THE SWAMP RUNNERS

IT WAS THE LAST RABBIT

on the first day that beat us so bad. We had our excuses. By the time Sugar Ray jumped the bunny, we’d been chasing swamp rabbits through the Alabama wilds for eight long hours. We were worn down by wet thickets and cut up by cane briar. We were headed back to the truck with enough rabbits in the bag to carpet the tailgate, but then Tyson chimed in with Sugar Ray, bawling deep in the swamp. Lacy and Molly joined the race, and then every other dog in the pack cut loose with a song.

This swamper wasn’t giving in easy, though. Ten minutes passed before the pack pushed the rabbit out of the flooded woods and across a ridge of green fields and open pines. The bunny covered ground in giant 10-foot leaps as it turned for a second swamp on the far side of the ridge. The beagles were still in the woods when the shooting started.

“Here he comes, Marquan!”

Boom!

“Get him, Jamie! Get him!”

Boom!

“Shoot, Eddie, shoot!”

Boom! Boom!

As the rabbit neared the second swamp thicket, racing across the open, Marquan Brown fired again, on the run, 12-gauge to his shoulder, like a tank gunner on the move. Pellets kicked up dust behind, in front, and all around the rabbit, then the critter vaulted through a line of pines and vanished into muck, cypress trees, and black water.

Hollers and whoops erupted from the field. Whoever didn’t shoot let the rest of us have it. No one could believe we all missed that rabbit. We gathered the dogs and turned to the trucks, laughing and marvelingto beat us all day—one that deserved a little peace and quiet in the Coosa River bottoms.