"Man!" Ray whooped. "I've got two of 'em!"
Slowly, he withdrew his arm, careful not to fall off the log or lose his catch. As he brought his catch above the surface, he was eyeball to eyeball with a cottonmouth moccasin doubled up in a tightly clenched fist, its tail beating the air.
For a long, paralyzing moment Ray gazed into the sinister black eyes and at the darting tongue. Then, with a toss like a discus thrower, he flung the moccasin from him. It coiled through the air like a piece of dirty rope, splashed into the murky water and disappeared in a boiling froth.
Ray fell off his pine log and skimmed the 25 yards to the opposite shore. If that swim had been stopwatched, it would have set a record that would be standing till this day.
That cottonmouth catch made a former grabbler out of Ray, and also his buddies. Grabbling in the sand-hill stock pond ceased, and it didn't take a warning from a game warden, either.