On the final morning, with my chances to get a deer running out, Greg saw me readying my bow and said, "Ain't gonna need that today." As I hadn't re-zeroed my rifle, he handed me his bull-barreled 7mm mag, equipped with a 4×12 scope, and a handful of 140-grain ballistic-tip handloads. We set up in the dark, prone behind a log looking straight down at least 400 yards of road. At dawn, five does emerged to feed. Ten minutes later, I put the crosshairs on the shoulder of a shooter buck and squeezed. When the smoke cleared, Greg turned red. "You shot the wrong buck!" he hissed. Then he turned pale. "I'm going to get fired."I had shot the only buck I had seen, which had since vanished. Better--or worse--much farther down the road lay a second, larger buck in its final throes.