You glimpse the buck. He’s 200 yards away on a fast walk, left to right. He enters a thicket and your eyes scan the brush looking for movement — a leg, an ear, the horizontal line of his back. Nothing.
Your cheekbone welds to the stock. You settle the crosshairs high on his shoulder and feel the trigger. You suck in some air, let half out, and squeeze. He drops.
You cycle another round and walk to the buck. Nice trophy. Darkness will soon fall, and you may need help dragging this brute back to camp.
Reasons to be thankful. He’s a great buck, and that Havalon knife in your pack will do a fast, clean job.