A Perfect Shot
MY GRANDDAUGHTER, Taylor, her Uncle Bret, and I were in a tower stand in the Texas Hill Country when Taylor saw the buck through the spotting scope. The deer was about 50 yards away, slipping into and back out of view behind a mesquite tree.
After a bracing ride across the rocky terrain in an open UTV, ducking thorny branches that emerged suddenly out of the dusky darkness, and breathing rushing air crammed with an amalgam of autumn scents, we’d covered the half-mile to the deer stand more than an hour earlier.
Now, with a buck in range, Taylor pulled the gun’s hammer to full cock. Her expression was one of complete concentration on the deer, though her glance shifted occasionally to some does nearby.
My son motioned for her to take the shot. But she hesitated, and the buck disappeared back behind the mesquite.
“It will move back into sight,” he whispered to her. His arm was under hers, trying to steady her aim. “When it does, remember to pull back on the trigger slowly, so that when the gun goes off, it will take you by surprise. And aim just above the heart.”
Head low to the ground, the buck soon reappeared. He stood broadside a few seconds, still at 50 yards, presenting a brief opportunity for a good shot. My son signaled for Taylor to take it. When she hesitated yet again and the buck once more moved out of sight, he sucked in his breath loudly, then let it back out.
“You missed a perfect shot,” he said.
Taylor suffers from juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, and though she was loath to admit it, I knew her fingers ached from being too long on the trigger. Too, she still was worn out from our cross-country flight to Austin three days earlier, then a 50-mile-plus drive to a family-owned ranch where her uncle had given her a quick shooting lesson the day before on a makeshift range. It all had been a lot to digest for a 12-year-old city girl whose only hunting experience had been to take a hunter education course back in her home state.
Minutes passed. Taylor’s anxiety mounted. Mine did, too. I knew how important getting a decent buck was to her. I also knew what she was likely thinking: Have I missed my one chance at getting a buck? Will it return? If it does, can I hit it? If I do hit it, can I put the bullet exactly where Uncle Bret told me to?
Trying to shake off my own growing nervousness, I turned my head and stared out the small window at the San Saba River flowing by. Why did Taylor suddenly decide to take up deer hunting in the first place? I wondered. To prove to her uncle (who intimidates her slightly, though he doesn’t mean to) and her same-age Texas girl cousin, who grew up hunting, that she could bag a deer?
Taylor and Bret were scanning for the buck again. All was quiet except for the soft creaking of a tree limb rubbing against our stand.
When the buck at last stepped back into view, Taylor’s body coiled taut like that of a rattlesnake preparing to strike. She aimed the gun, her thumb on the hammer and her forefinger near the trigger. When the shot came, I jerked with surprise.
“It went straight down!” Bret yelled in disbelief.
I didn’t understand. The shot had gone straight down? Had it hit the ground? How could that be? During practice the day before, she’d hit the target time and again at 75 yards.
But there was a grin as wide as the San Saba itself on Taylor’s face. And she and her uncle were high-fiving.
“Way to go!” he yelled. “You dropped it dead in its tracks!”
I couldn’t tell who was more excited, Taylor or my son. Then she was out of the tree stand, backing down the ladder so fast I was afraid she might fall. But she made it down without a problem. And then, once on the ground, she ran ahead, stopping every few feet or so to click her heels and raise her arms in victory.
My son field dressed the deer as Taylor, wearing the traditional smear of blood across her forehead, excitedly posted on social media a photo of herself next to her prize. It was the happiest I’d seen her since we’d arrived at the ranch.
Barbara Weddle
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