WE WAIT with the old men, each of them rooted in the muck, worn and furrowed. In the early light, their limbs and branches overhead are kinked and storm-shattered, like the arthritic fingers of the ...

IT’S 5 A.M. IN SUMNER, MISSOURI, and the moon is blood red. A lunar eclipse. As we ride out to the morning hunt, I can barely see my hand in front of me—just enough to see that it’s shaking a little ...