El fatasma del cepillo…OrThe Ghost of the Brush - Larry Weishuhn

“What do you mean he was a ghost deer?” Asked TC. Before Roberto could answer, “Did you

shoot at him and he disappeared when you thought the bullet should have hit him?”

“Noooo! You weren’t listening were you? I said I watched him come out of the brushy draw

over in the Saladia Pasture. I was sitting about half way up the old windmill tower where I

could cover a bunch of country. Had not been seeing much of anything, just a couple of

coyotes, a bobcat, two does and a fawn. Watched them most of the afternoon thinking a buck

would show up. Just after sunset I saw a dark body walk out of the brushy draw. Had four legs

and looked all shoulders, neck and antlers. When he stepped where there wasn’t blackbrush

right behind him, I could see it was a whitetail buck. But not just a buck, one looked he had at

least five or six points up and one going down, on each beam. Huge!”

“I couldn’t get over how big his antlers were. Not only were they wide and massive, they were

really dark except the tips of his points which were pure ivory. He had really polished tips!

Reminded me of that 6x6 bull I shot in Colorado a couple of years ago. You remember him

don’t you?”

“OK, so he had a big rack, but that doesn’t make him a ghost! You sure you didn’t get into

Lloyd’s “who shot John” bottle?” Jabbed TC.

“Now wait a doggone minute, that’s something more like what you’d do, or at least have done.

Remember that time you said you were gonna get us a mess of quail for supper. You visited

Lloyd’s stash before heading out. As I remember, that was the same day you borrowed the high

rack truck, then forgot the rack on back was 12-feet tall and the crossbars over the gate were

10-feet tall. Hmmmm huhhhh. That’s also the time you ended up shooting two box turtles

when you said you shot on a covey rise…” countered Roberto, snickering.

TC was quiet for all of ten seconds, “Ghost buck, huh! Ah, you probably were looking at dead

mesquite limbs. I won’t believe it unless I can personally see him!”

That night as the split mesquite wood burned and turned to coals, ideal for cooking steaks,

conversation around the campfire was brisk. It always amazed me how a wee dram of “safe

water” imbibed while seated around a November or December hunting camp, camp fire

opened minds and loosened tongues. Stories of past hunts, of great stags bested and mostly

those which bested us, and, had been told many times in the past, seemed like new

adventures.

Hungers satiated by rib-eye steaks that looked like roasts, eyelids got heavier and heavier. One

by one those gathered around the dying fire heard their beds calling. Before long only Roberto

and I remained around the fire, taking turns poking at the coals, sending embers skyward and

watching them disappear into a dark sky studded with brilliant diamonds, and in the western

horizon, the smallest possible crescent moon.

We sat staring into the fire and the great beyond above, neither of us saying a word, enjoying

and appreciating the relative quiet. Ten minutes of silence other than the fire’s crackling, the

mournful yapping of distant coyotes, and, a slight northerly breeze blowing through the bare

mesquite limbs, Roberto broke the silence, “One last night-cap?” asked he. I nodded an

affirmative agreeing to one more….

As he started to walk away to get us one last drink, “I really did see a monster buck and he was

a ghost!” said he. I nodded. Like he I too had been hunting what to me was indeed “a ghost”.

For the past five years I had been hunting a buck which I had seen only twice, once while

conducting a helicopter game survey of the 25,000-acre ranch we hunted and one other time

late night. “My ghost” had long massive beams, ten points up and a drop-tine going down from

about half way along each main. I felt assured the buck was five-years old the first time I saw

him. I saw him one other time, later that same hunting season late night driving back from the

banks of the Rio Grande headed to camp. The only reason I thought him still alive was that two

of the vaqueros who took care of the ranch’s cattle each ensuing fall told me they had seen “La

aparicion del senor rojo”, i.e. “Mister Red’s apparition, ghost”. Back then my hair and beard

indeed were red. According to those two whose words I trusted, my “ghost buck” each ensuing

fall appeared to have as large as rack as the previous year. That had lead me to break one of

my longtime rules about naming a buck, something I refrain from doing. However, this “ghost

buck” seemed special.

As a youngster, there was a black man who occasionally worked for and was a friend of our

family. Tobe, like my Dad, loved hunting ‘coons with hounds, and he frequently hunted with

him. My earliest memory of Tobe was when I was four years old. He was an older man then,

likely in his late sixties. I knew Tobe for another thirty plus years. During all those years he

never seemed to age. In honor to him, I named my ghost buck “Tobe”!

I was lost in thought, mesmerized by the campfire’s glowing coals, when Roberto shoved a

glass, nearly filled with “safe water”, toward me. “I REALLY did see a ghost buck, no matter

what TC or anyone else thinks! His antlers truly were so big, they looked out of place even here

in South Texas. Reminded me of the racks Gary Machen and Dick Idol collected in

Alberta and Saskatchewan, Canada years ago. These were really dark. They actually looked like

something out of The Far North. The finely polished tips looked like ivory, against the dark

beams and points. The contrast was so distinct I got an idea of the number of points, which

looked like at least 12 if not 14 or 15.”

Roberto continued, “Remember the buck I called Maverick?” I nodded. I indeed remembered

that particular buck; a massive antlered typical 14-point buck I had seen while doing a

helicopter survey. I also remembered my friend hunted him for 31 days before he finally saw

him and got a shot. I remembered that buck being 24-inches wide with really dark, massive

mahogany colored beams and points, antler tips finely polished, like those of a mature bull elk.

“This ghost buck reminded me of him, only much wider with considerably longer points.

Maverick, if you will recall, grossed Boone and Crockett, but then narrowly netted out of the

book. The buck I saw this afternoon is bigger, much bigger, at least 30 or more inches bigger.”

He stared into the fire, and as if in deep thought, “I’m not going to tell TC or Buddy exactly

where I saw this buck. If they want to see him, they’re going to have to go looking for him. He

probably will never be seen again, where I saw him this evening, or at all.”

“No doubt he’s huge! But why call him a ghost buck?” I questioned taking a sip of the brown

water. “Did he disappear into thin air, after you saw him?”

“Promise not to laugh?” I nodded. “When I saw him I really thought I was seeing things. ‘Cause I

really did not think a buck could have such huge antlers.”

I nodded.

“When he stepped out from behind that screening of blackbrush, I really thought no way could

a South Texas Brush Country whitetail be that big. I thought momentarily I was imagining a

deer based on drawings you occasionally do, or, one of Don Keller’s paintings? I rubbed my eyes

and he was still there. When he strode toward the does, I knew he was real. But I rubbed my

eyes a second time and looked again. There he stood staring at two does, one to my left, the

other to my right. That’s when I got a really good look at his horns. He had at least ten long

points, some kickers on his back tines, but then also a drop-tine on each beam.”

Roberto sat quietly for a moment or two. Then shaking his head, “I was so shaken and taken in

by his big antlers, I totally forgot I had a rifle and it was hunting season. That’s when I realized

how much I was shaking. The entire top of the windmill shook! I was afraid I was going to drop

my rifle!” He hesitated. “He was only seventy or so yards away and walking toward me,

seemingly totally unconcerned. I started raising my .270. He stopped, stared at me. Totally

shook I opened the bolt to look to make certain there was a shell in the chamber. It was! Rifle

at shoulder I looked to where he had been standing….”

“He wasn’t there! I have no idea where he went. He had been essentially in the open standing

in knee-high grass. Both does were still browsing, totally unconcerned. I could not again spot

him. Where he had stood, I was certain even if he moved left, right, turned away or come

toward me he would or should have been where I could see him. I swung my rifle and scope

left and right. The buck was no where to be seen. I lowered the rifle and searched the entire

area with my binocular. Try as I might I could not again find or see him. I had been certain he in

no way was concerned about my presence, or ever even knew I was there. Now, he was gone,

like smoke he had disappeared, disappeared in thin air. I’m telling you he was real, but he was

and is a ghost!”