The Last Minute in Nazareth: The next day, I'm scrambling over chest-high brambles of redroot and busted pieces of cattle trough when a rooster pops up 5 feet ahead, catches a 35-mph wind, and streaks away, cackling like a Halloween witch. I shoot until the action locks open, the final shot puffing black and amber feathers from the bird. Before I can congratulate myself, an enormous bird vaults from under Greg Hull's feet. This hombre is bigger than any I've yet seen, and he's only 20 yards away. Hull shoulders his gun, and I brace for the shot, but there is none. I can see Hull's barrel track the bird, and in my mind I am screaming Shoot him! But nothing happens. "What in the world?" I holler.