Shortly, while watching the road that paralleled the railroad, I saw a deer quick-step across the road several hundreds yards away. I'd been told the deer crossed the railroad tracks there, and that's what this one was doing. I put the scope up but couldn't tell a thing about it, as the deer stepped out of sight quickly. Another followed, stopping and holding up her head long enough I could tell it was a doe. As I waited for another to follow, I took a quick look to my right, down the powerline road. When I looked back, there was another deer stepping across the opening! It moved too fast for me to identify it in the small window I had.
I again looked to my right - another deer! This one was fast-walking down the powerline road. It had no big rack but may have had short antlers - it stepped into the head-high weeds of the powerline right-of-way before I could identify it. I picked up my handheld radio to report to Doug.
"I just saw deer number seven," I said. Doug replied to say that he'd been seeing lots of does, and then I looked up to see another deer stepping into the food plot! I quickly said that number eight had just stepped out and I was turning off my radio, and did so. Then I eased the rifle up and started studying the deer. It was soon evident that it was a young buck, and at first glance he was a spike.
I wasn't sure of Doug's policy on shooting spikes, because I know he would rather take mature deer on his lease, so I watched the deer for a while. As it continued to feed it turned its head, and I couldn't believe my eyes! Each spike had a tiny brow tine, making it the smallest four-point I've ever seen. I felt my face splitting into a grin as I studied this unique buck. He had evidently been chasing does, because his gut appeared to be sunken in from lack of food, though the rest of him was healthy enough. I picked up my radio and called Doug, keeping my voice low.
"I'm looking at the cutest little four-point I've ever seen in my life."
"Why haven't you shot him yet, if he's a four-point?" demanded Doug.
"He's got small antlers, didn't know if it was okay or not." Meanwhile, the buck fed before me in the steady rain.
Doug's reply was garbled, or maybe my addled brain garbled it for me. I asked, "Are you saying to take him?"
"Yes - take him!"
I steadied the crosshairs on the buck, a more difficult task than some would have you believe. My heart hammered against my ribs and I forced my breathing back down to a level not far short of hyperventilation. What can I say? I get excited when I see deer, especially when I'm about to take one. This was certainly the first time I'd had a conversation about taking a buck while the buck was still standing there in front of me, so I was a bit disconcerted about that, too.
BLAM! The Savage 270 spoke, and the buck fell to a neck shot.
I reported to Doug; he was thrilled. I went and got the deer, drug it out to the road. Cut its throat to bleed it out. Hunkered back in the blind to get out of the rain, and called Doug back. He asked about Mitch and at that moment Mitch strolled into view, walking by the blind to check out my buck.
I went to fetch Ezmerelda (my truck), and we loaded the deer and ourselves and headed back to the house. Darkness fell as we did so, along with the relentless rain. When I drove up to retrieve Doug from his blind, he was still watching two does feeding until I got the truck within 50 yards of him. Ivory had paid him a visit that afternoon as well.
Dad, Kenny, and Jim had hunted at Three Mile, and seen nothing. But we had game on the skinning pole, and that will improve the mood of any group of hunters. Congratulations were frequent and hearty, as were the jibes about the diminutive size of my trophy. I didn't mind either of them! (Continued)
