The day began like every other. Neither the beast nor I could know it, but one of our fates was to be decided before the anemic December sun disappeared below the western horizon. Steady hands and a well-made Winchester would tilt fate in my direction.
I first spotted the monster some 200 yards away. The ill-fated wind was in his favor, but stealth and cunning were in mine.
With his sandy red bristles blotched with mud , he was very difficult to spot in the tall sedge grass, but years of experience had taught me to look for “pieces” of game rather than the entire animal.
I knew at a glance this was the big red boar that had been devas-tating my feeders and food plots. Nicknamed “Widow Maker” by the good people of Boxelder for reasons too morbid to ponder, he truly was a terrifying sight to behold. A stalk was my only option, and there wasn’t time for hesitation, because the evening light was fading fast, increasing the danger with each minute.
Choking back all fear, I summoned every ounce of courage within me, and slowly inched toward the man killer. I moved silently through the scant bushes like cigarette smoke through a chain link fence.
I crept within 50 yards of my quarry. As he cleared the tall grass, offering me my first good view of his entire body, my pulse quickened and my pupils dilated.
A lifetime of big game hunting had brought me to this moment. As if by its own actions, and with no hesitation, the 1886 Winchester seemed to shoulder itself. I pulled the stock in tight and felt the familiar cheek weld that endeared this rifle to me. The ivory bead of the front sight instinctively settled behind the shoulder of the bruiser, and with unfeeling calculation, I slowly squeezed the trigger.
The Winchester roared, and instantly my line of vision was filled with an intense flash of fire. My entire body had become numb. With involuntary muscle memory, I levered the butter smooth action, forcing another .45-70 cartridge into the rifle’s chamber.
My eyes never left the beast, and shortly after the report of the rifle he staggered rearward and began shaking his head violently, oblivious to the fact that he was mortally wounded. In an instant, he spun and focused the full extent of his fury and aggression directly at the source of his mortality.
The seriousness of my situation now flooded my very being. I was caught in the open with nowhere to run and no tree to climb. I had but one option, and that was to hold the line. I quickly squared up and kneeled to face the animal head on!
With blinded rage, 250 pounds of sinew and ivory began to close the distance between us. Once more the front bead found center mass, and the Winchester again belched fire.
The 400 grain slug drove home , and the impact was enough to knock him off his intended course. As quickly as it began, it was over, and my life had been spared. Only then did I begin to tremble. My warrior nerves had been tested to near breaking point.
As my tunnel vision slowly dissipated, I once again became aware of my immediate surrounddo. ings. I listened intently as the beast crashed in the thicket some 30 yards to my right.
Thanks to the ice in my veins, and my venerable Winchester rifle, I had cheated death and would live to hunt again!
