Hudspeth County Herald and Dell Valley Review (Dell City, Tex.), Vol. 35, No. 13, Ed. 1 Friday, November 22, 1991 Page: 4 of 12
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PAGE 4, HUDSPETH COUNTY HERALD-Dell Valley Review, NOV. 22, 1991
' V
91
♦
.2 Mr
D
Phone: 964-2566 Box 204 Dell City, Texas
3,+3
•7/41
-
COME SEE VS FOR ALL YOVR
FARM AND RANCH SUPPLIES
FARMERS
ASSOCIATION
A Joyous
Thanksgiving
to One And All
CROW TLAC
c (WILDHORSE) WARREN
of the mule until I thought he
might dent it. The boar thought
the same and got after him to
stop. That was my chance ! I
jumped down from the bed of the
truck and quickly made it inside
the cab. Grabbing my rifle and
holding it up for the hog to see,
I yelled, "Hey boar! Look what
I got!" That was all it took.
Before I could wet a patch, he
lumbered back toward the creek,
taking his time as he went. He
knew he was beaten.
"Hey, boar!" I yelled as I
crawled out of the truck,
taunting him once again with
the Kentucky. He stopped,
turned and nudged his nose into
the ground, rooting up several
peanut plants and tossing them
into the air. With that he turned
and was gone.
That did it. I was humiliated;
I'd been given the snoot by a
mangy boar. I looked up at
Willie. He was grinning. _
There wouldn't be any living
this down, not with windy-
mouthed Willie spreadin' the
word around.
I've run from bear, I've run
from skunks. You can explain
that. But I didn't know how to
explain backing down from a
hog. "You coming?" I asked
Willie. "I'm going boar hunting. "
Willie slid off the top of the
mule, seized his rifle and fol-
lowed along behind me. "Ever
see the movie Grizzly?" he asked.
I didn't answer; I was too busy
figuring out how to corner that
boar. I had hunted this land
many times. I knew that the
creek meandered around the
turn row and cut back around
the field. We'd try and catch
him at the cut back. By cutting
across the field, we could be
there waiting long before he
made his way along the creek
to the bend. I balanced my -
Kentucky in my hand and struck
out, falling into a steady, loping
gait.
I am a jogger. Willie isn't.
I could hear him huffing and
puffing behind me, his ill-
suited equipment jingling and
clanking as he made his way
slowly across the field. The
farther we went, the farther
cont'd Pg 8
be messed with. I had managed
to pull Willie out of that creek
bottom not a moment too soon;
those long white tusks were
fixing to make a mess of his
backside. I looked down into
the creek, but the boar was
gone. "Did you see where he
went?" I asked. Willie tapped
me on the arm and pointed west,
towards the mule. The mule !
That boar had plans and I didn't
much care for them, especially'
since we'd made out last trip to
the creek unarmed. "Leave
everything and let's go ! " I
said. We lit out of there like
the place was on fire.
To my way of thinking, the
boar was looking for a place to
climb out of the creek, and that
was near where we had parked
the mule. I didn't have to think
very hard to know what he had in
mind when he got out. We took
the short cut and headed for
safety. We were almost home
free, only 50 yards from the
refuge of the Ford, when the
boar came out of the creek and
headed straight for us.
"Run! " I hollered needlessly.
Willie shot past me like he had
been fired from a cannon. We
barely managed to reach the
truck and dive into the back
before the boar rammed into the
side and dented it. "Hey, I got
a $200. 00 deductible ! " I
screamed at the boar. He
rounded the truck, looking for
a place to climb up. There was
none. I stood up and jeered at
him, sticking my thumbs in my
ears and calling Nanny, nanny,
nah, nah!" He slammed into
the side of the truck again, hit-
ting it so hard I almost fell over.
Willie climbed up on top of
the cab and watched. There was
little else he could do. The
rifles were in the front seat, and
since the boar was big enough to
stand up and stick his nose
through the window, neither of
us was going to make it inside
without getting eaten. We were
stuck.
Minutes ticked by; the sun beat
down on us. Finally, I had an
idea. Willie would distract him
on one side while I slid in the
window on the other. Willie
began beating against the side
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We headed down the creek.
This was going to be easy. The
soft sand made walking so smooth
and quiet we could have snuck
up on the devil himself. The
hunt wasn't going to be worth
writing about, I figured. Then
the creek began to deepen.
The sides grew steeper and began
to narrow in on us. I didn't like
it. We could stumble on the
hots and not have time enough
for a good shot. I scanned the
rim of the creek, thinking how
much better it would be if we
were up there.
We walked on until at last I
heard them. I waved my arm for
Willie to keep quiet. The chan-
nel crooked sharply right in front
of us, so they had to be just be-
yond that point. We crouched
low and listened to the contented
hogs as they rooted in the cool
creek bed. Probably mud up there
and plenty of shade. It was
exactly what we had been looking
for— a place to ambush the var-
mits without wearing overalls
that look like trees. All we had
to do was get up above them.
"Five, six, seven, " I counted.
There were probably more, but
looking down from the rim into
the creek bottom, part of the
mud wallow was hidden from my
view. Willie was already
tamping a load into his Kentucky.
"Pick you out one, " I said.
"I'll take that speckled hog there.
I pointed to a lazy-looking sow
that was grazing on some of the
freshly filched peanut stalks.
Willie nodded and leveled his
rifle.
Both guns were cracked simul-
taneously, spewing blue smoke
and smelling of burnt sulfur.
Our two hogs fell to the ground
dead. We had made clean shots.
As the echo of the rifle reports
faded away down the length of
the creek, hogs ran every which
way. It was mud slinging, dust
flying, mass confusion. "Which
way?" I asked. Willie pointed
with both hands - one north, one
east.
Well, I figured, we'd just take
what we had and call it good. A
hog apiece was plenty of meat by
anybody's standards. As I saw it,
the problem was getting the 200-
pounders up and out of the creek.
I remembered why I hadn't liked
the idea of having the walls
steepen and close in on us; getting
those hogs out was going to be
work. It would take te am effort
to accomplish the task.
Within the hour we gutted and
quartered both hogs and trans-
ported most of the meat back to
the mule. One more trip would
just about do it. Willie stood on
the sandy floor of the creek and
handed up the last quartered
meat, which I stacked neatly on
top of the rest. It was about
then that I noticed an odd sound,
sort of like a steam locomotive:
climbing a steep embankment.
Then the sound changed, shifting
into high gear and quickening
its pace.
"Mercy! Take my hand, Wil-
lie, and don't look back!"
Willie did as he was told; I
grabbed him by the arm and
pulled. A moment later he was
up the steep bank, sprawled out
on top of me. 'That's got to be
the biggest boar hog I ever saw"
I said.
The hog had come out of no-
where, and my first glance of
him told me he was no swine to
t—4%
"2.
Ne,-
Larry Lyles is C. Warren's grandson who lives in Amarillo, Texas.
This article appeared in the Nov/Dec. issue of The Muzzleloader, a
gun fancier's publication.
HOGS AND OTHER DEADLY VERMIN
by Larry Lyles
"RUSSIANS ATTACK!" The headline was emblazoned across the
front page of the Valley Tribunal. I read on.
"Four hundred pound wild Russian boar responsible for destruction of
peanut crop in the Pease River county. Local farmer "Mugs" Dryland
says as many as forty of the wild hogs crossed his upper forty some-
time during the night, leaving the bumper crop of peanuts decimated,
rooted up, and generally in a mess. "
I saw red. No mangy hog, Russian or otherwise, was going to lay
waste any crop of Uncle Mugsy's. I wasn't about to ignore this cry
for help from my-kin . This was war.
I threw down the paper and grabbed the phone. A quick call alerted
my rendezvous buddy Willie Wilson to the disaster, and within the
hour we were headed south into hostile territory. It was time to do
battle against the dreaded fence busting, ground grubbing, peanut
eating Russian boars.
Now Uncle Mugs was a laidback sort of man. Too laidback to my
way of thinking. While all the neighboring farmers suffered from the
ravages of war, he sat and rocked on the porch with a pipe clenched
between his teeth. "
"What are we going to do about it?" I asked him as Willie and I
stood on the bottom porch step.
With a stern face, Mugs narrowed his eyes and answered, "I'll just
plant a few more acres next year. " Great solution--feed them until
they get too fat to move. Maybe they'll all have heart attacks and
die.
"Well, " I said, "we've come to help you. " I tried to sound like I
knew what I was talking about. "Me an' him, " I pointed over at
Willie, "are going to rid you of this vile pestilence. " This might have
seemed more feasible if Willie had sucked in his gut or worn some-
thing besides a tee shirt that was two sizes two small. His belly button
flung out between his pants and the hem of the shirt like a bull's-eye
on a target.
"Uh huh. " Mugs' eyes widened just a little. "Either of you boys
(anyone under the age of 60 was a boy to Uncle Mugs) ever seen one
of them hogs?"
"No sir. But I ran a lot of Durocs when I was a kid. " I figured that
would convince him just what an expert I was on the subject. I could
thank L. J. Udy for that bit of knowledge, him being the head of the
FFA and all.
"Uh huh. How many bullets that rifle hold?" Mugs pulled the pipe
from his mouth and used it to point at my fine Kentucky.
"Just one, " I said. "A good shot don't need more than one bullet. "
I had learned that answer several years ago. It's the standard answer
buckskinners give when confronted by fat-bellied hunters who dress
like trees and hide beyond plywood to ambush deer.
"Uh huh. Ain't never seen one of them hogs, have you?" Mugs
tamped another load of tobacco into his pipe and lit up.
"Don't worry about us. " I answered. "Just point the way. "
"Uh huh. " Uncle Mugs sucked on the corncob, drawing his cheeks
together until I thought they would touch. With a half grin on his
face, he motioned his hand north along the fence row all the way to
the upper forty. Willie was grinning. Once again my smooth talk
had gotten us past the "No Trespassing" sign and on toward the hunt.
Since peanuts grow best in the sand. Uncle Mugs' place ought to
grow the best peanuts in the lower Caprock region. Fortunately, our
"mule" (that's buckskinner for Ford) had four wheel drive. We arrived
at the scene of the battle within minutes.
Having grown up around the construction business, I was used to
viewing most kinds of wanton destruction. However, I wasn't prepared
for this. Fences were down, mesquite was pulled up by the roots and
the old "H" Farmall lay turned over on its side. And the field!
That was where the real destruction lay. Rows of peanuts were plowed
up and wind-rowed like the Lyles Brothers used to plow mesquite with
that old DB Cat. 'This is the place, " I said rather smugly. Willie
just let out a mournful whistle. Willie never did say much, even when
we were kids. I think having been the only boy in a family of six
girls may have had something to do with that.
Tracks were everywhere among the remains of several acres of
peanuts. Dried and shriveled up, the plants were scattered along a
path leading from the edge of the field down the turn row, through
the brush and finally into the creek. "One of them is big, " I remarked
as we studied the tracks in the soft sand of the creek bed. Willie
nodded in agreement, letting out another one of those painful whistles.
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Lynch, Mary Louise. Hudspeth County Herald and Dell Valley Review (Dell City, Tex.), Vol. 35, No. 13, Ed. 1 Friday, November 22, 1991, newspaper, November 22, 1991; Dell City, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1536044/m1/4/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; .