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"The story of Bobby's third pig" or "The track job from hell"

Jody put us in a stand with senderos in three directions. Bobby sat to my left in the blind, and he had a long sendero out his left hand window. Both of us had the blind to the front, and the road we came in on, running out behind us.

We were covered in Whitetails from the start, and had jumped a sounder of pigs as we were driven in to the blind. It looked like Bobby would have a chance to punch his third tag, and I brought a rifle to back him up, or shoot as jackrabbit, depending.

The blind was one of the more elevated types, I'm guessing maybe 10 or 12 feet high. It gave good visibility, and was plenty large enough for two.

We watched deer until we bled from the eyes, and then finally, the feeder went off. I had been furiously busy trying to keep Bobby from fidgeting, but as the magic hour approached, it was getting worse. Suddenly, owing to his sharp eyes and ears, I suppose, Bobby gives the signal that we had pigs in the wire. (You know, put down the beer, pick up the rifle....)

Three pigs show up just to the left of the feeder, about 75 yards distant. We quickly whisper discussion about which pig Bobby will shot at, so I can help him cover it. Decision made and crosshairs settle. Bobby shoots, and the pig rears on it's hind legs and wheels. I break a shot, and I am sure the crosshairs are plastered on the pigs spine. In retrospect, I am still sure they were, because the rifle was zeroed about 1.5" high and so when we went to look for blood there was absolutely none. Not a speck, not a fleck. Bobby gave him a dose of sweet chin music, and I burnt one just over his back.

Sheet! Said we, and we hurried back to the blind.

"I thought you..." "I was sure..." Oh well, nevermind, that one is behind us.

Sure enough, the sounder that we originally jumped when we drove in to the blind, finally came in. Again the discussion started about which pig would be targeted, and when Bobby broke the shot, I was still trying to figure out, just which of the two bigger black pigs in the sounder he was talking about, so I did not fire. Pigs went in every direction. Unfortunately, all of the pigs in the sounder ran.I can understand why, since Bobby has the loudest rifle ever to be chambered in 6.5x55 Swedish Mauser. I wanted to run myself.

We gathered gloves, flashlights and cellphones and sallied forth, with hopes of better results since I was tiring of climbing the steps to the penthouse stand.

The first spot of blood we found was about the size of a clipped thumbnail, but it was pink and frothy, which was heartening, but still, I'd have been happier to see a bigger sample.

Shortly thereafter we found more blood which indicated he was headed into the soft, grassy meadows of Texas. Scratch that. He was headed into the Mesquite, cactus, prickly and moreover Snake infested thickets of Texas.

Now kids, I am scared of very little, but I am a complete chicken where serpents are concerned. I do my best not to leave a live one behind me. Funny thing, kindred spirits and all, my partner Bobby is a snake chicken too.

With daylight diminishing, we had little choice but to plunge in, snakes or no snakes. The sign was good, but it was a bear to follow, owing to the mesquite thicket. Under cactus, over fallen logs, around the thorn bushes....Darkness was soon upon us, and it became so thick that Bwana Rockchucker handed his rifle off to me and he drew his faithful sidearm, and put his fixed blade knife in his teeth as he crawled ever forward.

The brush pulled our hats off our heads, stretched my elastic band back on my headlamp and then suddenly let it go, snapping me on the handsome grape with utter ruthlessness. I peed a little.

If cactus needles and mesquite thorns were comanche arrows, Bobby would have looked like Custer at the Little Bighorn. His dogged determination to find his quarry, truly inspirational.

We tracked on, for what seemed like 3 football fields before Bobby finally said "There he is."

(Editorial note: The reader may note that the truth has been handled carelessly at certain points in this story, but be assured, the 300 yards is closer to the truth than not.)

After high fives and congratulations, we tied off tourniquets to the wounds we had which were bleeding the most. Then we contemplated the drag. By the grace of the Almighty, that rotten little porker had dropped dead within 10 yards of the sendero which had been right out the left hand window of our blind. we drug him out to the middle of the road and within minutes, just like the cavalry in a black and white western, Jody came driving up to get us. We gathered the rest of our gear from the blind, to include the remnants of our emergency hydration supply in the little cooler we carried with us, and headed in for the night.

Heck of a hunt. Hell of a track, and time well spent with a true Amigo.