Last fall, for example, I spent an uneventful morning glassing cedar-dotted rims above pasture laced by shallow draws. Crossing one to reach a knob for a better view, I almost collided with a buck. He fell at 23 yards. Another time, watching a herd drift through sage toward a distant ridge, I noticed, with a start, that the buck had vanished. Patiently I eased along the creases wrinkling that prairie. The heavy 4-point burst from a narrow cut, mere feet away. I muffed the first shot, but not the second.