Squinting my eyes against the gray, I saw the horde appear on the horizon. Hundreds of fast-moving blurs, growing larger as they approached, kicking up dust in their wake. On their heels, the men. Spread out in a line, herding them toward me. Bats in the air, drunken curses echoing across the plain. Shots fired. I crumpled to my knees, clapping my hands over my ears. It wasn’t long before the rabbits reached me. Their mass shook the truck, filling the air with panic. Confused and scared, they fell right into the trap and headed for the open barn door. I wanted to scream for them to stop, but
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Rabbit drives were a horrifying reality of Dust Bowl survival. On one hand, they were a means to reduce the drain on what little resources farmers' had left. On the other hand, they were violent, cruel, and bloodthirsty exercises from men with nothing and no one else to blame for their plight.
