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BINOCULARS 


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112 
In writing to 

The twenty-one-point whitetail buck’s head 
A Montana Deer Hunt 
How a Prize Head Was Secured After 
Drawing Blanks for Three Seasons 
By FRED Cs GABRIEL 
Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
EER season opened on November 
15th, this year, and never hav- 
ing shot a deer, or even at one, 
I determined to make the try—it had 
been a boyhood dream, never realized, 
and living, as I do, in Montana, there 
was no excuse for delaying it longer. 
It was one of those beautiful sunny 
days when A. F. Winkler, commonly 
called Al, and I left in my Essex for 
the Missouri River. We arrived at our 
destination before dark, and had lots 
of time to get our camp fixed and wood 
up—then we peeled potatoes and a few 
raw onions and sliced them all together 
in the frying pan, with a little bacon 
fat and a wee bit of water, then cov- 
ered them up, stirring them every once 
in a while. Pork chops were in an- 
other skillet and the coffee was begin- 
ning to give off a fragrant odor when 
supper was served. I always thought 
I was a good eater, but honestly, Al 
has me beat—he ate so much he was 
in distress all night as a result—expect 
it was the first square meal he had had 
for some time, still considering what 
he charged me for ammunition, I see no 
excuse for hardware merchants being 
starved. 
HAD been dreaming for some time 
when I was awakened by the sound of 
a car—it seemed to me to be shifting 
gears, then the driver raced the engine 
and it backfired, and then there was 
a lull—in my drowsy way, I said to 
myself, he is stuck in the mud and is 
putting on chains. Then the engine 
started a slow, steady grind—it 
sounded nearer and nearer and I awoke 
with a start, I was about to be run 
over—but it was only Al snoring. 
It was just grey dawn when we 
started out, a good breakfast and a 
lunch apiece in our pockets—we went 
up the river to a “bottom” and just 
before separating, a coyote sneaked 
through the bushes and up a cutbank. 
Al was in the open on the west and 
I was in an old road. We were still 
hunting. The reader cannot possibly 
understand what that brush is or means 
if he has not been in one of these dia- 
mond willow-covered bottoms of the 
old Missouri river. I had not been in 
the brush ten minutes before a grand 
stampede started and two deer went 
by Al, but a good shot was not possible, 
so he waited thirty minutes more, and 
another sound of breaking, crushing, 
and then bang, bang, and then more 
crushing, and the deer plunged past me, 
but I could not see him for the thick- 
ness of the brush. Another deer was 
sighted by Al during the day, but no 
other shot, and I never saw a single 
one, but I had surely heard them. 
T camp that night Al was so blue 
over having missed the big buck, 
that he could not shake off his disap- 
pointment. 
The second day I hunted as I had 
never hunted before—here I was, my 
third deer hunt, and I had never shot 
at a deer in my life, it was my lot each 
year to go back empty-handed, and as I 
It will identify you. 
——EEEE—E———— eee 
i) ie 
