The big buck walked toward him. Thomas Brooks was sitting in the stand that his friend had put him in. It was about halfway up a big tree by the creek. “The path runs right by here,” his friend had told him. “They stop here to drink. You’re bound to see one.” His friend was hunting in a stand up the path and just over the top of the hill. The buck walked up to the creek, dropped his head down to the water and began to drink. Thomas eased the Ruger 44 Carbine up and secured the stock firm against his right shoulder. He lined up the buck’s head in the crosshairs of the scope and counted twelve points on the big rack of antlers. Suddenly the buck raised his head from the creek and looked straight at Thomas Brooks. His head was held high and his chest was out. He had a white ring around his nose and lower jaw and a large white collar on the front of his massive neck. His ears stood straight up and his large black eyes stared at Thomas unblinking. He slid the crosshairs down to the big buck’s throat. Sweating and trembling like a leaf, he thought, “This is it. Just squeeze the trigger and take the shot.”
He couldn’t do it. He lowered the rifle and sat marveling at the majestic creature. The big buck twitched his ear. He knew Thomas Brooks was there and continued to stare. He took two steps back, pawed at the ground and started to walk up the path. He suddenly turned to look at Thomas Brooks again. Thomas gave him a salute to the bill of his cap. The big buck snorted, his breath steaming in the cold November air. He then turned and walked to his left off of the path and up the hill. Thomas watched until his white tail was out of sight.
He sat in the stand, still shaking from the adrenaline rush of seeing such a magnificent animal face to face when he heard the unmistakable crack of the 30.06 Browning up the hill followed by a whoop and a holler from his friend. His heart sank. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the tree. He felt sick to his stomach. “Why didn’t I shoot into the ground and scare him away?” he asked himself. “He probably would have run up the hill anyway but at least he would have been on the move.” Reaching into his pocket, Thomas pulled out his flask and took a long pull of V.O. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity. He took another long pull off of the flask and put it back in his pocket. He unloaded the Ruger, tied the rope in the stand around the trigger guard and lowered it to the ground. He climbed down the steps, untied the rope and started slowly up the hill to where the master of the forest lay dead. Thomas Brooks never went hunting again.