canopy designed to stave off bright Louisiana summer sun. Toddler Mom had become restless and was demanding to be taken out of the rickety old buggy and carried by Older Sister Hazel.

There would be no more riding in the confining and stuffy buggy for our Mom. She wanted OUT… and she wanted to be carried! NOW!

Capable of walking, a more typical two year old might have preferred to walk, as the two sisters strolled along a narrow dirt path ringing the family’s old farmhouse; may have wanted to toddle along beside her big sister Hazel? But not our Momma! Not that day.

"And why not walk or toddle?"

Because our Momma had been spoiled; "to something far beyond rotten"; by Older Sister Hazel. Who, by age ten, had become Mom’s fulltime babysitter.

No Sir! No walking OR toddling for our Mom. THAT day; "similar to a million just like it"; Mom was removed from the tireless family buggy and picked up by Older Sister Hazel. And carried! That’s correct. Hazel picked up toddler age Mom; and, following a worn, meandering dirt path; idly carried Mom round-and-round the family farmhouse. A leisure stroll for Mom, tended to by overly attentive Big Sister Hazel.

Hazel loved toting Baby; a descriptive phrase coined by Hazel describing her practice of carrying Mom around like a rag doll; fundamental to Hazel tending Baby. And Baby certainly loved Hazel’s undivided attention. Theirs was a mutually happy situation dating back for Mom to eyes-opening infancy; set in place, embellished, and enhanced by Hazel. By age ten Hazel was performing an important function within the two sister’s larger family. Second only to Grandma Ashley, Hazel had become Mom’s primary caregiver.

Grandma Ashley was a busy woman with a husband and six hungry kids; a big house to tend, meals to cook, laundry to do, a giant garden and annual food preservations to manage; ALL requiring her daily divided attention! Grandma Ashley needed help.

"A woman’s work is never done!" [One of my wife’s favorite quotes?]

Describing events of the snake bite day, Aunt Hazel told us Pepper Kids that after removing Mom from the old buggy, she and Mom made three additional laps around the family’s old frame farmhouse. The snake bite incident occurred at the end of the girl’s third lap. Mom says two?

As if she could actually remember!

Anyway; Hazel had indeed been carrying our two year old Mom; but was tiring from the extended effort of bearing such a heavy and cumbersome burden.

"No matter how precious the load?"

Tiring of toting Baby and seeking relief for Baby from the blazing summer sun, Hazel headed for the inviting comfort of their family’s front porch swing. Staying near as possible to an overgrown spirea hedge, hoping to take advantage of shade provided by the hedge, Hazel made haste to the gently swaying front porch swing; intending to flop her tired young butt down on the swing’s smooth and splinterless slats for a brief rest.

Blooming spirea was favored among hedges on farmsteads back then. A wild and wooly hedge if left unattended; a thick hedge; where, occasionally, everything from the family’s missing dog to hung-over cousins could be found sleeping in peaceful repose.

"Missing dogs and hung-over cousins that crawled outta the thick hedge ONLY when company was comin… which back in those days… was seldom."

Anyway; as Hazel neared the bottom of five steps leading up and onto the old weathered front porch, she brushed against the overgrown spirea hedge. Hazel said later that AS she brushed the thick and tall bushes, she caught glimpse of a dark-appearing mass; sort of a knotty clump; somethin odd hanging in the thick shrub’s lower branches. Hazel swore later that she spotted the dark mass BEFORE it made a move?

"Our Aunt Hazel… among other lovable proclivities… could spin a good yarn. She was never shy about stretching details to emphasize the critical point in a good story. Later validated to be a snake… the question of when Aunt Hazel actually saw it was an unimportant detail! To her THE critical point was… it WAS a snake!"

According to Aunt Hazel’s version of the story; "a story she and others told and retold to mixed families as true legend . . . for YEARS"; the knotted up snake, which later on was determined by Grandma Ashley to be an eighteen inch copperhead, sort of flung itself out of and away from the bushy limbs of the overgrown spirea. Stout lower limbs on which the snake was resting before pouncing; landing smack dab in the middle of the burdensome bundle of joy Aunt Hazel was carrying.

Our Mom!

That’s right. The disturbed copperhead dropped or was accidently knocked from overhanging branches of the bushy spirea; gently landing on a soft long-tailed cotton shirt Mom was wearing. Hazel was mortified! The snake was dumbfounded. Mom was unaware.

Hazel let out shrill little girl screams of shear horror. Hazel’s reasonable gut reaction to her surreal experience of watching a snake precipitously drop from bushes onto her toddler sister; who, at the moment of impact, was being awkwardly carried by big sister Hazel!

Screaming in shear horror as Sitter-In-Charge, as Miss Responsible; Hazel madly tore at the intrusive reptile. Trying her dead level Big Sister best to snatch the offending snake OFF Baby Sister as quickly a humanly possible before it could do harm.

"OFF wee toddler Mom… Who… Thirty-some-odd years later… Would become a 1940s Missouri Mom of four Yankee crumb munchers! Me and my three siblings!"

In the process of screaming and tearing at the snake’s skinny little body, Hazel irritated the snake. Once riled; the snake struck out at the nearest thing at hand. Struck at the grubby little girl hand grabbing at it; Hazel’s hand. But! Instead of warding off its ten year old attacker, Hazel; the dumbfounded snake instead struck and inadvertently bit two year old Mom; "on her left forearm midway between elbow and wrist."

[Footnote: "That day and that incident were NOT the last time in the two beloved sisters’ long and successful lives that our Aunt Hazel’s vocal reactions to a tense situation caused our more stoic and stable Mom to suffer residual grief! Hazel was America’s original drama queen. And Mom was a temperamental artist with her own high strung tendencies. When both sisters were in the same room… all the oxygen passed through their lungs FIRST! Part of the price paid for their brilliance… I guess?"]

Hazel’s screaming brought Grandma Ashley running. A quick inspection by the wise and genteel lady; accustomed to harsh life in rural 1920s Louisiana… accustomed to REAL drama; revealed what Grandma Ashley accurately and immediately deduced were dire circumstances. No time to squander; no time for hesitation or indecision. Mom’s older brother, Uncle Slim; whose actual name was Orville; who was twelve years older than Mom; was summoned and immediately dispatched to go for help.

Grandpa Ashley, and three of Mom’s older brothers; Bill, Roy, and Jack; were gone. Providing free family labor in the Louisiana Parrish of Ouachita; southwest of Monroe LA; helping build a new barn for one of Mom’s Sullivan Cousins. Over one hundred miles away, working dawn ’til dark with a volunteer crew, the Ashley Men Folk weren’t expected to return for DAYS! As for dealing with our Mom’s snake bite? The Ashley Men Folk might just as well have been working on the moon. Grandma Ashley and Aunt Hazel were decidedly on their own as fourteen year old Uncle Slim was sent riding down the long and lonely road into town seeking help.

Seeking help meant Uncle Slim must ride five miles into town and then find and fetch the only doctor for miles around. Seeking help meant riding an old retired mule; not a horse; into town and back; over ten miles round trip; as quickly as humanly possible.

Grandma Ashley remained stoic in the presence of her two terrified daughters, realizing that her toddler; our Mom; might be in grave danger.

GRAVE danger!

Back then, back during the early 1920s, no one understood snake bite in the sense of the word we do today; nor dealt with snake bite in ways common today. If a person was shot, he or she was bad shot; automatically considered to be seriously hurt. All wounds, without exception, were of grave concern. Similarly; if someone was snake bit, he or she was bad snake bit; the potential for serious injury or death was great. NO ONE had access to twenty-first century information regarding biting snakes intentionally injecting only a portion of their venom; or injecting NO venom IF or WHEN the biting snake intended for its bite to serve a different specific purpose; "different specific purpose OTHER than killing or disabling its victim."

"Different specific purpose . . . like merely warning or scaring away much larger detractors… like humans… or spooking away prey the biting snake considered too large. Like Aunt Hazel carrying Baby! A dozen specific purposes unheard of… or even thought of… back in 1922. All snakes were bad . . . all snake bites were bad. Simple."

Got it? Back then; any snake bite was a bad snake bite. Period! All snake bites were considered dangerous. Grandma Ashley’s fears for her toddler daughter were deep running and well founded; based on what she knew.

Making his gallant roundtrip ride into town to fetch the doctor, Uncle Slim is said to have ridden the poor old family mule to an untimely death. [Have you seen ‘True Grit’?] However! Surprisingly! By the time Uncle Slim and the ancient doctor returned to the family’s isolated Louisiana farmstead, the crisis resulting from the snake bite seemed to have peaked and passed.

As far as the hastily summoned country doctor was able to determine; some three hours after the actual bite; there appeared to be NO ill effects of any kind to Mom as result of her unlikely and grotesquely inopportune run-in with the snake. Two, tiny, still oozing, puncture wounds clearly marked the bite-site for the inquiring physician’s inspection. But the willing doctor, having hastened there as fast as his Model-T Ford would carry both he and Uncle Slim, could do and did do very little. Beyond examining the fresh bite and telling somber Grandma Ashley to maintain constant cold compresses on the site; and contact him immediately if the patient’s situation worsened.

"It may not seem like much by today’s overburdening medical standards… but not much was all there was to offer. And immediately meant another three HOUR round trip mule ride into town for Uncle Slim… and the Ashley Family was fresh outta mules!"

However, "alls well that ends well"; by next morning Mom’s pearly white left arm was barely red near round the cold-compressed and thoroughly cleaned snake bite. By week’s end the tiny puncture wounds had scabbed over and were well along towards healing. Mom says she remembers scratching the itching bite.

"Today not every snake bite is considered serious . . . nor was EVERY snake bite serious back in 1922. But who the HELL wanted to get snake bit to validate science?"

Mom’s tiny physical wounds quickly healed; perhaps not so scars left on her psyche? I have amply described Mom’s predisposition regarding snakes. In retrospect, "no snake in the house" seems a pittance for us kids to have paid for our Mom having suffered such an unfortunate brush with an underachieving but antagonistic copperhead.

And the moral of this ninety year old Louisiana snake story? There are two.

FIRST: Don’t get a bee in your bonnet… OR a snake!

SECOND: Don’t get snake bit! Not in 1922. Not now. Not EVER!

"For if you DO… either of the two… get a snake in your bonnet… or get snake bit? There are sure to follow… for generations to come… snake stories and Golden Rules!"

Ninety years later… snake bite survivor and matriarch to four generations…Bojie on her ‘Montage’ front porch. L to R: author Jim holding Bojie’s great grandson Nolan, grand daughter-in-law Rachel, Bojie, grandson Chris holding his son Weston. (summer, 2010)

 ‘Two Dons Lazarus’

I first met Don in 2010 in Rosenberg, Texas at what is commonly referred to as a peddler show. Don is a fine looking gentleman, appearing to be around sixty. And although I have no idea how old Don actually is, he currently earns his living peddling. One among many distinguished members of a traveling clan of fine folks who regularly participate as retail vendors in a public venue show formally known as; The Peddler Show… A Perfect Street of Shops. I was a rookie peddler in the Rosenberg show.

I was preoccupied setting up my 10x10 foot peddler booth, diligently preparing to peddle my first book; Not Your Ordinary Hunting Stories. A veteran of many shows, Don took the initiative by strolling over and introducing himself. Interestingly; the primary product Don was there to sell was a customized elastic bookmarker. Don sells the handsome bookmarkers to rapt audiences of show attendees. Since I was there intending to sell my book to anyone who could read, and Don was there intent on selling keepsake bookmarkers to avid readers, we were a natural pair for falling into quick conversation that evolved into a comfortable working relationship.

Peddlers seldom meet a stranger… Don and I were no exception!

As is often the case in life, one conversation led to another; one chance meeting led to another; and before too many weekend peddler shows had come and gone, Don and I were friends. During those initial weeks Don had cautiously and curiously observed my neophyte efforts at setting up shop and selling my humble book. While I had admiringly observed Don setting up shop and selling his fancy sterling bookmarkers; my salty terminology for Don’s unique product. Admiration for one another’s hard work and our mutual interests overcame any obstacles to a budding friendship and Don and I were off to the races; we became peddler buddies. After briefly talking about our younger-man real careers, Don and I soon got around to family, friends, and our peddler businesses.

Initially taken aback, Don was also intrigued by my folksy outdoor mannerisms and "bucolic schisms; a bit skeptical about what appeared to be my too casual approach" to his genuinely serious peddler industry; Don’s salty terminology for me and my one-of-a-kind products. My camouflage netting-draped, patriotic flavored, simulated duck blind peddler booth; adorned here… there… and yon with everything from a full shoulder mounted deer head… to a 1960s minnow trap… hung heavily all about with Marine Corps memorabilia… wildlife art… and historical battle flags from wars gone by; nearly drove Don to the point of approaching show managers and requesting a different location for his quieter, more lady friendly, and intentionally more genteel peddler booth.

But… that didn’t happen… and Don and I are both glad it didn’t.

Eventually becoming friends, a half-dozen shows down the road I casually mentioned that my second book; Not Your Ordinary FISHING Stories; was due out by Labor Day, 2010. And that my third book; Not Your Ordinary SNAKE Stories; was scheduled out in fall, 2011. I explained to Don that my fishing book was finished, but that I was currently working on my snake book. Being the convivial salesman he is, Don spoke up and told me that HE had a great snake story. Since my ongoing format for writing my current series of outdoor and wildlife adventure books includes the interesting concept of incorporating other people’s short stories into MY books, I offered to hear Don’s snake story. Turned out Don indeed had a GREAT snake story.

So… Here it is! Don’s snake story.

It was November, 2000. Don and his forty year old son, Don Jr, had been to the Kerrville, Texas area; deer hunting near the famous Y. O. Ranch… one of Texas’s better known tourist attractions. The Two Dons routine day of hunting was at an end and they were departing their ranch. The Two Dons had spent the final thirty minutes of their day reloading their gear in Don Sr’s brand new Chevy Suburban; A big one… with a hatchback tailgate and plenty of room in back for hunting and camping gear.

Everything was squared away and well packed in preparation for the Two Dons five hour drive north to their home in Colleyville, Texas; a suburb of Dallas-Ft Worth. A big Coleman camp stove, three ice chests, four sleeping bags, a large tent, personal toiletry and clothes bags, two deer rifles, and two shotguns with plenty of extra ammo.

"Texas hunters ALWAYS carry plenty of extra ammo . . . just in case?"

Everything was carefully stowed for the Two Dons long drive north. Their guns and ammunition were intentionally packed deep down in the vehicle, on the very bottom of the Two Dons traveling road show; a common method of hunters hiding valuable guns from prying or too curious scurrilous eyes during quick pit stops made in route home. Shotguns were part of their Two Don hunting arsenal; brought along for skeet and clay target shooting enjoyed as special guests of nearby Y. O. Ranch.

Driving a short distance across their scenic deer pasture, the enchanting pasture they had enjoyed overnight as their campsite, the Two Dons reached an external ranch gate leading back out to a public road. Don Sr was driving, so Don Jr volunteered to hop out and open the wire gate exiting their ranch. As Don Jr stepped around the vehicle and approached the closed gate, not too far from the grill and headlights of Don Sr’s new Suburban, Don Jr let out an extraordinarily loud yell.

"Loud even for an excited