Nothing left but a mass of acorns and mast. Not a drop of blood or a twist of flesh. A black vulture was overhead as I dragged him out and the rain erased the rest. I took an acorn as a token. Scrapes hadn't been worked but had fresh footprints in them.
When a big deer, especially a large buck with a territory he is defining and defending, disappears then the whole herd has to adjust. The little bucks will still slink around nervously, the does watch the four corners of the compass and his rivals will wonder where he is. Things will shift and some other buck will pick up any slack. I imagine most of the area does are bred by now. He wasn't the only big buck in the area but he had to be reckoned with. Big 10 and the buck I was hunting are here somewhere close.
He was on cam. 24 files running up to 8:52am. I shot him a minute or two before nine. I'm not quite ready to hang up my aplenflage and go play vintage rifle with Alan's does in Clarksville but the buck hunting is over.
Typical human psyche: Hunt 'em. Kill 'em. Then mourn them.
Across the creek: a coyote, the bent-horn buck, (who will be better next year) and a 1 1/2 year old three-pointer. Rolled up my camo and went across barefoot to keep from having wet feet. Barefoot boy with cheek of tan. November in Texas. Gorgeous woods. Carried the AR in case I chanced across a coyote. The rushing creek was saying something but I couldn't quite make out the words.
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