My First Deer Rifle
by Loren Moore
 

I threw the bottle out into the river. As the current carried it downstream my niece, Betty, took a bead on it with my 30-06. When she pulled the trigger the recoil of the rifle made her ponytail jump up and down like a squirrel's tail when he is excited. When I looked back for the bottle it was gone. Betty was just 12 years old, and the recoil of a 30-06 was tough on someone her size, but she just didn't miss.

I was 18 years old when my dad gave me his 30-06 deer rifle that he made from a Jap rifle. In World War II, his friend Lee served in the Pacific Campaign and brought back two captured rifles. He offered Dad one if he would make a hunting rifle out of the other one for him. Dad made 30-06's out of both of them. He had killed several deer with his and didn't deer hunt much anymore. He said he could always borrow it back if he decided to go deer hunting again.

We had bought a case of 1200 rounds of military ammo and had lots of it to practice with, so we did a lot of shooting with that old Jap rifle. That's the reason my two nieces Betty and Latricia, my two nephews Lavon and Lavoy, and myself were down in the river bottom shooting beer bottles. We had gone out across the river into Smith County where the beer joints are and had gathered up a box full of beer bottles for targets.

After one or two shots with the 30-06 all the kids said they didn't want to shoot it anymore. They didn't like the recoil. But Betty was tough. She would shoot it just as long as I would let her. Usually after 8 or 10 shots I would tell her, ok that's enough for this time. I knew her shoulder would be black and blue the next day. We would finish off the box of bottles with my 22 rifle.

But I was going to tell you about my first deer rifle. The first time I got to go deer hunting with it was in Red River county in north Texas. I was hunting on a friend's land and didn't know the woods very good, but I found a board up in a tree that someone had put there to sit on while they watched for deer. I climbed the tree and settled in for a long wait. After about an hour I heard something walking in the dead leaves. It was off to my right. As I slowly turned my head to look in that direction I could see a deer walking slowly along. He had not seen me. He was only about 80 yards out so it was going to be an easy shoot. But as I raised the rifle to my shoulder to shoot I realized I had a problem. (Houston, we've got a problem here). I'm right handed and to shoot to my right I would have to turn almost half way around. All that much movement would spook the deer, and I wouldn't get a shot off before he ran off.

The only thing I could think of was to swap the rifle around and shoot left handed. Now all this thinking is hard work for me. Especially when I'm sitting on a little piece of board twenty feet up in the air. The first deer I had ever had a chance to shoot is walking away and I'm trying to figure out how to get a shot before he's gone.

I swap the rifle around to shoot left handed, take aim, and pull the trigger. Shoot! I forgot to take the safety off. I take the safety off, put the rifle to my left shoulder squeeze the trigger and the rifle snaps. I forgot to put a shell in the chamber after I climbed the tree. I worked the bolt throwing a shell into the chamber, take the safety off, put the rifle to my left shoulder, take aim at the deer and start to squeeze the trigger, then stop. The deer is just standing there watching me. He's not supposed to do that, if anything he should be running away. But there he stands watching me like he was watching some sit-com on TV. I can almost see him laughing.

How do you shoot a deer that is standing there laughing at you? I didn't. I climbed down out of the tree and went back to camp. Would you believe that deer followed me half way back to camp? I guess he was waiting to see what else this stupid hunter was going to do. I had to chunk a rock at him to make him go on. I could just hear the guys saying what's this, you find Bambie?

When I did get back to camp everyone was talking about Peg-leg Johnson, a neighbor that lived just across the fence from where we were camped. He had rode his old mule down to the corner fence on his property before daylight that morning and shot a big eight point buck as he jumped the fence about twenty yards in front of him.

He's called Peg-leg because he lost his right leg in the war, and he has a wooden support he carved out of a 2x4. The only gun he has is an old single barrel 12-gage shotgun. As he told the story of how he killed the deer he would hop around on his peg leg and show us what happened. He said he only had two shells of buckshot. But he had several loads of number 6's. He had taken all the shells he had with him that morning. When the deer jumped the fence in front of him he was ready and shot him with a load of buckshot.

When the deer hit the ground on the other side of the fence he was probably dead but he was kicking, so Peg-leg put his other buckshot in and shot him again. He would demonstrate how he would bounce up on his good leg, shoot, and come down on his peg. By that time he would have another shell loaded into his gun and would bounce back up on his good leg and shoot. He kept that up until he had shot every shell he had with him that morning. He shot that poor deer eight times before he ran out of ammo.

By the time he got through telling about shooting his deer and demonstrating how he would bounce up on his good leg to shoot he had all of us rolling on the ground laughing. I even forgot about my misadventure.

Copyright © 1999 Loren Moore
All rights reserved

Frog Hunt

"Look out, there's a snake!" Sweet Pea cried.

"I see it, it isn't a cottonmouth. It's only a fish snake. It won't bother us if we don't bother him," I said.

"But I don't like snakes of any kind, they make my skin crawl," was Sweet Pea's answer. Sweet pea splashed up a little closer behind me.

"Don't crowd me and be quiet, you're scaring the frogs. There's one now, and I'm going to get to him before that snake does." I drew my 22 Ruger from its holster and took careful aim.

"Crack," went the little pistol and the frog was knocked over backward. Sweet pea wadded over and picked it up and put it in the tow sack he was carrying.

Sweet Pea, my hunting and fishing buddy, and I had gone to the Sabine River bottom frog hunting. It was late summer and the bar ditches were down low, so we just waded through them so we could hunt both banks at the same time. The water was only about knee deep. I had put my headlight on and clipped the lantern battery to my belt. I had strapped on a holster with my Ruger 22 cal. Pistol and I were ready to go. Sweet Pea followed along behind me carrying the sack to carry the frogs in.

Now if you have never eaten frog legs, you just don't know what you're missing. They are all white meat and have a taste all their own. A big bullfrog will have legs bigger than a chicken leg. The bullfrogs at this time of year were big, and there were a lot of them.

A lot of folks don't know how to clean frog legs. Oh, it's easy to skin them, but you better know what else to do to them when you clean them or you're going to be in for a big surprise when you cook them. The first time Sweet Pea cleaned frog legs and asked his mother to cook them for him was an example of what happens.

This was before Sweet Pea started going frog hunting with me. He had killed two big bullfrogs and skinned them. He asked his mother to fry them for him. She had a pan of grease on the stove and had rolled the legs in flour. When the grease got hot she placed the frog legs in the pan, and they jumped out of the pan onto the floor. She screamed and ran backward!

Now you say you don't believe that. I don't blame you because if you haven't seen it you wouldn't believe it. But you see, if you don't pull the nerve out of the leg before you put it in the hot grease it will make the leg contract so hard that it can jump right out of the frying pan.

Well, after that I told Sweet Pea how to remove the nerve when he cleaned his frogs, but his mother never would try to cook any more frog legs. As far as I know she still hasn't to this day, and that was 45 years ago. But that's a whole 'nother story for a different time.

Copyright © 2000 Loren Moore
All rights reserved

Secret Hunt

As the deer started walking again, I took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. Boom! The pistol bucked in my hand and the deer fell to the ground. Then this voice said, "Nice shot."

I jumped and said, "What! Who! Where!"

John rose up out of the big boulders above me laughing. He had his camera in his hands. He said, "Got you."

All this happened years ago when I was hunting on the old Moss Ranch south of llano, Texas. There were eight of us that had the "east graze" pasture leased. It consisted of two thousand acres of prime deer habitat in the heart of the hill country. We had been hunting on it for several years, and all of us knew the pasture pretty well.

As always when a bunch of guys hunt together for a long time, there is friendly competition. This season we had all seen a nice eight point buck on a certain part of the lease, but no one had gotten a shot at him. We all knew he stayed in the cat knob area, but that covered about 200 acres. Each one of us wanted that big buck. If for no other reason, to show the other seven hunters that we were better at hunting game then they were.

I kept telling them I would be the one that got him. Of course each of them was saying the same thing, but I had been doing a lot of scouting in the cat knob area and I had a secret weapon. I had seen this buck three times in the late afternoon on a certain game trail. So I laid my plans carefully. The only person I told where I would be hunting that afternoon was John. I knew he wouldn't say anything to the rest of the gang.

After lunch I laid down to take a nap, intending to be up and sitting in a bunch of large boulders beside this game trail about two hours before sundown. When I woke up, I noticed the cabin was quiet. I looked at my watch and it was only an hour before sun down. Oh my gosh, I've over slept! Everyone else has already gone out, that's why it's so quiet.

I jumped up and put my boots on and ran out to the Jeep. My pistol and gear were still in the Jeep from the morning hunt. I jumped in the Jeep and tore out for my spot in the boulders. I drove to within 300 yards of where I was going to set up and grabbed my pistol and a five gallon bucket of corn. I walked to within 50 yards of where I'd hide in the rocks and spread the corn around on the ground and then along the game trail. Then I took my secret weapon out of my pocket and poured it on the ground and on a small bush along side of the trail.

Now I haven't told anyone about this secret weapon, not even John. I put this little bottle back in my pocket and went to my hiding place in the boulders. I settled down in my fox hole hoping that I wasn't so late that I had spooked that big buck. As I sat there, my breathing settled down and I relaxed. It didn't take long for the birds to start singing again. The world was quiet and peaceful. A squirrel came to the corn and started eating. Then two doves landed and started pecking at the corn. I could hear the buzz of insects. Everything was so quiet and peaceful I didn't care if I saw that buck that evening or not. I was enjoying nature at its best.

Then I heard it - something walking in the gravel on the game trail. It was on my right coming up the trail where it wound through the very boulders where I sat. The trail came out of the boulders into this clearing not twenty yards from where I sat. The footsteps would walk a few steps then stop, then walk a few more steps and stop again. I knew what slight breeze there was was blowing the scent of my secret weapon toward the foot steps. All I had to do was be patient and wait. I waited and listened. After an eternity I heard more footsteps.

I thought of that little bottle in my pocket. The label on the bottle said, "Tinks doe in heat urine." I wondered if it really made bucks come to it when they smelled it. Well, I was about to find out. By this time the sound of the steps told me the deer was right at the edge of the clearing. But it had stopped still in the boulders. I still could not see it. It stood there at the edge of the boulders just far enough back so I couldn't see it.

Then a fly lit on my nose. I didn't dare move to shoo it away. It started crawling up to my glasses. I was trying to blow it off by blowing my breath out of the corner of my mouth, but that didn't work. This fly was driving me crazy. Finally it flew off. The deer hadn't moved for some time. But I hadn't heard him leave either. So I waited.

It was so quiet I could hear my wrist watch ticking.

Tic tic
Tic tic
Tic tic

By this time I had my pistol up and was ready to shoot. I sat there and waited and waited and waited.

Tic tic
Tic tic
Tic tic

My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid the deer would hear it. My throat was dry and my breath began to come in short quick puffs. Sweat popped out on my forehead and my hands began to shake.

Tic tic
Tic tic
Tic tic

Sweat ran down into my eyes and made my eyes burn. I thought I was going blind!

Tic tic
Tic tic
Tic tic

Will that deer not ever step out into the open? This is enough to give a fellow a heart attack! I've only been hunting thirty years... I don't get buck fever.

Finally he stepped out from behind the rocks and there he was. The big eight point buck that everyone had been hunting all week long. As he started walking I took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in my hand and the deer fell dead. Then this voice said, "Nice shot." I jumped and looked around. John rose up out of the boulders above me. He had his camera in his hands. He laughed and said, "Now I know how you kill all those big bucks, and I've got it all on film. Would you like to buy some film or should I have it developed and sell pictures to the rest of the guys?"

My answer to John is a whole 'nother story for a different time. An X rated story!

Copyright © 1999 Loren Moore
All rights reserved

My Friend the Hog Hunter
by Loren Moore
 

Pat is either one of the bravest or one of the most foolhardy hunters I know. Either way, he always comes home with game. I'll let you decide which one you think he is for yourself. Of course wild hogs are not the only game he hunts, but wild hog hunting is what got him his reputation.

Pat's father-in-law, Pete, owns a ranch in south Texas. This is one of the places he goes to hog hunt. Pete has three dogs that love to hunt, and they will follow Pat wherever he goes on the ranch. Their names are Nellie, Frisky, and Sam. Frisky is twelve years old and is beginning to slow down. But she is still the best trailer of the three. Sam knows no fear and will tackle a 200 pound hog by himself. Nellie is probably the smartest of the three.

On one trip to the ranch Pat was going to hunt the hogs at night from a blind. Pat had built this blind on the fence line next to the field Pete planted corn in. A road ran down the outside of the fence and the blind was between the road and the fence. Pete knew Pat was coming, so he had been baiting the hogs with corn out in front of the blind. Pete told Pat that the hogs only came to the corn late at night. So Pat decided he would go to the blind about mid-night. He left the dogs at the house and went to sit in the blind and wait for a hog to come out of the brush to the corn.

He had his rifle, a 22 magnum pistol, and a spot light with a red lens on it. As he sat in the blind waiting, he though of all the hogs he had killed on this ranch. Pat was never one to let anything go to waste. When Pat kills a hog he would skin it and cut the meat up and either put it in Pete's freezer or give it to some needy family, of which there were several around close to Pete's ranch.

All of a sudden Pat heard something out at the corn. He turned on his spot light and shined it at the place where the corn was on the ground. There was an animal at the corn, but it was not a hog. It was a big coon. Now Pat didn't want to shoot the coon, but he didn't want him eating all the corn either. So he climbed down out of the blind and walked out to where to coon was eating corn to scare him off. He hadn't taken his rifle or spotlight. All he had was a little 2 cell flashlight and his 22 magnum pistol, which was in a holster on his belt. As he got close to the coon, the coon scuttled off into the brush. Pat was just turning back to go get in the blind when he heard hogs coming out of the brush toward the corn. They were coming almost straight toward him and they were between him and the blind. He couldn't go back after his rifle without scaring the hogs away.

He stood there in the dark listening to the hogs getting closer and closer. Now they weren't more then twenty yards from him. He knew hogs could be mean when they were in a bunch and this sounded like a big bunch. Pat drew his pistol and flicked on his little flash light. Right there in front of him was a big hog. He was not more then ten yards away now. Pat took aim with his pistol and pulled the trigger.

Well, about that time all hell broke loose. He had aimed at the hog's head, and he knew he had hit it. The hog started squealing and ran toward Pat. The other hogs scattered like a covey of quail, grunting and squealing. Pat stepped to one side, and the hog that he had shot ran right by him. As it ran by, Pat shot it two more times in the head. But that didn't stop the hog. It ran into the thick brush beside the road.

Now Pat had a wounded hog on his hands and it was in the thick bee brush. The brush was too thick to walk through, but there were many game or hog trails through it. The only way a man could follow these trails was on his hands and knees. There was no moon that night and it was pitch dark in the brush. Pat stood there for a minute thinking what he should do now. He knew he couldn't leave that wounded animal to suffer.

Finally he decided to go back to the house and get the dogs. He knew he couldn't handle a rifle in such tight quarters, so he was going to have to use a pistol. He also knew the little 22 magnum was not enough pistol for this kind of work, so he got his .45 caliber Ruger. He also got a big three-cell flashlight.

He drove back to the place the wounded hog had run into the brush and let the dogs out. They were immediately on the scent of the hogs and took off into the brush. Pat had no way of knowing if they were trailing the wounded hog or one of the many others. All he knew was they were hot on the trail of some hogs. Pat got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the brush after them.

He had crawled about twenty yards along this trail when he heard the dogs start barking and a hog start squealing. The fight was on. Pat had to get to the fight before one of the dogs got hurt. He came to a cross trail that looked like it might lead to where the dogs were. He took it and was crawling as fast as he could. The barking, squealing, growling and grunting got louder as Pat got closer to the fight.

All of a sudden Pat looked up and here came a very large hog down the trail straight at him with the dogs in hot pursuit. There was no room for him to get out of the way in this tunnel of brush, and no time for Pat to draw his pistol, so he just lay flat on the ground and put his hands over the back of his neck. The hog was being hard pressed by the dogs and didn't even slow down when he got to Pat. It ran right down his back and legs. Then to add insult to injury, the dogs did the same thing. They didn't even slow down to let Pat know what was going on.

The hog's sharp hoofs had cut and scratched Pat's back and legs as it went over him. Pat lay there for a minute wondering what he was doing out here anyway. He turned around and started back toward the road. He was moving a lot slower going back then he had coming in. His knees were beginning to hurt as well as his back. He had gone about half way back when he heard the dogs getting closer again. This hog was really giving them a run for their money.

Just then Pat realized they were coming right back down the tunnel he was in. Pat drew his pistol and laid over on his side so he could hold the flashlight with one hand and his pistol with the other. Just then the hog came into sight, running all out with the dogs right behind it. Pat pointed his pistol at the hog and squeezed the trigger, bam, again bam, again bam. The hog fell dead not three feet in front of Pat. The dogs were immediately on it. Growling and biting it. Pat was laying there almost nose to nose with this big mean-looking hog asking himself if he were having fun. I don't think we really want to know what his answer was right then. When the dogs realized the hog was dead, they stopped and stood there looking at Pat, as if to say, "Aren't you proud of us? We brought you a hog."

Pat said, "That was a good job guys, but next time don't bring him so close."

Pat pulled the hog out to the road and loaded it into the back of the truck. He took it back to the barn, hung it up, skinned it out, and then cut it up into quarters and put it in his igloo ice chest. Then he went into the house and woke up his wife and asked her to look at his back. When Dora looked at all the cuts and scratches on his back and the back of his legs, she wanted to know what had happened.

Pat told her he got run over by a hog. She just shook her head and asked, "What have you been drinking?"

After doctoring all his cuts and scratches they went to bed. Dora wondered what Pete would have to say about Pat getting run over by a hog. But that's a whole 'nother story for a different time.

Copyright © 2001 Loren Moore
All rights reserved

Born in a oil company camp near Gladewater, Texas, in 1932, Loren Moore married his high school sweetheart, Johnnie Pritchett, in the year he graduated. From there, he moved to Arlington, Texas, where he worked as an assembler at the General Motors plant and stayed until he retired as manager of the paint shop.

Loren writes: "I'm 70 years old and have been married to my wife Johnnie for 51 years. My hobbies have always been hunting and fishing. I'm an uneducated redneck from the piney woods of East Texas. Now that I'm in my old age and do most of my hunting and fishing in my memory, I decided to write about some of my experiences. These stories are about 90% true and 10% fiction. My wife, Johnnie, says they are 10% true and 90% fiction. Maybe they are somewhere in between."

Mr. Moore has recently assembled some of his stories into soft-bound books published by TwinOaks Publishing (pictured here). To purchase one of his books, you can write him at this address.

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