The minutes creaked by. An eternity would have passed before sunrise if not for the arrival of my brother, owner of Miles High Outfitters, whom I’d enlisted to help glass today. He pulled up in his battle-scarred pickup right on time. A large grin greeted me, masked only slightly by the scraggly red beard that adorned his face. At first glance he looked more like a candidate to raise a barn, but his eagle eyes were what would come in handy this morning.
Once we’d reached my favorite perch we knew instantly things had changed. Directly across the canyon, some eight hundred yards distant stood three bewildered looking fork horns, no doubt the three amigos from yesterday morning. The absence of their companions could spell only one thing, a larger buck had moved in overnight and taken control of the herd. We began scouring the canyon for the missing does and it didn’t take long to find them. On a bench to our left, overlooking the creek, lay all six. Thirty feet uphill by a rock outcropping was their guardian, a handsome four by four.