from sinking in the mud.â
Boats! They needed a whole boatload of cash. Where in the world, wondered Chap, would they come up with that much money? He gritted his teeth again.
To change the subject, he reached up and turned on the small radio that sat on the sill above the café sink, just in time to hear Coyoteman Jim sign off, â. . . have a good day and a good idea.â
And as the DJâs final Arrrooooo! filled the morning air, Chap had just that, a good idea. Hearing Coyoteman Jimâs voice made him think that at least they had one reliable customer. But what they needed to increase their coffers was more reliable customers. And what they needed to get more customers was a good commercial on the radio. Maybe, just maybe, Coyoteman Jim would help them out.
And for the first time since Grandpa Audie had gone to meet his Maker, Chaparral Brayburn cracked a smile. If he could come up with one good idea, maybe, just maybe, he could come up with some others. He took another tiny sip of the now cold, bitter coffee. He peeked under this shirt. Chest hairs had to be growing.
30
C LYDINE AND B UZZIE WERE SMILING too. Just thinking about that wild sugarcane made them downright delirious. Buzzieâs yellow tusks glowed. Clydineâs yellow eyes gleamed.
âSugar,â whispered Buzzie to Clydine.
âSugar,â she said to her beloved boar.
âSugar,â they said to each other.
Every wild hog in the continental USA came from stock that was imported from Europe, beginning with de Sotoâs Spanish sailing hogs. Most hog specialists think that they were likely Russian boars.
Spanish. Russian. Who cares?
What they were now was wild.
Wilder than oats. Wilder than march hares. Wilder than the west wind.
And ravenous. Did we say ravenous? Those hogs were ravenous.
31
B ACK IN 1949, THERE WERE no feral hogs in the Sugar Man Swamp. Not one. But Audie Brayburn hadnât gone to the swamp to look for hogs.
From the time he was fifteen until he turned twenty, he worked for a bakery in southeast Houston. For those five years he worked as many hours as he could, until by 1949 he saved enough money to buy a brand-new DeSoto Sportsman.
It had always been his dream to find the ivory-billed woodpecker, ever since he was a small boy and his father gave him his first birderâs journal. In fact, his nickname was Audubon, for the famous avian artist, John James Audubon. It was quickly shortened to Audie. So, once he had that DeSoto, and a little pocket change left over, he headed east, to the first place he thought he might find the elusive woodpeckerâthe Sugar Man Swamp.
All he took with him were his old binoculars, his sketchbook, a Hohner Marine Band harmonica and hisPolaroid Land Camera, given to him by his parents as a parting gift. He also took a .30-caliber steel ammo can, which he bought at the Army/Navy Surplus. It was airtight and watertight, perfect for keeping his matches dry, and also for storing any photos that he took on his camera. One-of-a-kind photos.
After hours of driving, he finally found his way to the Sugar Man Swamp. He had never seen so many old trees, including dead trees that were still standing, perfect trees for woodpecker nests. He parked the DeSoto, set up his camp, and settled in.
At first, the critters of the forest dodged out of his way and stayed hidden from his sight. After all, most of the humans who entered their domain brought arrows and guns and traps with them. But as the days passed, the animals began to notice that Audie wasnât toting anything except for a pair of binoculars, a camera, an ammo can, and a book that he was always scratching in. And they loved the tunes he played on his harmonica. Just loved them.
Pretty soon Audie Brayburn was considered an Honorary Swamp Critter.
One day he got out his Polaroid Land Camera, pointed it toward an armadillo, and took his shot. As soon as he pulled the back of the film from the photo,
Boats! They needed a whole boatload of cash. Where in the world, wondered Chap, would they come up with that much money? He gritted his teeth again.
To change the subject, he reached up and turned on the small radio that sat on the sill above the café sink, just in time to hear Coyoteman Jim sign off, â. . . have a good day and a good idea.â
And as the DJâs final Arrrooooo! filled the morning air, Chap had just that, a good idea. Hearing Coyoteman Jimâs voice made him think that at least they had one reliable customer. But what they needed to increase their coffers was more reliable customers. And what they needed to get more customers was a good commercial on the radio. Maybe, just maybe, Coyoteman Jim would help them out.
And for the first time since Grandpa Audie had gone to meet his Maker, Chaparral Brayburn cracked a smile. If he could come up with one good idea, maybe, just maybe, he could come up with some others. He took another tiny sip of the now cold, bitter coffee. He peeked under this shirt. Chest hairs had to be growing.
30
C LYDINE AND B UZZIE WERE SMILING too. Just thinking about that wild sugarcane made them downright delirious. Buzzieâs yellow tusks glowed. Clydineâs yellow eyes gleamed.
âSugar,â whispered Buzzie to Clydine.
âSugar,â she said to her beloved boar.
âSugar,â they said to each other.
Every wild hog in the continental USA came from stock that was imported from Europe, beginning with de Sotoâs Spanish sailing hogs. Most hog specialists think that they were likely Russian boars.
Spanish. Russian. Who cares?
What they were now was wild.
Wilder than oats. Wilder than march hares. Wilder than the west wind.
And ravenous. Did we say ravenous? Those hogs were ravenous.
31
B ACK IN 1949, THERE WERE no feral hogs in the Sugar Man Swamp. Not one. But Audie Brayburn hadnât gone to the swamp to look for hogs.
From the time he was fifteen until he turned twenty, he worked for a bakery in southeast Houston. For those five years he worked as many hours as he could, until by 1949 he saved enough money to buy a brand-new DeSoto Sportsman.
It had always been his dream to find the ivory-billed woodpecker, ever since he was a small boy and his father gave him his first birderâs journal. In fact, his nickname was Audubon, for the famous avian artist, John James Audubon. It was quickly shortened to Audie. So, once he had that DeSoto, and a little pocket change left over, he headed east, to the first place he thought he might find the elusive woodpeckerâthe Sugar Man Swamp.
All he took with him were his old binoculars, his sketchbook, a Hohner Marine Band harmonica and hisPolaroid Land Camera, given to him by his parents as a parting gift. He also took a .30-caliber steel ammo can, which he bought at the Army/Navy Surplus. It was airtight and watertight, perfect for keeping his matches dry, and also for storing any photos that he took on his camera. One-of-a-kind photos.
After hours of driving, he finally found his way to the Sugar Man Swamp. He had never seen so many old trees, including dead trees that were still standing, perfect trees for woodpecker nests. He parked the DeSoto, set up his camp, and settled in.
At first, the critters of the forest dodged out of his way and stayed hidden from his sight. After all, most of the humans who entered their domain brought arrows and guns and traps with them. But as the days passed, the animals began to notice that Audie wasnât toting anything except for a pair of binoculars, a camera, an ammo can, and a book that he was always scratching in. And they loved the tunes he played on his harmonica. Just loved them.
Pretty soon Audie Brayburn was considered an Honorary Swamp Critter.
One day he got out his Polaroid Land Camera, pointed it toward an armadillo, and took his shot. As soon as he pulled the back of the film from the photo,
Similar Books
