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I wasn't there, but I trust the storyteller - - -
Friend Ken is a well-respected, high-dollar accountant with a big financial firm in Dallas. He also collects old Winchesters. Searon before last, he drove down to his deer lease for a weekend hunt, all alone. He parked his Explorer at his departure point, loaded up an original 1886 in .45-70, applied buck lure scent to cotton balls on his boot laces, and picked up his day pack. He noticed a small eight-point buck come out of the woods downwind, only 20 or 30 yards distant.
It was a nice, small, deer, but not what Ken was seeking. The buck began snorting and stamping and making little false charges. Ken yelled and waved his arms, and the buck apparently took this as a challenge. It came for him, prancing on hind legs, pawing at him with front hooves. Ken jumped back behind the open tailgate and evaded. The buck backed off and came again, with same result. By this time, Ken was becoming aware of how far he was from town and medical help. The next time the buck charged him, he regretfully chambered a round and shot it, at just about powder burn range. It used up his last buck tag, but was a real life hunting adventure. Ken mounted the antlers as a memento, but said the meat wasn't particularly good. Ended up using it mostly for chili meat.
Stranger than fiction, sometimes . . .
Johnny
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