The 287-Pound South Carolina Whitetail That Almost Outsmarted a Legendary Deer Hunter

This story, “My Most Memorable Deer Hunt,” appeared in the July 1971 issue of Outdoor Life. Archibald Rutledge was the author of more than 50 books and named the first South Carolina Poet Laureate.

In my long and happy life, I have killed many bucks. My most thrilling deer hunt occurred in December of 1942. At the time, my son Middleton, his wife Flora, and their nine-year-old daughter Elise were spending a month on the plantation with me.

One morning I took them on a deer hunt, and I decided to drive out to Wambaw Corner, a famous buck place. I put my son on a good stand on the old road facing the drive. I then took Flora and Elise to an inside stand on what we called the Dogwood Hill. There I sat Flora on a pine stump and gave her some instructions.

“Don’t try to read; don’t smoke; just look straight ahead,” I warned her. “There may be a great buck in there, and he may come out ahead of the driver and the hounds.”

I then walked down an old road and turned toward a dry pond, in which I took my stand. I had not been there 10 minutes when I heard Flora shoot twice. Then she began to scream.

“Oh my God!” I thought. “Her gun went off, and she shot Elise.”

I got to them as fast as I could. When I reached them, Flora was weeping like a baby. She threw her arms about my neck.

“Oh, Dad!” she cried. “The biggest buck in all the world, and I missed him!”

I turned to little Elise.

“Did Mother miss him?” I asked her (an onlooker usually can tell better than the hunter whether a deer has been hit).

“Oh, yes,” Elise said casually. “She didn’t touch him.”

Well, that hunt was over.

Before my children left the next day, Flora came to me and said: “Dad, I want to ask just one thing of you. Someday soon go back to that same stump where I was, sit there, and kill that great buck I missed.”

It was a large order.

I admired Flora for knowing that an old buck actually has a home he loves in the woods; that although he may be run out, shot at, and even wounded, in a week or 10 days he will return home; and that if run out again he may take the very same course he took before, especially if he has not been wounded.

I waited two weeks before going back to the stump from which Flora had missed the buck. My driver, Prince, took the hounds down the old road to the end of the drive, where he would put them in.

My gun was loaded, and I was cautiously silent. I had a premonition that something would happen. It did.

Between me and the head of the drive was a growth of leafless bushes about 10 feet high. Somewhere in there, as yet unseen, something made a jump. I heard twigs break and the telltale heavy thud of hoofs. The first thing I saw were remarkably tall antlers rising and falling. A huge buck was coming straight for me. By that time I had my gun up. As he came nearer, affording me an exact view, I knew that this must be Flora’s buck. I had seen literally thousands of whitetails in the woods, but no buck equal to this one.

I once killed a beautiful 12-pointer that was run to me by a strange hound, which had no business in my hunt that day. Another time, on a rainy day, I shot a buck while he was running through a thicket of scrub oaks that were still carrying their leaves. When I went to him, I noticed at once the extraordinary width of his 10-point rack.

“He is a stranger here,” my driver said when he came up. “Heaben is his home.”

But Flora’s buck was very special, and I thought I had him. But, Brothers, beware the strategy of an old buck if he discovers that a hunter is near. Something unexpected is likely to happen. It did this time.

The regal stag with the spectacular antlers kept coming straight for me. I had my gun on him, but suddenly he stopped. And he could not have planned better for his security. He almost wedged himself between two big yellow pines. He left nothing exposed but his breast, behind which is the brisket, acting as a shield for the heart. When a buck is dressed, a hatchet is needed to cut down through the brisket.

The huge deer was standing about 55 yards in front of me. I knew that if he suddenly drew back and broke away through the thicket, I would have little chance at him. I had great faith in my old 12 gauge Parker double with 32-inch barrels and in the 16 pellets of No. 1 buckshot in the shell in the left-hand barrel. If the buck would come forward on the outside of either pine, exposing one shoulder and flank, I was pretty sure I could put him down. But there remained the possibility of his suddenly drawing back.

The question was simple, but the answer was hard. Should I shoot or not? At 40 yards a shotgun is deadly. The professional hunters of Africa prefer a shotgun loaded with buckshot to a rifle for stopping a charging lion. But at 50 or 55 yards uncertainty begins, partly because of the scattering of the buckshot. A hunter all alone in the woods must sometimes face problems like these, and they are crucial.

I knew that the buck had not seen me, for I had not moved. If a man sits motionless on a stump or a log in the woods, a deer is liable to run over him. A deer’s eyesight, except for detecting movement, is not nearly so keen as his nose. But perhaps the buck had located my scent and would draw back, killing my chances. I decided to shoot.

This was to be a standing shot at by far the biggest buck I had ever seen. I confess that for a moment I had a misgiving about shooting so regal an animal. But that foolish idea soon passed, for I have always been a hunter and here was the chance of a lifetime.

My sight was on the buck’s breast and my gun was cocked, so I had nothing to do but steady myself and pull the trigger. At the blast of the gun, the mighty buck stood straight up, looking as big as an elk and as tall as a pine. Then he fell heavily backward. But he got up shamblingly and made his way, listing heavily, into a pine thicket so dense that I could not accurately give him the second barrel. I did not think he could go far. How wrong I was!

So many times we do not think, or else think wrongly. For example, I was once on a crossing in the line of an old fence. A few posts were still standing, and one strand of wire was stretched between them. The wire was not two feet above the ground. After a half-hour wait I saw a buck coming my way far off through the pines. He had a noble rack. He was really shoving off, for my driver was whooping it up behind him. If the buck continued on his course, he would cross the fence about 30 yards to my left — a perfect shot.

But when dealing with a wise old buck, a hunter should expect the unexpected. So certain was I that the deer would jump the wire, that I leveled my gun about three feet above it, planning to take him in the air when he made his leap. I had seen him in that part of my plantation several times, so I believed he knew the fence.

As it turned out, that buck knew more about getting past a fence than I did. I had thought he could do it only one way, but there were two.

Just before the buck reached the wire, he dropped to his knees and crawled under the obstruction (tall horns and all!).

Had he sensed that he was in dangerous country and could not afford to display himself by jumping over the wire? I think he never saw me. Because I was so astonished by his maneuver — and perhaps because I momentarily admired him so much for his strategy — I did not shoot at him. Away he went through the forest, still wild and free.

I think it is a great mistake to suppose that all hunters gluttonously shoot everything they see. A good many hunters prefer to give a wild creature a chance, especially if they have an uncertain shot that may result only in a wounded animal. Personally, I will never shoot at a buck unless I am fairly certain I can kill him.

Here I might remark from my experience that too few deer hunters learn carefully how to judge distance. Is the deer 50 yards away, or 150? At 50 yards a buck can be killed with a good shotgun; at 150 a good rifle in the hands of a skilled hunter will take him. An amateur hunter once told me he had killed a big buck that had been running through the woods 300 yards away. I judged that he really did not know the meaning of 300 yards.

Every weapon has its own capacity to kill game at a certain distance. A hunter should know this capacity and not expect any unreasonable performance. Also, a hunter should remember that there is a limit to the accuracy of his eyesight.

Now to return to the great buck I had shot and thought I would find. Certainly he had left a heavy blood trail. I saw where several times he had lain down and bled heavily. But a natural misgiving chilled me. Had I, like Flora, let this majestic stag get away?

I decided to return to the two pines to see how many buckshot had saluted them. Then I would know how many my buck had received. As I have said, the shell chambered 16 pellets. When I searched the two pines at the right height I found, rather to my dismay, 12 buckshot holes. Only four could have struck the deer. But from his ponderous fall and from the blood he had left, I felt that one of those four had passed the side of the brisket and had gone through his heart.

Baffled, I thought I had better get my driver Prince and the hounds. Prince is a fine hunter and woodsman, but he is a little deaf. I had a time finding him. When we met an hour later I learned that most of my pack had chased another deer across the river. Prince had with him only Music, a runty, rather bashful little hound, but she had a fine nose.

As we walked up the road together, I told Prince what had happened.

“Music will find him,” he said.

The little hound took the blood trail. But before long, somewhat to my chagrin, she began to open and then lit out. From the way she was running, I knew the buck had run a good deal farther than I had thought he would. And following a wounded buck, especially a record one, is always hard on a hunter.

Prince suddenly paused and put his hand on my arm.

“Music,” he said, “she quit runnin’.”

That should have meant just one thing: she had come on my buck. But it didn’t mean that at all, for presently here came Music back, and she was covered with blood. What could that mean? I examined her carefully. The blood was the buck’s, not hers. But she was trembling and seemed afraid.

Then, to my relief, we were rejoined by Red Liquor, a big rough rawbone hound, one of the dogs that had taken a buck across the river. As soon as we put Red Liquor on the blood trail, he went howling away. Music followed, but silently and without enthusiasm. Prince and I followed fast after the dogs. Suddenly we came to an old deep ditch.

As we got to the edge of the ditch, Prince and I saw a great pool of blood, where my buck evidently had collapsed. Music apparently had come on him there and, taking wary note of his huge body and tall horns, prudently decided not to take him on. It has been my experience that most hounds are wisely afraid of a buck with big horns. Music, however, had run down into the ditch, probably inadvertently; hence, all the blood she got on herself.

Meanwhile Red Liquor was clambering westward down the old ditch, which, I knew, ran into an incredibly wild old swamp known as the Elmwood Ricefield. Music decided to join Red Liquor, though delicately. When Prince and I got down in the ditch we picked up the big buck’s sprawling tracks. He was running wounded, but I did not think he would go far.

As we hurried down the ditch, Prince paused and again laid his hand on my arm.

“Red Liquor,” he said, “he is bayin’ now.”

As I listened eagerly, I heard Music join in faintly. She, too, was baying, but rather halfheartedly. Either the buck was down or the hounds had brought him to a stand.

The ditch rose to the end of a bank that spanned the desolate ricefield. I walked ahead, my gun ready in case a second shot was needed. It was not. Soon we saw the hounds pulling at something at the foot of a huge cypress. When we came up, there lay my record buck. He was dead.

We were almost in awe. The buck’s antlers were beautiful and symmetrical. There were seven points on one side, six on the other. Several of the tines were 14 inches long. His bulk was huge. Later we weighed him on some old scales used for weighing bales of cotton; his weight, before dressing, was 287 pounds. I think it rather rare for a whitetail buck to weigh over 200 pounds. But, as Raymond Ditmars once wrote me after I had reported a nine-foot diamondback to him, “I am not at all surprised. There are giants in nature as in human nature.”

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Some of the backwoods hunters who had heard of my luck came in to see the big buck. Nearly all of them declared that they had seen him before. Three professed to have shot at him. They were generous in their admiration.

I have killed many other bucks in my lifetime, but none of them ever rivaled that old master. Such was my most memorable deer hunt.