it is I who suggest we motor up the road in search of antelope. We spy a smattering of pronghorn, all on private land. An unbroken canopy of bloated gray clouds sags nearer the earth, dimming the landscape. Then, as if on cue, a herd of some 60 antelope trots across the road in front of us, drifting from private land on the east side of the road to a block of state-owned real estate on the west. Easing the Tahoe into the barrow-pit, we wait until the last animal crests a ridge that takes them from sight. Then Lisa uncases her rifle, and we ease the doors closed with scarcely audible clicks. When we gain a vantage point to view the prairie ahead, I can see the herd is well out of range, still drifting westward. Our chances of overtaking it with sufficient light to shoot are slim. Ready to turn back toward the road, movement on the
periphery of my vision swivels my eyes down a broad ravine. Like a tan and white apparition, an antelope buck appears, walking in the same direction as the departed herd. It’s a scant 150 yards away, well within range of Lisa’s rifle and abili-
antelope. It halts to gaze in our direction as Lisa brings her rifle to bear on the twotoned body, an easy shot at a standing animal. “Let it go,” I whisper, explaining my misgivings. “We’ll find another one tomorrow.”
shoot ... now,” I whisper urgently, knowing the buck will bolt at any moment. “You need to
ty. But as we prepare for the shot, doubt arises. Something about the animal is not right. Though there’s no apparent wound on its body or noticeable limp, the buck seems a bit sickly, its strides lacking the ease and grace of a healthy
By the time we reach Broadus, amber light flickers from street lamps whose enthusiasm for the night shift seems about as dim as that of a veterinarian rung from midnight slumber for a calving session. We idle down the main drag, looking for
Montana Headwall
lodging and restaurant. A typical mom-and-pop motel appears with a “vacancy” sign in the window. The route bends south at a stoplight. Near the outskirts of this snippet of civilization, a dozen mud-spattered pickups, a handful of tired automobiles and a shiny Buick are parked outside what appears to be the popular eating establishment. “Do you think I look okay for dinner?” asks my Dartmouth graduate, glancing with concern at her grubby jeans, dirt-caked hiking shoes and brown quilted vest she earned as a master’s national skiing champion. “You’re perfect,” I reply with conviction. We take a table inside. A matronly waitress with red lipstick and an easy smile drops two menus on the table. “Would you like something to drink?” Lisa orders a glass of red wine.
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