<TITLE>25. Par 85-87</TITLE>L-85 We went over in the other little coulee, and come up, and then we was right close to him, about two hundred yards. I said, "This is just right." I said, "Wait till he looks around." Looked like a big hay stack. He turned and looked at me.
I had a little bitty rifle. And just as he turned and looked at me I shot him right smack in the heart. And here he rolled over the hill like that, as hard as he could come, like that. And Bud stood there, turning white in the mouth. He said, "Brother Branham, I didn't want him on my lap."
And I said, "Neither did I."
He said, "Now, if them horns are exactly forty-two inches when I get down there, I'm going to have a screaming fit."
I said, "You better have it right here, because it's going to be that way."
He said, "I've got a measure in my saddle bag."
And we got down there. The vision said a--a little hand would hold the horns. I pulled up beside of Brother Eddie there. I said, "Now, watch that boy hold that horn." And he went around, and got that tape measure, brought it out, put it down the base of the head. That little hand: his boy, Blaine, held it, went up there.
Bud said, "Mercy, Brother Branham, right smack on the nose, forty-two inches."
I said, "Bud, He never fails. I mean. He tells just exactly, just exactly." Oh, He's God. When we can see something real and genuine... That's what that queen wanted to see, something real.

L-86 I used to hunt with a half-Indian brother of mine. His name is Burt Caul. He's a Britainer, and he lives up here (or Englishman), lives up in New Hampshire. Great hunter. I love to hunt with him. You didn't have to fool about letting him get lost. He knowed his way back. And we... But he was the meanest man I ever seen in my life. That guy was really wicked. He had eyes like a lizard, and he always look at me with them lizard eyes, and scare me to death anyhow.
But he--he used to say to me... He used to shoot little fawns--you know, little baby fawns. Now, it's all right. I've killed fawns when... If the law says you can kill a fawn, kill it. That's all right. Abraham killed a calf and fed it to God. There's nothing in the size of anything or the sex of it. But just to kill them to be mean, that's wrong. You shouldn't do--just kill to be mean.
That's one thing about the Indian. Reason he was the great conservationist we ever had, he took just what he had to use. If he caught more, he turned it loose. The white man was a murderer, he went out and shot the buffaloes out, and so forth, for targets. That's the bad guy in doing things like that.

L-87 But Burt used to shoot them just for fun, to make me--make me feel bad. He said, "You preachers are chicken-hearted." So that's what's a... You know what I (Is that word used up here, chicken-hearted?) Chicken-hearted. Said, "That--that's what's the matter with you preachers."
So one day I went up there. And he'd made him a little whistle, to make it sound like a little baby fawn, with that little brrr. Crying, like it was crying for its mammy.
And I said, "Burt, you--you wouldn't do that."
He said, "Oh, you chicken-hearted preacher." He said, "Billy, you'd be a good hunter if you wasn't a preacher."
But I had to get his game about every fall anyhow (You see?), so I just let him go. So I said, "Burt, you wouldn't do that."
He said, "What's wrong with killing a fawn?"
I said, "Nothing. But just to shoot it to leave it lay there, go over and shoot another one, just to act mean," I said, "that's--that's bad, Burt. You shouldn't do that. That would grow up into a big buck someday, maybe a doe, have many other deer. You might have children someday wanted to hunt," so forth.
"Nah, nonsense," he said, just as wicked as he could be.


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