BY MIKE HUSTON JR.

Sunlight filters down through Russian olive branches, lending light and shadow to the buckskin-clad hunter concealed in the thick tangle of brush along the riverbank. The tip of an antler is barely visible in the dense thicket off to his left. His arm muscles are slowly weakening as a drop of sweat slides down his face on this late September evening. The bow in his hand is growing heavier by the second and, at full draw, the longbow soon becomes overwhelming. Even with months of practice and thousands of arrows shot before season, he is soon going to have to let off if the buck doesn’t move.

Danger! The deer is not sure where, but instinct tells him it is close. He sniffs the breeze. He knows if something is upwind he won’t miss it; his sense of smell is ten times that of the human hunter. At the same time he scans the thicket with excellent eyesight. This is his home; he knows every trail and hideout in this place. For years he has eluded predators along this river; man and beast alike have failed to take him time and again. He remembers the stinging pain of a bullet that grazed his shoulder when he was a heavy-horned three point and the snap of a twig that saved him from certain death at the claws of a cougar when he was a yearling. He swivels his ears in all directions trying to pick up any faint sounds from the brush surrounding him. Finally, he decides it is all clear and prepares to take one cautious step forward.

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