Trophy Buck by Art Coulson

Author:Art Coulson [Coulson, Art]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: bow hunting; chapter books; deer hunting; firearms; Hunting; Jake Maddox; outdoors woman; outdoorsmen; sportsmen; whitetail deer; own voices; Cherokee Nation; sportswomen; ages 9–12; books about outdoors; hunter safety; diverse books
Publisher: Capstone
Published: 2021-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

Second Chance

Uncle Angus, with some help from Mom and Aunt Edna, had outdone himself. He had set up a hog fry outside the cabin on a portable gas burner. Mom made her famous brown beans and greens. Aunt Edna whipped up several skillets full of sweet corn bread.

I ate quietly while everyone else talked and laughed. The delicious food almost made me forget the terrible morning I’d had and my missed shot at a trophy buck. Almost.

“Instead of going back to the blind, what do you say we hunt on foot this afternoon?” Dad asked me between bites of corn bread.

I shrugged.

“We could walk the edge of the woods,” Dad continued. “Away from where everyone else is hunting, and look for deer. Might have more luck than just sitting in one place all afternoon.”

“Okay,” I said. I looked back down at my plate.

“You’ll get another chance, son,” Dad said. “Don’t be discouraged.”

After we helped to clean up from lunch, we put our orange coats and hats back on, grabbed our guns, and headed back outside. Dad made sure everyone else knew what our plan was and where we intended to hunt this afternoon.

It had warmed up a bit, but the air still smelled like fall. We walked down the hill toward the stream where we had started the day.

Before we crossed, Dad stopped. “Make sure your gun is unloaded,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“In case you fall. You don’t want your gun to go off and hurt you or someone else,” he said. “Always make sure your gun is unloaded before you cross a stream, climb over a fence, or climb up into a tree stand. Safety first. Safety always.”

After we crossed the stream, we paused to reload our rifles. Then we hiked along the edge of the woods. We stopped every now and then to scan the field to our left and to listen.

“You know, Rodney, sometimes you can hunt every day during the season and never get a deer,” Dad said. “One year, when you were about four or five, I came to camp with your grandma, grandpa, and uncles. Not one of us got a deer.”

“I bet you guys were so disappointed,” I said. “What a waste. No one got a trophy buck.”

Dad shrugged. “We were disappointed, sure. But we enjoyed being out here, hunting our land and carrying on a tradition that goes back hundreds of years. Maybe longer.”

I thought about that for a minute. I was enjoying my time with Dad and the rest of my family. I was learning a lot.

Maybe getting a big buck isn’t the only thing that makes a good hunter, I thought.

I was just about to say so when Dad held up his hand. I turned to see what he was looking at.

Across the meadow stood a young buck. It had a six-point rack and was much smaller than the trophy buck I missed this morning. It was still a beauty.

Dad looked at me and nodded.

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