The buck had to have dropped from the sky. That was all I could think of, since I had just looked at the scrape he was standing in only seconds before.
Spotting nothing there, I shifted my body to look the other direction and, then in one of those weird senses that old bowhunters learn to trust, I felt a hunch telling me to glance back to the original scrape. The tall-racked 8-pointer working the licking branch made me catch my breath and reach for the bow. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The tract I was hunting was no more than 15 acres, and bucks use it as a travel corridor during their November quests to find does.
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