I was once hunting with my uncle in Laredo, Tx. It was a cool November midday. As we walked through the harsh mesquite shrubs, I scanned the horizon, that beautiful blue line filled with outlines of trees. I saw a lone bird confidently perched on a mesquite tree, thinking I would be unable to hit it. I asked my uncle if he thought I could hit this bird, maybe 200 yards away. He said "Maybe", but his tone said "not a 2-legged rabbits chance in a coyote den". I raised the cold, unforgiving barrel of that old, battered bolt-action Marlin-the one with a missing magazine-peered through the Leupold lenses, aligning the crosshairs that signal death on that lone animal, and, holding my breath like a minor lying to a LEO about alcohol (s)he's been drinking, I slowly introduced my finger to the trigger. I pushed her, until she broke, as crisp as a dry twig under a boot. A crack and a whiz later, I see the bird dive down like a hawk on it's prey. I look to my uncle, who is astonished. Like a hawk on it's prey, we head for my little quail, but like an escaped convict on the darkest night, we couldn't find it.
The previous story in a straightforward (and boring) manner: I saw a quail in a tree 200 yds away while hunting, I aimed at it with a Marlin bolt-action rifle with a scope, and saw it fall after shooting it. I never found it.
The previous story in a straightforward (and boring) manner: I saw a quail in a tree 200 yds away while hunting, I aimed at it with a Marlin bolt-action rifle with a scope, and saw it fall after shooting it. I never found it.
