missing. Right then I could not have killed a duck, if it had meant that it was my last shot on earth at ducks. It was too much for one day, even for an old hunter like myself! It was all so appalling it sickened me!
A Reelfoot Lake hunter with his happy little girl getting in on the act after a successful hunt.
seemed endless. From the east came the noise of the discharge of many guns. We paddled with all our might to a great flag opening, just as the sun surrendered its light giving office to a big yellow moon, that magnified the trees into outrageous proportions. Thousands of ducks were circling at the roosts, but the death-dealing gunners were there to keep them away. We came to the first roost while a skyline of weak vermilion was yet visible. I could see the gunners. You can be sure they were not market hunters, but sportsmen from the metropolis across the Big River. They saw me and invited me to join in the slaughter. Yes, five of them! Their guns flashed so rapidly I could not begin to count the time between shots. I saw flock after flock circle and dip, and then rise into the moonlight with many Sharpie Shaw with a nice bag of ducks. He was a great shot, waterfowl hunter and guide, and a Reelfoot Lake legend.
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Market hunting
On arrival at my debarking place the assembled natives commented on my lack of success - an unbelievable occurrence on Big Lake when a flight was on – and Bill looked quite long at my sole mallard. But Bill made no remark. As I shook his hand, it had a warmer feeling and tenser clasp than when I first met him; and when the parting salutation was muttered, I was positive I beheld a new glint dart from his eye. Was Bill seeing my view of the subject?