I shed my pack, slid my arm through the sling and crawled ahead. Only tines showed. The weeds were noisy. Each advancing inch carried risk. Belly to earth, I settled the crosswire above the antler. This close in, with dead air, my scent would reach him soon. “Hey, buck,” I said softly. An ear tip twitched. Again, and its head swiveled. I raised my foot, gently let it fall. The reticle quivered. The buck rose fluidly, one heartbeat from gone, collapsing at the report. On the treeless prairie, whose bleached grass bled to sagging November skies, my bullet had traveled perhaps a dozen steps.
“The last desert ram I shot was not over 30 yards away,” wrote Jack O’Connor, “and the best Dall I have ever taken was maybe about…
