ON THE LAST DAY IT SNOWED. The weather up until then had been beautiful, but now the temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and a heavy, wet snow fell. Wes and I made it to a high pasture, where he began calling. And out through the gray wall of the storm a piping bugle answered. He sounded like a small bull, but at this point we were not particular. I picked a boulder, steadied the rifle across it, and waited, praying that somewhere out there, something was about to have a terminal fit of stupidity.