The big buck was restless that frosty, clear morning in south Texas. He wandered purposelessly here and there through the mesquite brush, just after the last sunrise he would ever see. Although his flanks were hollow, he did not feel hunger, and his nibbling at the browse was only reflexive. His swollen neck and the moist, black hock glands on his hind legs told the story—he was a whitetail at the peak of his rutting urge.