When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can't hunt deer out of season, and you can't kill deer at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the deer clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie (Duel 1971 https://youtu.be/hhRdsuln3J4?t=3449) where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the deer clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie (Duel 1971 https://youtu.be/hhRdsuln3J4?t=3449) where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the deer clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie (Duel 1971 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhRdsuln3J4) where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the deer clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie (Duel 1971) where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the deer clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a deer up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke his spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly, my friend said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him. He in my mind, was like that Davy Crockett you talk about.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I couldn't even see it, and I had good eyes. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

bbWhen I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, and the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

bbWhen I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth/tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip out to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, and the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around ninth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip our to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, and the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.

When I grew up, my cousin, and best friend, who I stayed with a lot during the summer, was from a family that lived like back woods pioneers. They had very little money. The father hunted year round to feed to family. But then there were laws that said, you can hunt dear out of season, and you can kill dear at night (fire hunting).

He disobeyed all these laws, and they were never able to catch him.

I remember my brother telling me a story about how all the game wardens finally trapped him in the woods, down in the swamp. If you've ever been down in a bottom area, you know what I'm talking about with the little coca-cola colored streams that flow through the woods. Well he got down in one of the two foot wide streams, and slithered swam right between their legs practically, and made it back home. His escapes were like legend.

They had a fireplace that must have been five feet wide, like you could put half a tree in there, and in the winter time, we would stand around that fireplace turning like a rotisserie, freezing on one side, and burning up on the other.

We, as kids, not too old, would leave the house, and go back in the woods, and walk for miles and miles, and never see another person. Sometimes we would stay all night, and come back home the next day. It was like living a Huckleberry Finn novel back in them dark swamps. All night you could hear panthers screaming like babies, sounded like a baby crying.

Once we were walking across posted land, probably 5 miles from his house, and up in a clearing Uly said, "look, there is a dear up there. I said where? He said up there. I could even see it. He threw up his 22, and shot the dear clean through the back, broke him spine. That was one hell of a shot with a 22. It still amazes me to this day. We were probably 7th graders, but he rigged that dear up for carrying, and we toted him all the way home. Oh, and it was a doe.

Anyway, my best friend was the guy, even in first grade on, that no one messed with. Every new guy that moved to town, eventually tried themselves against him, and I never saw him lose a fight.

Sometime around tenth grade, I remember him telling me a story about his trip our to Texas. He told me he shot a bird at some guy driving down the road, for some reason, I can't remember why. But he said that he nearly died that day. Said the man turned his truck around, and started chasing him, trying to run over him. He ran through people yards trying to get away. He told me, and the man ran over close line, yard furniture, anything in the way, jumped curbs trying to catch him. He said it reminded him of that Dennis Weaver movie where he was chased by the manic in the semi-truck.

I remember him saying, don't fuck with those people out in Texas, their crazy.