The Old Man’s Last Buck

By Denny L. Vasquez

When the alarm clock finally went off, the old man turned over and sighed. As had been his habit over the last fifty plus years, he had set the worn, old wind up alarm clock a little early. It had been brand new when he and his blushing bride had received it from her mother on their wedding day. He remembered the way her father had said that it wasn’t good for a healthy man to lay around in the bed when there was plenty of work to be done. And so, following the advice of his then new father-in-law, he had set the clock a little early, so as not to be late in getting about his chores.

Now in old age, setting the clock a little early allowed him the luxury of snuggling back down into his covers for a few extra minutes of warmth before having to brave the cold that had permeated the cabin during the night. Even when electricity had finally become available in his area, he had continued to use the old wood-burning stove to heat his home, unlike many of his peers who had given in to the ease of modern conveniences and had installed central heat.

Laying there, enjoying the warmth of his down comforter, he almost forgot why he had set the clock to begin with. After all, he had been retired for ten years now, and ever since his wife had passed on, the only time that he ever paid any attention to the alarm clock was during hunting season. So as he lay there under his down comforter, remembering a young husband who struggled to keep his family fed and make life comfortable for his young wife, he started to doze off again.

Then it hit him, as his eyes flew open and he sat up swinging his feet over to land on the cold wooden floor. Today was the opening day of deer season and he had promised his nine-year-old grandson that he would take him hunting today. How in the world could he forget? The boy would never forgive him if he wasn’t there to keep his promise.

As far back as he could remember, the old man had always hunted the deer, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, opossum, turkeys, feral hogs and ducks that lived in the woods and swamps surrounding his cabin, even an occasional bobcat or two. His grandfather, the grandson of the man who had originally built the cabin that he now called home, had taken him hunting whenever he had wanted to go. Over the years he had been blessed with the opportunity of taking his share of game, but the last few seasons he hadn’t even fired a shot.

During the last few years his health not had been as good as it once was and the cold weather that came with hunting season, now seemed to hurt him down to his very bones. This, along with his advancing years, seemed to sap his strength, making him weaker then he could remember ever being before. He was accustomed to being healthy and strong, especially since the hard work encountered when growing up on a farm required it. Now he had to force his worn body to perform some of the functions that he used to accomplish with ease. But even with these minor setbacks, his desire to be out in the woods hunting, with his old muzzleloading smoke pole, had not diminished in the least little bit.

As he got dressed, he was thinking about how some venison in the freezer would sure help over the long winter that was just around the corner. Especially since the small amount of social security that he received each month left only a little over for extras, like meat from the local grocery.
Just one more buck, he told himself as he got his stained leather possibles bag down from the nail where it hung by the door. He made sure that he had enough round balls and patching for ten shots. He always carried enough for ten shots with him when he went hunting as insurance. When he was satisfied that all of his gear was in place, he slung the bag over his shoulder and reached for the .50 caliber mountain rifle that hung on it’s iron pegs over the fireplace. Then after checking to make sure that there was enough powder in the horn, he turned toward the door.

This was the same rifle that the men of his family had been hunting with for over 125 years. It had been a gift to his great, great grandfather by a man that was described as only being dressed in greasy old skins and whose unkempt dirty hair and beard were turning white. The drifter had showed up at the cabin’s front door one wet, cold winter night asking for a little food and a chance to sleep in the barn. His grandfather had given the old timer a plate of food and offered to let him stay on a bit longer if he would help out with the chores. About a month later the drifter handed his grandfather the rifle and his possibles bags on his way to bed, saying, “that he no longer had a need for it”: The next day they had found the drifter dead in the hay where he slept.

Looking at the old gun with a bit of nostalgia, remembering all of the good times that they had shared, he thought, “Well I guess that it is time to pass you on to a new generation. At the end of this hunt I’m gonna give you to my grandson. He’s the only one who appreciates our way of hunting. His daddy likes them new fangled laser guns. But the boy likes the old ways.” In his own mind he knew that this would be his last hunt. He had known ever since his wife had started talking to him in his dreams, telling him it was time to come home.

Shaking his head to clear the memories, he headed out in the pre-dawn darkness, towards the forty-five year old rusted 1952 Ford pickup. Like the rifle, this truck and he had seen a lot of good times together. As he sat cranking the starter he told the truck, “Yep, you’re just like me cause you don’t like cold mornings either.” After finally getting the old truck cranked, he turned it into the traffic on the interstate, which was formerly a dirt farm road, and headed for his son’s deer camp.

After driving for an hour, he took the turn off onto a dead-end dirt road. Up ahead he saw a light shining in the cabin on the hill. His son called this place his deer camp, but the family that lived here year round, the Beckmans, called it home. This was a working ranch but he knew that the Beckmans were hunters as he has seen deer hanging on the game pole over by the barn in years past. Parking his truck next to his son’s and son-in-law’s, which are already there, he was warmly greeted by his namesake grandson who ran up to hug his neck. Smiling he asked the youngster, “James, are you sure that you want to hunt with this old timer today? After all, you know my old rifle won’t shoot near as far as your dad’s, so we might not get a shot.” His grandson only smiled and secretly winked, before answering, “Yes sir, I want to hunt with you grandpa ‘cause you always teach me so much about the woods and the animals.”

Nodding his approval, the old man reached back into his truck for the rifle and his possibles bag. When his grandson wasn’t looking, he tucked a couple of Snickers candy bars into his coat pocket. They were his grandson’s favorite so he had gone to the store yesterday and bought them a couple so they would have them when it came time for a snack. Nodding to his grandson, they headed off to his favorite stand, an old cedar tree over next to the fence line that was shared with the adjoining ranch. The old man had a strong feeling that today would be his day. He just knew that he would see a buck and possibly get a shot.

As beginning of legal shooting time came and went, with the sun throwing it’s light over the shadowy countryside, they didn’t spot a deer, even though shots had rang out all around them. The cold, blustery north wind blew through the trees and chilled the old man to the bone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay out much longer, but he didn’t want to disappoint his grandson, or himself.

About ten minutes later his grandson tugged at his sleeve and pointed down the hill. A slight movement had caught his eye. After a few minutes, they saw the movement again; it was a deer that was moving through the brush towards their hidden spot. The minutes seemed to turn in to hours and drag by as the deer slowly made its way through the brush. Finally, the buck cautiously stepped into the small opening, about sixty yards away from the waiting hunters.

The old man saw the deer’s rack and hesitated, it was a young six pointer, probably only a two year old. I ought to let him walk the old man thought, before his grandson whispered in his ear, “Hurry up, grandpa. Shoot before he gets away!” After looking at the eager anticipation on the face of his grandson, the old man turned and after taking careful aim at the buck’s shoulder, he slowly squeezed the trigger. At the sound of the shot, the deer had whirled and ran off back down hill, as if it has not been touched.

The old man felt bad. The range had been close, under 75 yards, the sight picture had been almost perfect, yet all he could find was a little tuft of hair with no blood trail to follow. He and his grandson searched the surrounding rocky ground and woods all afternoon but couldn’t find even the slightest sign of the buck. As darkness settled over the countryside they stopped to share the Snickers that the old man suddenly remembered. Turning to his grandson, he had said, “James, well, I guess your grandpa really messed up this time. Let’s head on back to the truck.” As they slowly made their way back towards the Beckman’s, the old man felt about as low as a man could feel. This was not the way to end a man’s last deer hunt.

They were the last ones back to the trucks and his son had left a note asking him to drop James off at home. Feeling a bit shaky, the old man had a cup of coffee from his thermos bottle before starting out for home. This allowed him time to catch his breath and rest a bit. As he drove back towards the highway, another truck turned onto the dirt road. When he pulled over to let the other truck pass by, it stopped beside his truck instead. The owner rolled down his window and asked the old man if he had shot at a deer that day.

“Yes,” the old man replied, “a young six point buck, but he ran off after I shot, without leaving a trail that we could follow.” The stranger replies, “Well, I think I’ve got him.” The stranger went on to tell how he had to work the third shift the night before and didn’t arrive in camp until later in the day, after the morning hunt. Since most of the stands on his side of the fences had already been taken, he had spent most of the day hunting the woods that lined a ravine that ran along the fence line between the two ranches. Late in the morning, he had chased a six-point buck out of the ravine and had made a running shot that had dropped the deer in its tracks.

It was after he had approached the deer that he realized that someone else had wounded it before he had shot at it. Though the old man’s shot had been a little too far back from the shoulder, it had been fatal, because the deer would not have survived and had probably been scared from its deathbed. Upon backtracking the young buck the man had found where it had laid up after being shot, just over the fence line from the spot where the old man and his grandson had sat. After field dressing the young buck he had returned to his hunting camp and asked if any of his hunting party had shot at a young buck. No one had.

So he had decided to try the surrounding camps and questioned them about any shots that had been taken that day. He had finally made his way around to the Beckman’s place. Luckily, the last vehicle down the hill was the old man’s, and now he had found the deer’s owner.

With the stranger’s help the old man and his grandson soon had the deer loaded into the old man’s truck. He offered to buy the stranger a cup of coffee or even dinner, but because it was getting late, the stranger had to be on his way home to his family. The old man thanked him before he and his grandson turned the old Ford toward home. He was happy; he had spent the day hunting with his grandson and felt thankful for this, his last buck.