THE red stag, a decent double-six, had been leading me on a merry chase for almost two hours. Twice the crosswires in my 3-9x scope had been aligned on his chest, but both times things had gone badly wrong before I could press the trigger on my Ruger Hawkeye in .257 Roberts. The first time the stag had simply walked out of sight and vanished into the brush. The second time another stag roared from somewhere nearby and he spooked, running back into the timber.
By the time I caught up with him again he had picked up half a dozen hinds. I was sitting on the side of a low ridge glassing over the area when suddenly he appeared, herding his harem out of the timber into the open. Now the small herd was grazing placidly on
