“What do you mean he was a ghost deer?” TC inquired.
Before Roberto could answer, TC asked: “Did you shoot at him and he disappeared when you thought the bullet should have hit him?”
“Noooo! You weren’t listening, were you?” said Roberto. “I said that I watched him come out of the brushy draw over in the Saladia Pasture. I was sitting about halfway up the old windmill tower where I could cover a bunch of country. All I’d seen were a couple of coyotes, a bobcat, two does and a fawn. Watched them most of the afternoon thinking a buck would show up.
“Then, just after sunset, I saw a dark body walk out of the brushy draw. Had four legs and looked all shoulders, neck and antlers. I could see it was a whitetail buck. But not just your typical buck. He had what looked like five or six points up and one going down, on each beam. Huge!
“I couldn’t get over how big his antlers were. Not only were they wide and massive, they were really dark except the tips of his points were like polished ivory! Reminded me of that six-by-six bull elk I shot in Colorado a couple of years ago. You remember him, don’t you?”
“OK, so he had a big rack, but that don’t make him a ghost!” said TC. “You sure you didn’t get into Lloyd’s ‘who shot John’ bottle?”
“Now wait a doggone minute, that’s something more like what you’d do,” said Roberto. “Remember that time you said you were gonna get us a mess of quail for supper. You visited Lloyd’s stash before heading out. As I remember, that was the same day you borrowed the high-racked truck, then forgot the stand on back was 12 feet tall and the crossbars over the gate were 10 feet tall. Hmmmm huhhhh. That’s also the time you ended up shooting two box turtles when you said you shot at a covey of quail on the rise.” Roberto, snickering.
While Roberts sat there, snickering loudly, TC remained quiet for all of ten seconds before responding: “Ghost buck, huh! Ah, you probably were looking at dead mesquite limbs. I won’t believe it unless I can personally see him!”
That night, as the split mesquite wood burned and slowly turned into coals, ideal for cooking steaks, conversation around the campfire was brisk. It always amazed me how a wee dram of “safe water” imbibed while seated around a November or December campfire, opened minds and loosened tongues. Stories of past hunts, of great stags bested and mostly those which bested us, and, had been told many times in the past. Each story seemed like a new adventure.
Hungers satiated by steaks that looked like roasts, our eyelids got heavier and heavier. One by one, those in our small group heard their beds calling them. Only Roberto and I remained around the fire, taking turns poking at the coals, sending embers skyward and watching them disappear into a dark sky studded with brilliant diamonds, and in the western horizon, the smallest possible crescent moon.
We sat staring into the fire and the great beyond above, neither of us saying a word, enjoying and appreciating the relative quiet. For the next ten minutes, there was only the fire’s crackling, the mournful yapping of distant coyotes, and a slight northerly breeze blowing through the bare mesquite limbs before Roberto broke the silence, “One last night-cap?” he asked. I nodded, agreeing to just one more.
As he started to walk away to get our drinks, Roberto stated somewhat emphatically: “I really did see a monster buck and he was a ghost!
I nodded, for what seemed like the past five years we had indeed been hunting a ghost buck. I had seen him only twice, once while conducting a helicopter game survey of the 25,000-acre ranch and once while driving on a backroad near my hunting camp.
The ghost buck had long massive beams, ten points up and a drop-tine extending down about halfway along each main. I figured he was about five years old the first time I saw him. I saw him a second time later in that same hunting season during a late-night drive back from the banks of the Rio Grande.
The only reason I thought him still alive was that two of the vaqueros who took care of the ranch’s cattle told me they’d seen “La aparicion del senor rojo”, i.e. “Mister Red’s apparition,” for back then my hair and beard indeed were red. According to those two whose words I trusted, he each ensuing fall the buck’s rack seemed even bigger than from the previous year. That had led me to break one of my longtime rules about naming a buck, something I refrain from normally doing. This “ghost buck,” however, seemed special.
In my childhood days, there was a black man who occasionally worked for our family when we needed help. Tobe, like my Dad, loved chasing ‘coons with hounds and frequently hunted with us. My earliest memory of Tobe was when I was four years old and he was in his late 50s. I knew him for another 30-plus years and during all that time, he never seemed to age. In honor of him, I named my ghost buck Tobe!
I was lost in thought, mesmerized by the campfire’s flames and glowing coals, when Roberto shoved a glass, nearly filled with “brown water,” toward me.
“I REALLY did see a ghost buck, no matter what TC or anyone else thinks!” he insisted. “His antlers truly were so big, they looked out of place here in South Texas. Reminded me of some of the racks Gary Machen and Dick Idol collected in
Alberta and Saskatchewan. This buck’s antlers were really dark. They actually looked like something out of The Far North. The finely polished tips looked like ivory against the dark beams and points. The contrast was so distinct I got an idea of the number of points, which looked like at least twelve if not fourteen or fifteen.”
Roberto continued, “Remember the buck I called Maverick?”
I nodded. I indeed well remembered that particular buck; a massive typical 14-point buck. I had seen him while doing a helicopter survey. I too remembered that Roberto hunted him for 31 days before he finally saw him. The buck’s rack was 24 inches wide with really dark, massive, mahogany colored beams and points and finely polished antler tips, like those of a mature bull elk.
“This ghost buck reminded me of him, only he’s much wider with considerably longer points,” I said. “Maverick, if you will recall, grossed Boone and Crockett, but then narrowly netted out of the book. The buck I saw this afternoon is much bigger, by at least thirty or more inches.”
Roberto stared into the fire, and as if in deep thought, said: “I’m not going to tell TC or Buddy exactly where I saw this buck. If they want to see him, they’re going to have to go looking for him. And, he probably will never be seen again, at least where I saw him this evening.”
“No doubt he’s huge! But why call him a ghost buck?” I questioned before taking a sip of the brown water. “Did he disappear into thin air after you saw him?
“Promise not to laugh?” said Roberto. “When I saw him, I really thought I was seeing things. ‘Cause I really did not think a buck could have such huge antlers.”
“Obviously you saw something!” I commented.
“When he stepped out from behind that screen of blackbrush, I really thought that no South Texas Brush Country deer could be that big,” Roberto said. “I thought I was imagining a deer based on drawings you occasionally do, or, remembered one of Don Keller’s paintings? I rubbed my eyes and he was still there. Then when he strode toward the does, I knew he was real. But I rubbed my eyes a second time and looked again. There he stood, staring at two does, one to my left, the other to my right. That’s when I got a really good look at his horns. He had at least ten long points, some kickers on his back tines, plus a drop-tine on each beam.”
Roberto sat quietly for a moment or two. Then shaking his head, added, “I was so shaken and taken in by his big antlers, I totally forgot I had a rifle and it was hunting season. And, I could and should shoot him. That’s when I realized how much I was shaking. The entire top of the windmill shook! I was afraid I was going to drop my rifle!”
He hesitated, then added: “He was only seventy or so yards away and walking toward me, seemingly totally unconcerned. I started raising my .270. He stopped, stared at me. Totally shook, I opened the bolt to look to make certain there was a shell in the chamber. Then with my rifle at my shoulder, I looked to where he had been standinh.”
“He wasn’t there! Have no idea where he went. He had been in the open, standing in knee-high grass. Both does were still browsing, totally unconcerned about his presence or anything else going on around them. Try as I might, I could not spot him. Where he had stood, I was certain even if he had moved left, right, turned away or come toward me, he would have been where I could see him. I swung my rifle and scope left and right, but the buck was nowhere to be seen. I lowered the rifle and searched the entire area with my binocular. Try as I might I could not again find or see him.
“I was certain he in no way was concerned about my presence, or even knew I was there. But now, he was gone, like smoke he had disappeared in what seemed to be thin air. I’m telling you he was real, but he was and still is a ghost!”