The elk was down. He could picture it lying in snow at the top of the mountain. That the bull had not left a single drop of blood in the half mile he'd followed it the evening before didn't matter. He knew it was there. My brother, Kevin, does not normally act on impulse. But as the morning passed, he grew more certain that he could not have missed the elk where it had stood, silhouetted in the twilight against a finger ridge of Montana's Big Belt Mountains. If his rifle was on, that is. He drove to the range and shot once, the bullet cutting a hole an inch high of the bull's-eye.