It was the only tree on a windswept plain. I ducked my head under a branch. James Flaherty, watching my heels, weighed down with most of a mule deer on his back, didn’t.
The 300-year-old tree extended a rapier-pointed limb and carved a zigzag scratch on the lucky hunter’s forehead. Henceforth, we called him Zorro.
That evening, 16-year-old Paxton Eicher stalked a buck on a bitterbrush-studded bench. The forked horn caught his scent and made a getaway.
With rain coming, we tarped, roped and Rhino-Gripped our tents to keep as much water out as possible. Paxton had left his rain jacket at home. I handed him an emergency plastic poncho. If he wore it, I could give him a nickname too.