Late the previous afternoon, Old Jimmie found fresh tracks from the big buck crossing a dirt road and entering the patch of bush the men of the hunting camp called "the gauntlet." They had never actually seen the big buck. They knew him only from tracks that were bigger than any they had ever seen and from the scrapes he made on the ground and the rubs he left on trees to mark his territory.

Near dawn the next day, nine men surrounded the woods, waiting for the dogs to be brought forward so the hunt could begin. The wait before the hunt is a time of preparation and reflection. Hunters watch and listen intently to the world around them while each is alone with his thoughts.

Winnie stood overlooking a beaver dam where he had once killed a deer. It skidded and stumbled when it was hit, but was up standing again just as quickly. He remembered raising his gun a second time and seeing the deer lower its head while snorting blood from its nose. Then he could see himself standing over the deer and looking down at its open eyes and the dark red spots of spray on the forest floor.
 
No one else had shot a deer at the dam. They called it "Winnie's Watch." He liked that. He was alone there now, and no one could hear him if he spoke. He said "Winnie's Watch" out loud and smiled at the sound of his own words.

Young Jimmie, Old Jimmie's son, waited on a cedar ridge, admiring the beauty of his weapon. It was a classic Remington rifle, with a blued barrel and walnut stock. It felt solid and powerful and made him feel alive. He owned fifteen guns in all. He called them his "cannons," in the same manner an old woman might lovingly refer to her pet cats as my "babies."

Fred was near the edge of a swamp. He was the camp cook, so he didn't do dishes. He always left a mess because he knew someone else would clean it up. He was thinking: "Tonight I'll make a casserole with macaroni elbows, two cans of tomatoes, two cans of mushrooms, a chopped onion, and some hamburg."

"Somebody might complain," he said to himself. "I'll just tell them to cook the next meal if they don't like it." But no one ever complained. They didn't want to be the cook.

 Slag was perfectly still and quiet. He used his foot to scrape away the dead leaves and twigs so he stood inside a circular patch of bare earth on the ground. If he needed to move his feet, even an inch or two, there would be no sound. "Don't move on your watch until you're ready to shoot, and when you move never make a sound," he always said.

Slag's brother, Steve, was on the watch near the dirt road where the deer had entered the bush. He had already smoked three cigarettes, lighting one with the other. He had smoked and drunk too much the night before. He remembered a time when, after a night like that, a cigarette the next day made him feel sick. But now he needed to smoke. It made him feel better.

Boney was on the next watch overlooking a creek that ran between two ridges. A lot of deer had been shot there over the years. They called it the "good watch," and when someone hadn't killed a deer for a long time this is where they came. They called him Boney because he had "a hungry look about him." He, too, had been up late. He was cold and tired and he sat down on a rock to try to get comfortable. He listened to the strange sounds of the forest and knew them all, just as he knew the sound of a deer. If one came, he would hear it before he saw it. His finger touched the safety on his gun.

"Always be ready," he told himself.

Old Jimmie waited and watched, too. He wanted this buck. He didn't bother shooting the does or fawns any more, just bucks like the one tattooed beneath the shoulder of his right arm. He never told the others about how he hunted just for bucks now. "They might not understand." "But somehow," he thought to himself, "they already know."

Ronnie had started out early. He walked a long way in the dark to his watch. He knew the woods because he grew up in them. He didn't use a compass or need a watch when he hunted, although he had both.

His nephew, Ben, was only eighteen. It was his first time deer hunting and he had never seen a deer while holding a loaded gun in his hands, let alone the big buck they called "The Man." But he had heard the stories long before he entered the woods that day, and now the thought of seeing the big buck frightened him.

In the distant sky, he noticed a long, dark, waving ribbon of ducks. Seconds later, they passed overhead.
It was daylight in the swamp.

The three biggest hounds, including the lead dog, Garth, were brought to the edge of the woods, tied tight in the back of a truck. They had only a few inches of slack, just enough to sit and stand, so an overly anxious hound wouldn't hang itself by jumping from a moving truck with a rope around its neck.

The dogs were released, and disappeared into the woods. A single dogger followed slowly behind. His footsteps crunched on the frost that covers the northern woods on November mornings.

Inside the woods, the scent from the deer hovered near the cold hard ground. The forest is a place of smell and sound, and the dogs searched for both.

An hour passed. Then everyone heard the dogs strike the scent as they began to howl in ecstasy. The big buck was browsing at a stand of young cedars. He raised his head immediately and turned one ear slightly back to the right to find the position and direction of the dogs. They were moving through the tall pines that filled the gap between two granite ridges where he had spent the previous night resting but not sleeping. The dogs had almost reached the long narrow swamp where the pines and ridges ended. The deer was at the far end of the swamp, looking and walking away from the sound of the dogs.
He doesn't understand why he's hunted any more than he understands a passing pickup truck. He only wants to survive.
He has never left his home inside the woods, nor will he.

He has no nest, no cave, and no hole to hide or take shelter in.

His mind is clear and quiet and free of doubt. He doesn't fear the hunters or the dogs. He knows them too well. If he fears anything at all, it's the men with axes and saws who cut him off from the forest one tree at a time.

When he finally began to run, he took the dogs around tag alder swamps, into swale holes, and through tangled undergrowth. When he ran hard, he left deep tracks behind. In some places, they appeared on the ground over twenty feet apart. These running leaps made his scent more difficult to follow and put distance between him and the dogs. This gave him time to stop and look and listen for movement and search for strange smells that came from body soap, toothpaste, and burning cigarettes. He knew this meant danger was ahead. A big buck knows his world well. His nose receives messages from his only true friend and constant companion, the wind. His eyes can spot the slightest twitch, even at night, and his ears, which are the size of a man's open hand, will find you before his nose and eyes do.

The dogs had run him before, but, like the hunters, they had never seen him. Only the lead hound was still in the hunt, the hound with the big feet and big chest. He was still with the big buck when he circled the bush a second time, still invisible to the nine men who waited.
 
No man has ever seen him because he is an animal living at the edge, between darkness and light, partly in the open and partly concealed, able to hide in plain sight. He walks around open meadows and fields, not across them. He doesn't use the big channels and game trails taken by other animals. He follows a path made in his mind. He slips through creases, seams, and time.

The hunters had never seen him but knew he was there. They had no doubt that a living leg left those big tracks. When they knelt to touch them, they felt his weight and saw his size. He left calling cards for them but only on the thickest trees: a stripped patch of bark, higher up than it should be. These marks were made with his antlers and are a sign of his strength and a warning to other bucks. Everybody likes to be in awe of something, and the hunters in the woods that day were in awe of him. At night, in their camp, when they sat near their fires and talked, they called him a "monster."

The nine men on their watches continued waiting for him as he moved silently and secretly like some great fish through the deep. He has passed the watches where they waited a thousand times and will pass those places a thousand times more. But not if they are there. He does the watching then.

The buck had watched them wait before, knowing they would eventually leave as night fell. He learned how to be patient from standing outside, day and night, waiting for winters to end. They had even passed within feet of him as he crouched, hidden and motionless, the shadow of a shadow.

He knew many of the men individually from the sounds they made while striking matches and flicking lighters and eating food as they stood on their watches trying to be quiet.

This time there was one hunter he didn't know and he watched him now. It was the young boy, the first-time hunter. Usually, this watch was left open. The deer had used it before to slip through the gauntlet and outrun the dogs.

The boy was moving about, standing then crouching, trying to see and remain unseen. When the boy looked behind him, the deer knew he was afraid, just as he knew the dog was closing fast. It was then he picked the boy. The buck breathed deeply, gathering all his strength in one breath, and decided to run right at him.

He was thirty yards away when the boy heard the crash and saw him coming. The deer appeared like a ghost emerging from the green grey November woods, his legs and body bounding, his big rack rocking and tilting like the outstretched wings of
some great bird in flight.

The boy's heart was beating rapidly as his world narrowed to the end of a pointed gun. But now the dog was there at the far end of his sight, running and reaching for the deer like a lion in chase grasping for its prey. The boy could not squeeze the trigger.

 That night, around the table at the camp, they talked about the big buck, the lead dog and the first-time hunter. They spoke of the courage of the charge, and the determination of the chase, and the power of the shot that was never fired.

The deer was resting in some safe hideaway far away from the gauntlet and the dogs and guns.

The dog was waiting to be fed, chained to his rotting wooden doghouse just beyond the light from a window.

The boy never returned to the camp. A man sat listening in his place.