After the glove fiasco at the Spike Camp field, Paul was devastated, he was crushed, embarrassed, humiliated and he had that sick feeling in his stomach you get after listening to Mark Stewart drone on and on about killing a hog. He moped around and worried about what happened for awhile and then he got MAD, fighting mad. The first thing he did was go out and buy some new gloves and then he started plotting his revenge.
He knew that Friday afternoon the wind would be right and he had to be at camp and on that stand by 3 PM. He blew off work (of course) ignored his shoeless, crying children, untied his weeping wife's hands from around his leg as he dragged her to his truck while she begged him to help with Christmas.
"Christmas! There ain't gonna be no Christmas here until I get that deer!" He slammed the door and drove off in a cloud of bullet casings and dust.
Paul was at the Spike Camp and all was right with the world.
At 5 o'clock the big deer creeped out into the field like Smaug leaving the Lonely Mountain.
It was so dark that all he could see were the big antlers moving back and forth but he got his scope in the middle of the deer and pulled the trigger. BLAM! No problems this time
Paul had no trouble blasting a hole in him the size of a dinner plate and the big deer fell.
It was a 200lb. 8-point really, really nice.
Last report from the coast was that Christmas was back on!