Long Ago in a Different Century

When my old friend Robert Smythe passed away I obtained his favorite rifle, a Model 71 Winchester in .348 caliber. It was the Deluxe model that he had purchased new around 1937. I wanted to take a nice Mule Deer with it in memory of Robert and so had passed up several smaller bucks during the first part of Mule Deer season. I spent several days in the saddle, hunting the deep canyons and draws where some of the big old boys hid out. Riding up a ridge in some rough country one morning the horse suddenly gave a start. Three good sized bucks had taken off up the canyon wall across from us maybe 200 yards. One of the bucks had a nice rack so I fell off the horse, took the rifle and levered a shell into the chamber. I knelt down and shot and the deer fell. Then to my horror it got up again and tried to go up the hillside. I shot again, leading it and shot over its head. This turned the buck and it ran down hill back toward me. I shot again, missed, shot again and missed. And the deer stopped and looked across the canyon at me! The magazine was empty so I walked around to the side of the horse, opened the saddle bags, got out the shells and started stuffing them into the chamber. The buck began to run up the hill diagonally across in front of me. I jacked a shell in the chamber, swung the rifle like a shotgun and when the front sight passed its nose I squeezed the trigger. The buck hit the ground and never twitched.

It took me quite a while to get over to it. Turned out to be nearer 300 yards than 200 across the canyon. And rough!

I packed the deer onto the horse and headed for home. Coming across some loose ground the mare lost her footing and started to slip. I turned her head uphill so she could get some footing but it was too late. She balked, stumbled and then fell over sideways downhill. She rolled over, up on her feet, then down on her side and rolled over again, then up again - FIVE TIMES! I figured she was going to roll a quarter mile to bottom of the canyon but she slid to stop on a small shelf and lay there trembling. I got to her, got the deer off her and unsaddled her, then got her to her feet. Miraculously she was not injured. I led her to flat ground on the mountaintop, tied her to a tree and let her calm down. Then I packed the deer and all the gear up to her and reloaded her. We went on home with no more trouble.

I found that nothing had been broken or damaged. Not the rifle in the scabbard, not the camera in the saddlebags. I did find later that my thumb was cut near to the bone where I had tried to hold on to her and the rope burned its way down through the skin. In all the excitement I never noticed it.