In between my trips to dreamland, I was keeping tabs on several whitetail bucks that appeared to have a hot doe pinned down in a distant pasture. None of the bucks were deer I would shoot, but it was something to pass the time. I had drifted off again, replaying recent hunts with the mule deer, when I saw movement in the bottom of the creek bed – a mature whitetail buck working my direction.
He walked slowly, stopped to groom himself, covered a few more yards and stuck his head into a bush, raking his antlers on the spindly branches. I thought about shooting, but there were too many twigs covering his vitals. The buck came out of the bush and I thought he was going to stay in the bottom of the creek to work several scrapes.
Instead, he turned and came up the trail that leads right by my tree. When he disappeared behind a thick trunk in front of me, I hit full draw. He stepped silently out in my shooting lane, and I let out a grunt with my mouth. He stopped in perfect view. My arrow disappeared behind his shoulder, and he bounded off a short ways, still within sight when he tipped over.