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One Bullet Left

Terry Moore
September 28, 2002

It was the last weekend of gun season.

On a Saturday morning I took stand next to a clear cut. I wasn’t expecting to see anything in the open but rather looking for a shot near the edge. My son, who was about five hundred yards from me, was covering the clear cut. Most likely if he was to have a shot it would be at three hundred fifty yards or more so I let him use my 300 magnum. I had his 270.

At seven o'clock I'd not seen anything when I noticed in the mist, and in the clear cut, a deer. I couldn’t make out what it was but I saw it working a rub. Standing up in the lock-on I steadied my rifle against the tree and zoom in with the scope. Watching with his head down working a rub there was no question in my mind, it’s a buck. I watched for what seemed like a hour, maybe fifteen seconds, when it raised its head and that's when I got a good look of its antlers. Eight, ten, more? I didn’t know how many points it had but what I did know was that it was more than a four-pointer. He walked from right left of my stand toward the creek. Too many things were running through my mind. Should I fire, should I wait and see if he comes closer, should I use my grunt or bleep calls, should I go back to the camp and have a beer? All this was going through my mind when he stopped. That’s when I got a clear look at what I was dealing with. Though I couldn't tell how many points he had I could see that he had long tines perhaps a 10 to 12 point but more importantly, drop tines, clearly visible in the scope. My head was clear of previous questions and thoughts now gone and only one thing was on my mind. Shoot!

He was standing still, broadside to me, but along way off. I laid the horizontal crosshair along his back and slowly squeezed the trigger. I didn’t hear the report of the rifle. My only concern was which way was he running? I lowered the rifle as soon as I shot and looked for his flag to show me the direction of his travel. No flag. No deer running. He was still standing in the same place. I brought the scope on him again. He was looking around as if to say, “What the hell was that.” What did I do wrong, to low, too far away, not enough rifle. Elevation, windage, no wind, elevate. Again I positioned the crosshair along his back only this time I raised it about four inches above his back. Again I fired. This time I kept the scope to my eye to see his reaction and react he did. He ran the five yards back to the sapling he had been rubbing and started fighting it. I've got to be shooting to low. At this distance the bullet drop has got to be tremendous. I elevated and fired again. He calmly resumed his walk on his original course.

I kept asking myself what was I doing wrong. If I was shooting low he should jump and run away from the bullet’s impact. If I was shooting high he should react to the sound of the bullet passing over him. If I was shooting behind or ahead he should react accordingly, but nothing. It was as if my bullets were disintegrating in flight. I’d fired three times and was reloading. I’d brought six bullets with me.

Watching him as I reloaded he went about fifty yards but never getting any closer nor further away from me. He stopped…..I fired….. He turned around and started walking back the way he came. The next time he stopped wasn't ten yards from his rub. I fired again. His reaction? He looked at me or in my direction then turned and started walking away then into a thicket. The thought came to me, should I use my last bullet and try once more? No save it. I could always use it on myself but based on how my morning had went thus far I’d probably miss with it also. The last I'd seen of him was the flicker of his tail as he passed into the thicket.

One bullet left. From the time I'd first saw him till my last shot was eleven minutes. Eleven minutes that lasted a lifetime but passed in the blink of an eye. I waited to see if he would come out again, he didn't. He most likely slipped into the heavy woods through a draw I wasn't able to see.

I came out of my stand and walked to where I'd been shooting, found the sapling he worked over and his track but no blood or anything to indicate I’d connected, nothing.

I then paced the distance from his rub to my stand. Three hundred seventy-five yards.

I flagged for my son to come and take my stand while I returned to the camp for more ammunition and a climber. The rest of that day and Sunday, the last day of gun season, my son and I homesteaded that area in hopes of another chance for this once in a lifetime buck, but it was not to be.

I've still have my ‘last bullet’ and perhaps when the opportunity presents it’s self or I become a better shot I’ll use it. But until then I'll keep it as a reminder, as if I need a reminder, of the one that got away.