Glenn Livelsberger braved the snow and cold to take this hefty 8-pointer.

THE STAND HUNG IN a huge cottonwood tree, from which we could see several hundred yards in every direction. The Shields River flowed 75 yards in front of us, creating a natural funnel, and numerous tracked-up trails meandered within easy bow range. Safely belted in, I took a moment to range some nearby trees while Bob got his equipment situated.

Shortly, Bob tapped me on the shoulder. "Some does are walking that fenceline behind us," he whispered. As I turned to look, Bob hissed, "There's a buck! A good buck! He's coming up behind the does."

I could see the does, but the buck was directly behind me, and I could not see him around the huge trunk of the tree. Picking up my antlers, I rattled lightly. Bob could clearly see the buck from his vantage, so I relied on him for a play-by-play.

"What's he doing, Bob?" I whispered.

"Looking at the does. He didn't hear you. Rattle harder," he said.

Several times I mashed the antlers together hard. "I still can't see him. What's he doing?"

"He's looking. Rattle again," Bob urged.

I clanged the antlers together for a couple of seconds as hard as I could.

"Stop! Get ready. He's coming!" Bob said excitedly.

The buck was moving left to right, angling towards us, and I now could see him. When he was 100 yards out he stopped and looked through the woods in our direction. It's too open here. He can see a long ways. That's as far as he's going to come, I thought.

Tom Mills' patience during the week was rewarded when this 10-point strolled within range of his recurve.

Even though the odds seemed against his coming any closer, I decided to rattle one more time. Using the big stand tree to hide my movement, I clicked the antlers together a couple of times. Without hesitation, the buck trotted toward us. I quickly hung my antlers, grabbed my bow off its hanger, and prepared to shoot.

The buck was now less than 30 yards away and moving fast. When his head disappeared behind a cluster of trees I came to full draw. When drawing I could not see his head, but he obviously could see me, because he instantly stopped behind the trees. I held for close to a minute, silently praying for him to keep coming.

Finally he did, and when he trotted into the open, I bleated with my mouth. He stopped cold at 17 yards. I put the pin on him and released.

Upon impact, the buck ran back in the direction from which he had come. Through binoculars, I watched him cross the river and then slow to a walk in a field on the other side. Then he went out of my sight. Immediately, doubt crept into my mind. If my shot was as good as I thought it looked, there's no way he would have traveled that far, I thought.

"Bob, my shot looked good. Didn't it?"

"He was quartering-away more than you thought. I think you got only one lung. Let's give him lots of time before we do anything," he said.

Three hours later, after dark, we met up with Bob Harris and told him what had happened. Bob felt confident the buck was dead.

"Let's go find him," he said. "I think I know where he was headed. We'll take a shortcut in the Suburban."

Continued -- click on page link below.