T h
e S h a r p s S h o o t e r
A Series
Of Blue eyes,
hunts long ago and buffalo
by Jim Ferguson
The
Sharps barked and the big bull buckled
It was his piercing
blue eyes that first got my attention. The crows feet were deep and
weathered, like an old saddle that had seen one too many hot days without
care. His walk had a distinct rhythm. Not like it was in the Fighting
29th Division on D-Day plus one when he fought his way through the bodies,
blood and the acrid odor on that long day in June 1944. No, it was more
distinct, much like an athlete that was trying to be careful and not
aggravate an old wound, pacing himself to make it to the end of the game. I
had seen this before on a hunt for trophy caribou in the Taylor Mountains
in Alaska. Years have gone by since those fateful frightful days of
long ago but the pain and agony of those times have carved deep furrows in
his heart and countenance. They were dark times in his life, when he knew
he had to go on for himself, his family and his country.
He is a hunter. He has harvested bucks
equal to the number of years he has walked this earth. Eighty-one to be
exact. His long distance shooting ability is only eclipsed by his ability
to hit a moving target, even at this time in his life. A gun is nothing
more than an extension of him. I have seen him shoot and never once could
I come close to matching. Once, I saw six roosters rise going their own
way, when five shots from a Remington pump came out in staccato fashion,
five roosters hit the ground, almost in unison. I asked him how he became
such a good marksman, he replied" just lucky I guess". Some men
are just naturals, he is one of them.
Through the trees the massive bull looked like a
freight train. In the distance, another bull, the one that had pushed him
out just four days ago still showed signs of the fight. 
A long red wound
just under his left front leg was a constant reminder of the battle. The
old bull paced back and for as he waited for his moment to recapture his
rightful place as the herd bull. This young upstart came from another herd
and was full of fight. Blindsiding the patriarch, in what we would call a
cheap shot, put the old bull down, but not out. The younger bull was
larger in size but lacked the experience to hold this position of
honor.
As he studied the bull , I watched him.
This was not the first time I had seen him size up a hunting situation.
Once, when we were hunting on Ray Millers Ranch north of Gillette, Wyoming
for trophy mule deer, the bigger bucks were hiding in the coulees. He knew
it. After surveying the terrain, checking the wind and available sign, he
put together a hunt that would yield two big bucks, his with over a 34
inch spread with lots of mass. I saw him do the same on a hunt in Michigan's
Upper Peninsula. He took a mossy horned buck that scored over 160
B&C. He knows hunting and shooting. If there was a person that you
would want on your side in a fire fight or a hunting trip, it would be
him. His shots are like his moves-very deliberate-no wasted time or
energy. There was a time in my teenage years when I thought I'd challenge
him to a shooting contest. He said "choose your weapon". I chose
a shotgun for the contest of hand thrown clay pigeons. He chose a .22 cal.
pistol. After the contest I ate a big piece of humble pie. From that
moment until now, I have watched him and I have learned.
The old bull was now a mere 122 yards from our
position. Not only did we get that close without being detected, but we
did it without being noticed by the other bull and his harem. Stealth,
moving like a ghost, is what he taught me. He always told me "anyone
can take a long shot, but, it takes a hunter to get close enough to smell
the grass on their breath". We were almost that close now. The
old bull was still pacing trying to get into position to make his
comeback. He was the George Foreman of this herd on the plains of
eastern Colorado. His eyes were focused. Little did he know, that
just steps away, was his real problem. Often, at least in my life I have
focused on what I thought was the problem when in reality it was only a
symptom. This was true of the Champion of the Plains. Left alone he
could have survived this embarrassment, but pride wouldn't let him.
How true it is for all of us.
It has been six years since he has harvested an animal. The last was a trophy 5x5 bull on my ranch in
southwest Colorado.. Even though time has taken away the cat like moves he
had as a younger man, today his steps are more deliberate, each move
calculated, rehearsed and executed in his mind before he moves a muscle as
he inches toward his goal, a mature buffalo.
He turned to me and said " that old boy is 2000 pounds and counting,
he should be good eating". I asked, " how does he look as a
trophy". He just shrugged. To him, success was measured in
edible meat in the larder not by some head hanging on the wall. His
favorite quote was" you don't eat the horns ".
The old bull made a false charge. The younger
bull grunted and began to paw the ground. As the old bull returned to the
edge of the clearing he spun and made another false charge in a taunting
gesture. Dust was flying everywhere now as these two monsters again sized
each other up. Side- stepping during the charge, the old bull hooked the younger tearing a
gash that bled profusely. The younger acted dazed by this calculated
albeit effective move. Years of defending his honor had taught the elder
some tricks that could only have been learned by experience. Smelling
fresh blood, the elder realized he would have to make his move now, before
the younger could recover. Turning on all fours, he charged hooking him in
the hock flipping the now stunned bull on the ground.
Ol' Blue
Eyes now made his move. Cutting the
distance in less than half during this ruckus, he was now in position to
take the shot he knew would be swift and clean. The Cabela's Pedersoli
1874 Sharps chambered in a.45/70
barked hitting the old bull just eight inches behind his left front leg
and twelve inches up from the bottom of his massive chest. . The 420 grain
Garrett Cartridge exploded the engorged heart. Placement and
penetration could not have been better. He was a real trophy. He had 14
1/4 inch bases and the horns curved back measured 17 3/8 inches in length.
Now, back on his feet and unaware of the shot, the
younger hooked the downed elder in defiance, standing over , challenging him as
though he had beaten his grizzled defeated foe. Pawing the ground he
filled the air with fresh dirt much like a wide receiver after scoring the
winning touchdown. Finally, he bent down, sniffed his opponent, snorted in
disgust and headed back toward his waiting harem. He bellowed loudly
an arrogant message that was full of false pride. Only Ol' Blue
Eyes knew that there was only one winner here today, one loser and one
dead. Another day will come when the younger will be
challenged for his position as herd bull. Would he remain the
leader? At this point no
one knew. Several trials came for Ol' Blue Eyes since that day on
the plains of Colorado. . Two hip replacements, one thumb
reconstruction and the removal of two cataracts challenged him but he
overcame. For Ol' Blue Eyes is a hunter, a shooter, an outdoorsman, a cut
above. By the way, he's also my Father.
Editors Note:
Hugh Ferguson resides in
Mt. Clemens, Michigan , is a member of Safari Club International and
Canada Creek Ranch, a private hunting club in Northern Michigan. He
donated the buffalo to the Wild West Historical Foundation (WWHF)
in Oakley, Kansas. The bull is being mounted life size by Mike
Beckman, Beckman Taxidermy, Grinell, Kansas, for display in the Oakley, Kansas
museum commemorating re-naming of William F. Cody to Buffalo
Bill Cody. That name change took place less than six miles from Oakley,
Kansas. The WWHF has also commissioned Charlie Norton, Leota,
Kansas, to do a bronze sculpture of Buffalo Bill, his horse Brigham
and a buffalo bull twice life size. Lewis Evins, founder of
the Wild West Historical Foundation wants to thank Hugh and Loretta
Ferguson for their generous donation. The bull weighed 2076 pounds
live. The coat was in prime condition and the horns measured 14 1/4 inch
bases and the length was 17 3/8
JF
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This page is devoted to Jim's quest to
harvest all 28 North American Big Game Animals with a 45/70 Sharps
rifle.
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