David and I touched up our knives and started butchering, working slowly and stopping often to talk about details of the hunt: the size of the herd, how they poured down the ridge like a river, how powerful the bull looked and how much his bugling echoed across the canyon. Once we had freed the hide from the neck and legs, we pulled it off the carcass, and David said, "Sonofagun, I don't believe it." He gestured with the point of his blade. A small bullet hole, fresh and now leaking a few drops of blood, poked through the bull's torso, a touch back and way too high. He smiled and said, "Told you that bull would be fine."