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  North Texas Star   August 2014 WE H VE COMP NY WE HAVE COMPANY Butch Cassidy Sundance Kid lay low one night near Authon Butch Cassidy, Sundance Kid lay low one night near Authon Outdoors Along The Brazos HUNTING HUNTING HODGEPODGE HODGEPODGE Chasing Our Tales ã The Legacy of Lawrence Sullivan (Sul) Ross ã H.H. McConnell  August 2014 ã NORTH TEXAS STAR ã Page 2 PROTECT YOUR FAMILY & FINANCES... BECOME A MEMBER $49 / YR / HOUSE OR LESS Includes Mineral Wells Based Ground Ambulance Transfer Service JOIN AT WWW.CAREFLITE.ORG OR CALL (877) 339-2273  August 2014 ã NORTH TEXAS STAR ã Page 3 ADVERTISING Mary Jo Watson (940) 229-9941 maryjo_nts@mineralwellsindex.com CIRCULATION circulation@mineralwellsindex.com  PUBLISHER Jeff Smith  jjsmith@cnhi.com GENERAL MANAGER/EDITOR David May  editor@mineralwellsindex.com LAYOUT & DESIGN Lindsay Bryant  ads1@mineralwellsindex.com CALL 940-325-4465 ONLINE www.mineralwellsindex.com North Texas Star   4 OUTDOORS ALONG THE BRAZOS Hunting Hodgepodge By Don Price 208 CHASING OUR TALES Dr. Jack Leigh Eidson By Sue Seibert 16  H.H. MCCONNELL 12 By Jim DillardBy Wynnell CatlinBy Jimmy Walker THE LEGACY OF LAWRENCE SULLIVAN (SUL) ROSSWE HAVE COMPANY  August 2014 ã NORTH TEXAS STAR ã Page 4 Outdoors long the Brazos Outdoors Along the Brazos By DON PRICE Hunting Hodgepodge D ove season is right around the corner; it'll be here before you know it. It's hot, man, it's hot. Not a breath of air. Worms wiggle on the horizon; rivulets of sweat run down your lenses, distorting what's left of your vision.Where in the heck is one lonesome dove?You'll sit and wait on one darn dove when they aren't flying nor does it look from here like they intend to fly. Even while trying out that new pair of 7x35 binoculars, you'll find that doves seem to be an endangered species.You're just sitting cross-legged under this mes-quite tree on the edge of a freshly cut maize field with a 20-gauge over-and-under skattergun resting in your lap, and you're not taking the time to do the honey-do stuff back home like you prom-ised, you know, the garden, the flower bed, etc. You're gonna catch heck and you know it. Maybe tomorrow you'll crank the garden tiller.The classified ad in the newspaper in the Hunting Leases section really caught your eye. The grinning landowner who took your hunting lease greenbacks told you this was a red-hot fly-way, lots of doves (multitudes, he said), and right here in this exact spot right here under this mes-quite, a red-hot flyway, he said, and then he took your greenbacks. Was that a snicker?The afternoon drags by, five minutes seems an hour; you'll check your wristwatch, knowing it's stopped; and here comes something making you  jump out of your pants – almost – and it's nothing but a dragonfly. No kidding, it's this slow.Noticing this dragonfly suddenly out of the cor-ner of your eye makes you jumpy, tensing your reflexes. You've been here so long this afternoon you feel embarrassed.You know dadgum good-and-well the landowner is watching you, hoping you won't fill up your game bag with too many of his money crop birds.You know he's going to ask How many? when you later drive past his hog pen on the way out. Maybe he'll give you a refund because his dragon-flies made you so nervous you had to leave early. That won't work and you know it.Finally after an impossibly long afternoon, noth-ing but dragonflies, damn 'em, you'll get up slow-ly, all stiff-legged to hobble slowly around the freshly cut maize to jerk open the cab door. Ah, the ole thermos jug.But all things must end, no matter how disap-pointing, the orange wafer in the sky but a slice anyway. Off with the game bag heavy with unfired shotgun shells, the 20-gauge now in its case in the old Ford cab, slamming the door, cranking the engine, you'll naturally look the other way, maybe whistle a little tune as you stomp on the gas pedal while he's feeding the hogs, hoping you will be out of hearing distance, hoping he won't scream about his damn birds, How many? Out the front gate now, you'll swing by the field for one last look from the gravel road. Ten, 20, 30 in a flock, flock after flock, here they come over the hot flyway mesquite, just like he said they'd do while he was taking your greenbacks.I knew he would ... I can hear him laughing clear out here, listen, louder than the squealing pigs.You can keep your old doves, you tight wad. They'll all leave, every blasted one, when the next blue norther roars in anyhow. Continued on page 6
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