On my last evening, I was sitting in a lock-on stand with a cornfield in front of me and a dry creek bed behind. I watched a good buck step out catty-corner from me on the edge of the field, 100 yards away. I ground the antlers together, and he white-flagged it back into the brush, evidently not a fighter. But I kept rattling, and when I glanced over my shoulder, a stud of an 8-pointer was trotting right to the creek bed, already within range. I managed to get my release on my bowstring—but he caught me shifting my feet and spooked, leaving me shaking in the tree.