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Regular gun season was over, and we had several deer tags to fill. Missouri had such a surplus of deer that each unfilled tag was accepted for a late season antlerless only deer hunt. But where? The Mark Twain as far off, and we'd no time to fool around with traveling so far to hunt. But years of living south of the Rio Grande (several thousand miles) hadn't allowed us to build many relationships with farmers or other land owners. But Jim Taylor lives in the area and was able to point us to a piece of ground that had once been a farm and that was open for us to hunt there. We scouted around prior to the opening of the doe season and there was plenty of sign, as well as evidence that in past years others had hunted there too. Opening day of doe season found us snug in our beds at home. We got up "dark and early", had a good breakfast in a warm house then bundled up against the cold and headed out through the dark, Missouri country side. This time it was just my two sons, by "big brother" and myself. The rest of the family had other commitments. We split up in pairs and took off to preselected stands overlooking promising deer stands. As we moved down the draw I spotted some tracks, which upon investigation proved to be those of a large feline - probably a cougar. With a word of caution about watching his back, I pointed my younger son, Tim, towards a good spot and I headed toward another area, just down the draw from where I expected him to be. As dawn broke over the wooded hills we heard a few shots, but mostly off in the distance. Since everything in the area was private property there was not as much hunting pressure as there had been on the Mark Twain during regular rifle season. A snow storm earlier on had left the hills coated with white, making for easier tracking and a beautiful landscape. As time wore on no deer appeared along the trail below my vigil point. Squirrels chattered in the trees, but were skittish against the white background, spooking far ahead as one moved through the trees. Off to my right I sensed movement and slowly turned my head to see three antlerless deer standing against the hillside. One of them was obviously in a bad way, with blood dripping from a bad wound in the hindquarters. I picked this one from the group and slowly brought the old Winchester up to my shoulder. I double checked my backstop and pulled the trigger. The deer went down, and then got back up as the other two started off through the trees. Twice more the rifle spoke before the deer went down for the count. Slowly I moved up and put a final round from the Single Six into the head. It was a little button buck, my first whitetail and possibly the first deer to fall to the rifle that had once belonged to my grandpa. The other two deer had run up the draw towards where I expected Tim to be. No shots were heard and I started to worry about him. Quickly I gutted the little deer then rigged a drag with some parachute cord in my day pack. The snow made for easy dragging and I moved off towards where we'd parked the van. After leaving the deer on the north side of an abandoned shack on a snow drift with the heart and liver in a ziplock bag under a chunk of snow, it was back down the draw to where I'd left Tim to pick up his tracks and see what had happened to him. Moving through the trees I saw three spots of orange ahead, then made out my brother and sons moving along a bright blood trail. I called to them and they waved me on excitedly. When finally we got together I told them, "That trail ends in a gut pile." They didn't want to believe me, but sure enough, just over the ridge was the spot where I'd recently ended the little guy's suffering. It turned out that Tim had not understood my directions and ended up in another area. He made his way back to the van, found it locked and started off to look for me. He jumped the little buck but had his rifle slung and wasn't able to get off a shot. Upon seeing the blood on the trail he decided to wait before following up, to give the deer a chance to quiet down and perhaps die or stiffen up. He headed back to the van where finally the other two met up with him and off they went, while I was dragging the deer back to the van! We never saw evidence of anyone else tracking the wounded deer. It was hard to miss the bright scarlet on the white snow. Who shot him first? We'll probably never know. Their loss was our gain. That little button buck made for some fine, tender eating. Later that afternoon we filled two more tags, probably with the two deer that had been with the young buck. They were both does, one apparently last year's offspring. Later in the season we returned to the woods. Since I'd already filled my tags I took only the handgun, to see what would present itself. As I quietly waited to hear a shot from one of the boys, the big red fox squirrels chased each other around the trees near my vantage point. As time passed with no sounds of gunfire in the woods I finally brought the little Single Six out to try my hand on the tree rats. They were close, about 25 yards, and yet I missed two shots. They scampered down the trunk and ran about 15 yards further away where they resumed their game of tag. I sighted on one of them again and this time (at about 40 yards) the critter tumbled to the ground! I ran up to the tree, collected the squirrel and returned to my prior seat. Soon another squirrel came out and began to berate me for leaving him a widower. The little Ruger spoke again and down went number two! I've no idea HOW I could hit them at 40 yards when I'd missed them clean at 25, but such was the case. I skinned out the two when another squirrel came out to try his luck. Again he tumbled at the shot, probably about 30 yards away. This one was hard to measure since it was across the draw. The fourth squirrel soon fell to the leaf covered forest floor, but was not hit hard enough to lay still. He ran along the ground and into an armadillo hole. If I'd waited a while he would have probably died right in the entrance, but I was loath to lose him and moved up to the hole. He heard me approach and I saw him drag himself deeper. I went back to the van, got a small shovel and began to dig. Much as I hated to lose him, he was too deep in the rocky soil. After digging as far as possible with the little folding implement I finally had to call it quits. The boys didn't fill their tags, but we had a great time in the woods. The squirrels went into coxinhas and the family enjoyed this hybrid treat. American game in Brazilian food prepared by a Colombian wife. :-)
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