Rattling Surprises… - Larry Weishuhn

He was there, then gone like an afterthought in a bad situation. I had looked away merely for a

heartbeat to glance at the crunching sound of footsteps in the dry white oak leaves that

covered the ground behind me. Squirrel! Immediately I again looked forward to prepare taking

a shot at this long awaited moment. He was gone, as if swallowed into the Earth. Where?

How? For the past two weeks I had baited the area, legal in Texas, with Vineyard Max to

primarily attract does, which would in turn attract bucks as the rut neared.

Had I really seen the wide typical twelve point or had it simply been a wanting apparition?

Off to my left a raucous crow squawked more than cawed, then started making sounds I had

only heard twice before, most notably while hunting in the Brush Country of South Texas.

Actually there it had been a crow’s first cousin, a white-necked raven.

I was sitting next to a gnarly bull mesquite, rattling horns in hand, crossed shooting stick

propped up in front of me, my .44 Mag Taurus revolver resting in their crux. Out front of me

downwind, was a saladilla flat. On either side of the mesquite surrounded low-growing fleshy

succulents vegetated open area were scrapes so fresh they wreaked of rutting bucks. No doubt

there were bucks in the neighborhood.

I had just started tickling the horns when the raven started squawking, making tight circles over

something just out of sight in the brush. The raven dived low toward whatever held its

undivided attention. I hoped it was pestering a massive antlered typical ten-point with a 6-inch

drop on his left main beam. I had seen such a buck in the area from a helicopter two months

earlier while conducting our annual game census. One thing I had also seen or lacked seeing

was the number of deer I normally had seen in the past in the adjoining pasture which was

usually was home to a substantial number of deer. Yet during our survey I had seen very few

deer in the 3,000-acres pasture. Nothing had changed to the vegetation or water sources.

Matter of fact that particular pasture had been vacated of cattle several months earlier.

Usually when cattle were rotated out of a pasture deer near to the vacated pasture drifted in to

take advantage of additional plant growth.

Having a hard time finding any deer where normally there were numerous I instructed the

helicopter pilot of fly low around waterhole and the creek bottoms. I wanted to look for tracks,

particularly left by a cougar. The third waterhole we circled I spotted what appeared to be

mountain lion tracks. After setting the Bell 47 on the ground the pilot and I walked to water’s

edge. There in in the soft ground were several large cat tracks, but also two sets of exact same

shape and about half the size of the bigger spoor tracks. “A female with two half-grown cubs!

No wonder most of the deer have left the area. Likely we’ll pick up those in the adjoining

pastures.” The pilot nodded in agreement. I added, “I’ve seen this same thing before and

when I did, always either saw a cougar or at least tracks in the area.”

A couple of month later I was on the ranch trying to rattle up a muy grande viejo macho.

The raven landed in the upper branches of a tall mesquite totally occupied with whatever was

down below. I kept meshing the tines of my rattling horns, getting more aggressive and louder.

The raven cawed ever louder.

I watched downwind knowing any mature buck, no matter which direction he responded from

would end up there. Mature bucks depend upon their eyes and ears, but they live or die by

their noses.

The raven never slowed squawking. I noticed it never looked my way no matter how loudly I

rattled. It continually looked down. Just then a young 8-point charged in, but then nearly fell

as he reversed directions and ran away. Strange…I had often seen bucks run in from

downwind, but then stay long enough to see there was not fight before walking or running

away. Not this buck, he all but reversed fields in mid-air.

I glanced to the left. The raven was again up in the air and now diving at something apparently

slowly walking away. I lowered my rattling horns to my side, grabbed the revolver loaded with

six rounds of Hornady 240-grain XTP Custom ammo. Then, cautiously rose and walked to the

trail above which the raven had been sitting and flying.

There in the dust were large round tracks showing nary a claw. No doubt a cougar. I could see

where it had laid down in a position ready to pounce on what undoubtedly it had taken to be

two bucks locked in mortal combat. But not seeing a deer the cougar had lain in ambush, just

in case. No doubt the young buck that had responded to my rattling had either seen or smelled

the lion and departed post-haste!

Sitting against an ancient white oak in Northeast Texas, even though I had been rattling, my

mind had indeed drifted back to hunting the Brush Country. Memories of what happened and

seeing those lion tracks made me wander if something similar might not be happening.

The lone crow was soon joined by several others diving through tall tree limbs, cawing, making

a racket. I could hear more crows coming to join in with whatever was going on and the great

amount of cawing I understood why a huge gathering of crows was called a “murder of crows”.

I sat statue-like still hoping whatever the crows were after would step out where I could see it.

Was it the heavy-antlered twelve point I was hoping to take, a bobcat or could it possibly be a

cougar. I knew crows tended to harass hawks and owls, but these were after something on the

ground rather than in a tree. I had seen some sizeable bobcat tracks near where I was hunting.

The spoor likely made a large tom weighing at least 30-pounds. Perhaps that is what waited just

out of sight hoping to take down a fight-injured or weakened rutting buck. I had in the past on

several occasions rattled in big bobcat toms.

I continued sitting quietly, rifle at ready hoping I had actually seen the big typical 12-point, and

not just an apparition…

The crows kept harassing whatever it was on the ground, but then just like had happed in South

Texas, whatever it was started walking away. The crows followed. When it sounded they were

at least a quarter of a mile away, I stood up, shoved my rattling horns into day pack, cranked

my Stealth Vision 3-18x44 scope up from 3-power up to 5x, anticipating a possible longer shot

with my Mossberg Patriot Predator 7mm PRC, loaded with 160-grain CX Precision Hunter, a

load my particular rifle, scope loved regardless of the target, or for that matter the distance.

Before walking to another rattling spot I wanted to see if I could find tracks where the crows

had been dive-bombing whatever it had been there.

I stared at the leaf-covered ground trying to discern a track distinctive enough to tell me what

had been there. I followed the trail until I found sandy ground there I found a pug-mark not

unlike I had seen in Africa hunting leopards or mountain lion tracks seen both immediately

north and south of the Rio Grande. The track and its size confirmed it had been made by a

cougar, likely a fully grown tom…