Sshh... Im Hunting Wabbits

“It was the best shot I ever made and the dirtiest trick I ever played.” –
Tom Horn, Apache Indian Scout and Man Hunter before he was hung.

Back in the winter of 1979 Karen and I decided to make a weekend trip home from Des Moines to Lenox. We brought along our close friend Cary my oft times pheasant hunting companion. It was mid-January so pheasant season was closed but rabbits were still fair game. We loaded our clothes and guns into the car and made the two-hour trip to Lenox, right after work on Friday. Pleasantly ensconced in the Howland’s warm home we got a round of cocktails from Doc and a great meal from Martha.

The three of us were only a few years out of college and still felt the need to raise the roof when ever possible, so after dinner we headed down to the bar to have a few and see if any of my high school buddies were about. They were. Soon we were basking in the glow of old companions. Karen’s brother showed arriving from his job in Omaha. We pushed over and welcomed him with all the zeal of those with a good head start. The custom at this bar was drink around the table then you buy a round for the rest. Pretty democratic for all that.

Several rounds went around and Brother wasn’t piping up. He looked sheepish and admitted that he had no cash, only his paycheck. “No problem,” says I. “They’ll cash it here.” And so they did. The three of us thought it would be very clever to try and drink up his proceeds for the week. A dirty trick I’ll admit, but under the fog of hooch it seemed like a great idea at the time. The thing is it was half-price drinks night at the bar, mixed drinks were 50¢ and beer was 20¢. The bulk of his check was very safe even with a few extra bought for our friends. But by the time last call came around we were, all of us, very much the worse for wear.

The problem we suddenly realized was that we had forgotten the admonishment from our hosts, the Howlands. The former minister and his wife were visiting and spending the night. We had been told, “don’t come in making a lot of noise and stinking drunk.” Oops. We tried to sneak into the house undetected but apparently I made enough noise going upstairs to wake the dead, let alone the merely sleeping. The next morning was brutal.

I arose, almost literally from the dead. When I made my way down to breakfast my mother-in-law’s looks were lethal. I perched miserably on the edge of a high stool attempting to pull on my lace-up hunting boots. Every time I would bend over I would get woozy. I was attempting to disguise my discomfort from the minister and his wife who were present at the table. This was the minister who married us and I liked him very much. It seems that they slept downstairs last night and were unaware of my noisy entrance. But Martha was certainly aware of my poor behavior and on the hunt. With a malicious smile Martha inquired, “what’s the matter are your boots too tight?” Ugh.

In spite of our obvious pain and discomfort we managed to eat some food. Then Cary and I loaded up for our hunt and oozed our wounded carcasses into the car. We decided the best place to hunt would be on the way to my folk’s farm where, I assured Cary, my mother would give us some very strong coffee. Off we went. We headed south for two-miles on the highway and then turned right towards the farm. At the top of the first hill setting in a fence line right next to the road I spied a cottontail. Cary wanted to try out his new .357 pistol on the little bunny. He steadied for a shot but the barrel kept weaving, a result of the previous night no doubt. Bang! Miss. Bang! Miss. Of course this happened six times before the bunny got bored and hopped off down the fencerow. Great beginnings, as they say.

Out at the farm we had a nice visit with Mom and lava-hot cups of coffee that would float that massive revolver Cary was toting. Soon we started to feel like at least a shadow of our old selves. We kissed Mom and hit the back roads peering intently for rabbits setting along the road in the fencerows. We had as our principle weapons .22 rifles. Mine was a single-shot from Montgomery Wards. My dad paid a lordly $12.50 for it, brand new and presented it to me on my ninth birthday. There was snow on the ground, the sun was out, and the weather balmy for January in Iowa. The conditions were just right for finding cottontail along rural roads. A handful of bunnies were collected by each of us over the next few hours.

We were considering calling it a day when we topped a ridge, stopped, and could see several piles of trees that had been bulldozed along either side of the road. I honed my hunting eyes along the jumble of trees spying a bunny tucked up next to a tree limb. The rabbit looked to be pretty far, I guessed at least fifty yards. I had with me an old Remington .50 rifle, made just after the Civil War. The trapdoor Springfield was supplied to our troops on the frontier to use to fight the fierce Apache tribes who were defending their homes and decimating homesteaders. The Army soon went to a .45-70 caliber rifle and the .50-70s were consigned to the Apache police. In fact in many historic photos of these stalwarts the Indian Scouts can be seen holding a rifle just like the one I had acquired.

The .50-70 shoots a cartridge as big around as a man’s finger and throws a chunk of lead large enough to kill a buffalo. I was hunting rabbit. After I acquired the old rifle from an antique shop in Arizona I ordered some empty brass and a bullet mold. I hand loaded and shot many rounds through the old gun. It still shot pretty well. It was an interesting weapon in that it has most of a man’s name carved into the stock on one side Fred Sh… and FS, his initials on the other. I liked to tell myself the Indians got him before he could carve his whole name. Who knows? That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway, today my big game in the form of a fuzzy little bunny was basking contentedly in the sun at what I am sure he thought of as a safe distance from danger. I rested the barrel on the window frame of the car, took a deep breath, and held the sights just a bit high and on his nose. “You’ll never hit that rabbit from this distance.” This reassuring quip came from my hunting companion. I slowly let my breath out and took up the creep in the trigger. The big gun boomed and set back into my shoulder. One count of the clock and as I watched mesmerized the rabbit flipped three feet up into the air in a somersault, dead when it hit the ground. I just smiled at Cary.

From the car to the bunny I paced off fifty-five long strides. Well, as long as my short legs could stretch. Not bad shootin’. But my surprise came when I picked up the rabbit to see if the heavy slug left anything to eat. There was not a mark on the rabbit. His front leg was broken and he was deaderin’ dead. I looked where he had been setting; the slug had gone just under his chin skimming off a hunk of frozen dirt. The shock wave made by the big bullet was what actually killed the rabbit.

Well after my sharpshooting display I figured I couldn’t top it so we headed back to town for some hangover medicine. The rabbits cleaned and the hunters too; I was happy to discover that I was no long persona non grata. However I was to be under the evil eye for quite a few years after my dirty trick. As I think back on this story today I realize it has been longer than I can remember since I have seen last call in a public tavern. These days last call for me means the TV News is over. Karen generally beats me to evening’s end by a comfortable stretch. However, there were times way back many years when we thought we were setting the world on fire.

Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end. – Mary Hopkins, 1968