The buck stood, motionless, as if he’d been bronzed, with a sprig of grass held tightly in his mouth. I hissed, “Jack! Freeze!” as I raised the gun off the pack, drove my elbows into the dirt, and centered the crosshairs on the pronghorn’s neck. The does stood, nervous. The buck stared as if he could look me in the eye through the metal tube. When the does bolted, he turned his head to watch their flight for a scant second and then took a quarter-turn and a half-step forward, and I knew in the next instant he’d be pushing 30 miles per hour. I pulled the trigger and pandemonium broke out in the grass. Does raced across the open ground like quail flushed wild, with my antelope hard behind them. I pushed up into a sitting position, racked the bolt, swiveled left, and locked my elbows into the angles of my knees. The buck faltered on the run, trailing behind the does as I tracked him in the scope. He stopped for a moment, sagging. I fired again. After the months of planning and the days on the hunt and the long minutes in the dirt, the end always seems to come so quickly.