#Sherlock holmes prey tell missing rifle professional#

He was not only the all-around best but was a model of sportsmanship. In the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, we had a member who excelled in every discipline. I belong to a club that competes in multiple shooting and casting events. Or the poor nimrod would hit a blasting cap, bringing a flash, a thunderclap, and a rain of dirt, causing the rancher to comment: “Boy, you sure nailed him.” If nothing happened the rancher would say simply, “Gee, he sure was a nice deer,” and drive away with a hunter who was deeply in shock. The pilgrim would, and there were two ways this could end. The pilgrim, nearly in heart-attack mode, would see something that vaguely looked like a deer down in the gloom and fire at it. “Look,” he would bellow, “down in that coulee, that’s the biggest damn deer I’ve ever seen! Shoot him! Shoot!” Under the blanket, he’d place a couple of sticks of dynamite and blasting caps.Īfter his pilgrim had missed a couple of easy shots on real deer and was sufficiently demoralized, the rancher would wait until nearly last light and come to a skidding halt in sight of the bogus deer. At one end of the drum, he’d affix a moth-eaten mule deer mount. For these folks he reserved a special treat.Īt the bottom of a dark coulee, the rancher would set up a 50-gallon oil drum, over which he’d throw a ratty gray blanket. Periodically, he’d host an Easterner who would be unhinged by the distances, and by the experience of seeing more than one deer a week. He shrieked, and ran off into the African sunset, tearing off his shirt and slapping at the little fiends, waves of fat billowing in the fading orange light.Ī rancher I knew in eastern Montana used missing as a source of cowboy humor. Then an expression of horror came over his face. Tom got a good, steady rest over what was actually a live safari ant mound and fired. Why don’t you take a rest over that termite hill and see if it’s sighted in?” “Tom,” he said sweetly, “probably it is your rifle. This last was a mistake, as our PH was a nice enough guy but took no crap from man or beast.

#Sherlock holmes prey tell missing rifle professional#

He could not hit anything, and he whined about it constantly, blaming his rifle, the trackers, the game, and the professional hunter. He was a tormented soul, a combination of poor physical condition, uncontrollable nerves, and absent hand-eye coordination. I hunted with a man in Africa who should not have carried a rifle. The hunter posted a reward of $10,000 for anyone who came in with the antlers, but no dice. He took 19 shots-there’s that number again-without another hit. Humped in agony, the bull shuffled away, with the hunter still flinging lead. They’d lucked into a bull that the guide swore would make Boone and Crockett, but the hunter had opened up when the animal was way out of range and hit him in the guts with the first shot. I walked up a hill to find a hunter and his guide surrounded by spent. In northeastern New Mexico, I heard a fusillade that would have fit in at the Battle of Antietam. Finally it got too noisy, and I wandered down to the Luangwa River to listen to the hippos fart, which was nearly as loud.Īll of this was fairly benign.

Then I concentrated on ogling the girlfriend. I stopped counting the boxes of ammo he went through at six. Shooting over a table, he couldn’t hit paper at 100 yards. In Zambia, I watched a Greek hunter, who was one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen, and who had a blonde girlfriend who was even better looking, try to sight in a Holland & Holland. The antelope succumbed to the law of averages on the 19th shot. He did this out of a truck window and seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious. In Wyoming, I watched a nitwit fire 19 rounds at a yearling antelope buck standing a shade over 100 yards away. If you want the true measure of a man’s character, watch what happens when he misses a big shot, not what happens when he hits. The hits, except for a very few, have lost their vivid colors. I can tell you, in excruciating detail, about every one of my agonizing whiffs, even though some go back nearly 50 years. We may earn revenue from the products available on this page and participate in affiliate programs.