Just then, out came the does. Paying no attention to the buck, they trotted to a lush patch of green 20 yards under my stand and parked themselves for a good feed—broadside. But by then I’d made my mind up to shoot the buck if I could. He’d closed to about 35 yards, but was still facing me. All I needed was for him to turn, or keep coming. Instead, he, too, put his head down for a long feed, and we all kind of just hung out there in the corner of the field. No worries, I figured; there was no way he was getting out of there without giving me a shot. And even if he did, I’d just take one of the does.