According to all who knew him before that day, Brother Dudley's word was as good as gold. He was a straight shooter and a man of great integrity. Even today, some still feel that way about him. Had it not been for his one great weakness, there probably would have never been a reason to doubt the man ... no chink in his armor ... no shadow of suspicion cast. But turkey hunting will eventually tell on a man. It has a way of bringing things to the surface, which have hitherto been buried deep in obscurity. In the end all will be laid bare.
I make no judgment in Brother Dudley's case, although certain facts certainly challenge one's best efforts to remain objective. Rather, I will present his story and let you judge for yourself. If I could offer anything of a personal bias, it would be to encourage you, the reader, to consider what you are about to read in light of Brother's Dudley's exemplary life as a devoted husband, father and minister of The Gospel. To my knowledge he has no criminal record and has never been convicted of a felony.
Date: April 14, 1992
Place: Shackleford County
Time: Daybreak
Brother Dudley sat huddled hopefully in an ancient pecan bottom, waiting for dawn to break above the banks of the Brazos River. In another location, 200 yards away, Shallow Jack, his friend and turkey hunting partner also sat in predawn darkness waiting for first light.
It merits mention that Brother Dudley's friend Jack is known to be a man of great integrity. He is a seminary graduate and devoted Bible scholar, and prior to this event, has never been known to be a part of any shady or skulduggerous schemes or practices.
Brother Dudley was clad from head to toe in the appropriate camouflage and was armed with a small caliber rifle and a devastating new turkey call. This new call was so deadly that there were already rumors about it becoming illegal in several southern states. Rather than imitating the language of love of the female turkey, this call duplicated the voices of two irate gobblers engaged in all-out battle with one another. While girl talk would fool a gobbler every now and then, the sound of two gobblers fighting was more than any red-blooded Tom could resist. Brother Dudley was determined to dupe some west Texas turkeys with it before it was completely outlawed.
As darkness gradually retreated a barred owl announced the coming day, and in the distance a gobbler responded aggressively from his roost. This was the signal Brother Dudley was waiting to hear. There was a gobbler within hearing distance.
With a call in each hand, Brother Dudley began pumping the plungers with his thumbs, creating the chortles and purrs that gobblers make in combat. After a minute or two he stopped and listened for a response, but all was silent. The air was still. The owls and the turkeys failed to speak.
After a short pause Brother Dudley resumed his fighting purrs. In spite of the eerie stillness, he was confident of success. Turkeys were his forte ... he spoke their language well. It was just a matter of time.
After 20 minutes of sporadic calling Brother Dudley saw movement before him in the timber. He slowly laid his calls on the ground beside him and wrapped his hands around the stock of his .22-250. In an instant four gobblers walked boldly out of the timber 150 yards in front of him. They were not tiptoeing suspiciously in single file as gobblers typically do when they come to the call. Not these birds. They looked like the James gang, walking defiantly into Dodge, four abreast, hands above their holsters, just itching for a good fight.
Though somewhat amazed at the brazen audacity of the incoming gobblers, Brother Dudley knew that turkey was as good as in the pan. All he had to do was sit perfectly still and wait for them to come into easy range. And come they did. At an estimated 60 yards, the gobblers stopped to look for the fight they believed they were about to find. Brother Dudley centered his crosshairs on the largest of the four and touched the trigger. At the sound of the shot his gobbler hit the ground with a thud. The deed was done. Brother Dudley had once again outsmarted the wariest of all game birds.
But something was different this time. Instead of streaking for cover, the other three turkeys stood their ground in blatant defiance of death. These were determined birds to say the least. Brother Dudley could have easily shot another, but since the remaining three were showing no signs of fear he thought he might be able to sneak back through the timber and bring Jack up for a crack at them. In spite of the shot and their fallen comrade, the turkeys stood their ground, obviously still intent on locating the fighting toms they had come to see.
Brother Dudley leaned his rifle against a tree and was slinking back into the timber toward Jack when he thought he saw his dead turkey move. So, he stopped to get a better look. Sure enough, there were some signs of life. It seemed like his dead turkey was not so dead after all. At first the shot seemed perfect, but obviously it hadn't done the job completely. Twitches turned to flops and soon the turkey was far too lively to leave alone. Brother Dudley was now unarmed, so he'd have to grab a stick or a limb to use as a club to finish the turkey off.
However, the closer he came to the turkey the more it tried to get away. Brother Dudley could see that the turkey was flopping his way toward the river bank so he made a dash for the crippled bird. But the turkey was too fast. It flopped its way over the steep bank and toppled down to the water's edge 12 feet below.
Now Brother Dudley and the turkey both faced a crisis. He couldn't follow the turkey down the straight drop-off, and the turkey had to decide how he was going to handle being trapped between Brother Dudley and the river.
The gobbler looked up at Brother Dudley, then turned his head and stared contemplatively at the river, flowing only inches in front of him. The wheels were turning and a decision was at hand. Finally, after considering all his options, or lack thereof, the turkey made a desperate move ... one which no turkey hunter but Brother Dudley had ever witnessed. It threw himself squarely into the Brazos River.
A turkey wasn't made for water, and it was an ungainly spectacle to see the big bird spraddled awkwardly in the flowing water. Caught in the current, the courageous bird started to drift downstream. Brother Dudley, in the meantime, had decided his best option was to go back for his rifle, return, put the turkey out of his misery, and then fish him out of the river farther downstream. The plan certainly made sense at the time.
Shallow Jack, having heard the shot, walked up to Brother Dudley just as he was about to abandon the turkey to retrieve his rifle. It was at that point that Brother Dudley claims to have pointed out his floating turkey to Shallow Jack who agrees that he was, in fact, a witness to the gobbler adrift in the river, which begs the question: How did Shallow Jack come by his name?
Then a most bizarre thing happened. From the depths of the Brazos, a huge fish savagely attacked the floating gobbler, grabbing the bird in its cavernous jaws and pulling him under the surface to a watery grave. Brother Dudley and Jack both reported watching the huge fish writhing and rolling in the deep water, as it swallowed the ill-fated gobbler whole. Then, as suddenly as it began, the water ceased to boil, leaving only a muddy cloud as a grim reminder of how tough it can be to be a turkey.
As the story of the great turkey-eating fish was circulated throughout the south, two questions have emerged. First, what kind of fish could possibly be big enough to swallow a full grown turkey? Fishermen who know the Brazos well believe it had to have been a huge flathead catfish. Flatheads in excess of 100 pounds have been caught in the Brazos. Others venture the possibility of a huge alligator gar, or even an alligator, although no one can recall any record of alligators in the Brazos in modern history. In any case, these possibilities were offered by fishermen, not turkey hunters.
Turkey hunters, on the other hand, did not immediately embrace the possibility of a turkey-eating fish, and were more inclined to ask: "How dumb does Brother Dudley think we really are?" Admittedly, some grace was lacking in their initial response. One long-time turkey hunter commented, "It ain't no crime to come home without no turkey. It happened to me once. I just missed him, that's all!" It has been said that the truth can't be found in any turkey hunter.
Interviews with wives and children of devoted turkey hunters offer yet another possibility: that turkey hunters in general lack the ability to discern certain facts from the imagined. One anonymous turkey hunter's wife said of her former husband, "By the end of the turkey season that man couldn't tell ya his name. He'd walk around here in a daze, with a glazed look in his eyes. Kinda reminded me of one of them cereal killers. Nothin' he mighta said in turkey season woulda surprised me one bit!"
In conclusion, it appears that turkey hunting is more than a casual sporting pursuit. It should probably be viewed as an affliction. Perhaps its victims should be pitied rather than scorned.
Those who know and love Brother Dudley will stand by him and see him through the humiliation of this incident. To them it doesn't matter what happened to his turkey. But Brother Dudley is still sticking to his incredible story, just the way he remembers it. Strangely however, he seems to have lost his interest in turkey hunting. Rumor has it that he's spending his spare time fishing these days ... out on the Brazos in Shackleford County.
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