Gator Aide
“He sent me off with a few words of wisdom.
“Listen up, Bronx. You signed your life over to this outfit. That means you hit the road, you stay on the road, you catch the bad guys, and you stop ’em dead in their tracks.”
This was easier said than done. A new scam in vogue was to make an anonymous call reporting a poaching in progress. I’d rush to the area only to discover that I’d been kept busy on a sham. Meanwhile, a group of poachers would be leisurely blasting six hundred grosbeaks out of their nests just twenty-five miles away. This time of year was a free-for-all on grosbeak babies. Not only did they have the bad luck of being a favorite food for Cajuns, but they were also dumb enough to sit on branches awaiting their fate.
In another ruse, one good ol’ boy would be set up to take a fall on a minor poaching charge, spiriting me away from where the real dirty deeds were going on. One or two ducks over the limit ate up a day of my time, filing papers and heading to court.
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