Rumors of his existence were almost as rare as sightings, and because the few that did catch a glimpse of him were afraid to admit it lest they be counted crazy, most men lived in the bliss of ignorance.
If I could cross the open ground in front of me without being spotted, I might still have a chance. If not, I would have wasted three hours of afternoon and three hundred feet of elevation.
I had just calmed my breathing and corralled my heart rate, convinced that my eyes were playing tricks on me, when the jake began to speak.
Here in Oklahoma, we listen to classic country. Country-and-western country. Willie-and-Waylon-and-the-boys country. So do the birds we hunt.
I pulled the trigger on my twelve gauge when he was just seventeen yards away, partly because he was well within range but mostly because I was sick of listening to him.
Seems like they’d be easy to kill, doesn’t it? Only those that’ve never done it think so. I hunt the stinking things every spring, and at least once a season, I’m the one that winds up looking like the turkey.