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Old Faithful
- Jim Wilson
- Jan 3
- 4 min read
by Jim Wilson
I’d found a cozy little place on a Texas hillside. Sitting with my back against a cedar, with an agarita bush in front of me to break up my silhouette. I hadn’t been there all that long when a nice eight-point buck came out of the brush to get a drink at the stock tank that was about thirty-five to forty yards in front of me.
He was a nice buck and I decided to take him. In fact, I had just gotten my sights lined up on his shoulder when he suddenly threw up his head and looked behind him in alarm. What concerned him was an even nicer ten-point whitetail who clearly wanted a drink of water, and wanted it in solitude. I mean, that bigger buck went straight after Mr. Ten-point.
