The McAlesters were a family of hunters. They were also ruthless in their ways. Logan McAlester saw to that. He and his boys collected their meat any way they could, day or night, summer or winter. None of the McAlester clan ever paid attention to seasons or bag limits and they hunted, fished and trapped for any creature that produced a meal or turned a profit.
Logan had always said he would raise a family of boys. True to his word, he spawned three strapping bucks barely a year apart in age. Growing up, the three boys were inseparable, and they quickly adopted the crude ways of their father. When the youngest of the trio marked his tenth birthday, an accident occurred in the McAlester household. Another baby came along. This latest addition, also a boy, was a total disruption to Logan’s lifestyle. He considered the newborn infant to be a curse on the rest of the family.
But there was no denying McAlester blood. From the start, young Jamie was a born hunter. He learned the ways of the woods on his own and soon was old enough to carry the ancient breech-loading .22 single-shot rifle that had been discarded in turn by each of his older brothers. Every spare moment was spent in the vast forest that surrounded the McAlester homestead.
Because of the limited power of his rifle, Jamie’s hunting was restricted to small game, but his first love grew to be the beautiful white-tailed deer that lived on the forest edge near McAlester land. Deer were scarce in this part of the country, though, and the mere sighting of one was a rare event. Whenever a McAlester killed one of the graceful animals, it was a much celebrated occasion because it meant fresh meat for weeks. However, the deeply pitted .22 rifle that Jamie had come to cherish was not a weapon to be used on large game. Logan had forbidden him to ever attempt shooting at a deer, lest a wounded animal go off and die and cost the family a supply of venison.
Despite that, Jamie developed great skill in stalking the few deer in his neighborhood. He soon devised a challenging game with these clever animals. Through trial and error, he had discovered where the deer sought refuge during the day. He learned how to sneak within shooting range and then draw a careful bead without ever pulling the trigger. Instead, he would only pretend to shoot.
One day Jamie was practicing his sport on a young fork-horned buck, and in a moment of great excitement, he accidentally squeezed the trigger. The little gun cracked. To Jamie’s utter amazement, the alert buck collapsed as if it had been hit by a sledge hammer, stone dead from a bullet to the brain. Hoping he would be praised by his father for procuring meat, Jamie dragged his first trophy better than a mile home, only to be whipped by Logan for disobeying an explicit command. Jamie’s rifle was taken away permanently. From that day on, he went to the woods armed only with his knife and whatever other weapon he could devise with his own hands.
About that time, an extremely large buck was sighted in the McAlester neighborhood, an animal so heavy in antlers it had no equal. This phantom buck rapidly became the most sought-after deer in the county. Logan and his three older boys began hunting the deer with a passion. Tracks of the huge buck were easy to recognize because the crafty old mossback had permanently injured a front hoof, causing its shape to be deformed. People soon began dubbing the buck “Old Crooked Toe.”
Jamie had seen Old Crooked Toe twice, and he knew precisely where the buck’s home range was located. Late that winter, he was squirrel hunting with a homemade slingshot when he found a shed antler from the monarch. It was obviously the right antler from a buck in the prime of life, with thick mass and numerous long times. When Jamie returned home with his prize, he was confronted by Logan, who insisted on knowing exactly where the massive antler had been picked up.
Not wanting anyone in the family to kill the buck, Jamie shrewdly led his father and brothers to a patch of woods two miles distance from where he had actually found the antler. The following fall, Logan and the older boys drove that patch of woods relentlessly. Morning after morning they waited in ambush with ever-frustrating results. Jamie remained tight-lipped about his secret.
That same year, toward the end of November on a cold, overcast day, Jamie was out checking his trapline when he came across the unmistakable prints of Old Crooked Toe. An inch of snow had fallen during the night, creating ideal tracking conditions. Unarmed but no less excited about glimpsing the noted buck, Jamie took up the trail. Two hours later, he stumbled upon a scene as remarkable as anything he had ever seen in his young life.
Old Crooked Toe had encountered another buck in his travels. Since the rut was at its peak, the two bucks had gone to battle. As Jamie topped a steep rise in the small clearing, there before him stood Old Crooked Toe, still up on all four legs with his head down and his wide antlers hopelessly locked with a buck somewhat smaller in size.
The other buck was dead, either from exhaustion or battle injury. Old Crooked Toe had dragged the dead animal some distance across the snow until he had been stopped by a barbed wire fence. A record of the horrific battle had been recorded across the entire opening in the snow. It was plain to see that it had a fight to the finish. Old Crooked Toe had survived, but now, he appeared to be doomed.
Jamie ran all the way home and grabbed his father’s rifle. Knowing that he would have two bucks to somehow drag home, he also grabbed a length of rope from the barn. As he left the barn, a small saw hanging on the wall caught his eye. Having visions of sawing off the buck’s great antlers, he took it as well.
When Jamie returned to the clearing, Old Crooked Toe was as fierce as ever, his eyes blood-red from his long suffering. But he was far from giving up. Jamie cautiously stepped within a few feet, leveling the rifle at the deer’s head. It was his intention to put the great buck out of his misery. As Jamie cocked the hammer of his father’s .30-30 rifle, Old Crooked Toe stood rigidly awaiting his fate, totally uncompromising and fearless in his wild state.
Jamie could not pull the trigger. Old Crooked Toe had fought a great battle and won. He had earned the right to live. Putting the rifle aside and grabbing the rope instead, Jamie managed to hog-tie Old Crooked Toe to a nearby fence post. Then, with saw in hand, he intentionally grabbed the left antler of the struggling animal and sawed it off at the base, knowing it would be a perfect match for the shed antler he had found earlier. When the heavy beam broke loose, Old Crooked Toe pulled his head away from the locked antlers of his dead opponent. Jamie untied the rope and jumped back. Old Crooked Toe scrambled to his feet and bounded across the opening toward freedom, looking awkward with only one antler swinging in the breeze. Just before disappearing into the far trees across the opening, he paused briefly and glanced back at Jamie. Then he was gone.
Jamie stared down at the mighty antler he clutched in his hand. He would mount this and the shed antler on a wooden plaque, in his room, as a constant reminder of this special event and of Old Crooked Toe. Someday, when he owned his own rifle and when conditions were right, he might meet Old Crooked Toe again. For now, he had another buck to dress out – a splendid animal in its own right – and much meat to pack home. From that day forward, he would revel in the glory of his deed, knowing that he had done something that his father and brothers could never do, and knowing that they would chastise him for setting the great animal free. Jamie laughed out loud and welcomed the ridicule. Then he opened his knife and began the task at hand.
First published in White Tales and Other Hunting Stories, Bucksnort Publishing, Ltd., 1989