And sure enough, about 150 yards away, two beauties were munching—a buck and a doe. Paul knew, when he took his first quick look, that this was a thrill he'd never feel again in quite the same way as on this first time.
Paul's father planned to get his deer first, with Paul shooting later. He fired twice at the buck and missed both times. Usually he can shatter a teacup at no small distance, but he was panting and heaving from the climb up the steep knoll. The buck turned and cut out for the nearby woods. The doe calmly remained.
Paul's father fired again, this time at the doe. He missed again and at long last the doe realized something dangerous was up. She lit out for the woods.
AT THE RUNNING DOE'S NECK
Paul had watched long enough. He swung his rifle, borrowed from his brother who was away at Navy boot camp, to his shoulder. It was a .30 Winchester, not nearly as powerful as his father's .270 Remington. Not thinking about recoil, acting as though it were the familiar .22, he aimed for the running doe's neck. But his eye didn't follow the flight and he hit the deer broadside.
The deer staggered but kept running. When they reached the fringe of the woods, Paul and the two men beat through the underbrush in search of the wounded doe. Paul found it first. He turned and yelled at the two men: "Here it is! Here it is!"
So that's the story of Paul Ward's first deer. The dull statistics of it read: Number of deer ever aimed at—one. Distance of deer when sighted in—150 yards. Final score—one 125-pound doe bagged and officially tagged. Time taken to perform the feat—two-thirds of his first day out. Shades of Frank Merriwell and the Rover Boys!