Sheriff Jim Wilson looked bewildered. We were kicking around Mike Laney's ranch on the edge of New Mexico's Gila National Forest, outlandish country to a Texas lawman. I'd been hunting there since the early 1970s.

Being skeptical of gunwriters, Laney was hesitant about allowing both me and the Sheriff on his place at the same time. After bribery involving Mike's favorite libation, he agreed to allow us to take after one of the ranch's sizeable mule deer.

The Sheriff and I had known each other a while but never hunted together. Since he was a well-known gunwriter, I assumed he knew what he was doing. He told me tales of hunting whitetails in Texas and mentioned a few great shots made on bucks at the Penn Baggett Ranch near Ozona, Texas, where he served as high Sheriff of Crockett County. But hunting mule deer in the New Mexico mountains is different than whitetail hunting. The Sheriff admitted he was somewhat unfamiliar with mulies. I figured it might be a long hunt.

Upon leaving ranch headquarters, it was generally a half-hour or so of driving the rough Laney roads to reach any certain hunting area. The Sheriff was carrying an old Ruger Flattop .44 Magnum loaded with Randy Garrett's hardcast ammo, a good combo for any North American big game. My only concern was the Sheriff's odd method of carry, which I'd never seen.

As we drove along in my old pickup, the Sheriff rode shotgun with his .44 at hand. He held it by the barrel, muzzle up, with the butt resting on the seat between his legs. The .44 was pointed up and forward, at an angle, aimed at the windshield. After studying the technique awhile, I decided it was a little peculiar but safe enough.

We arrived at our hunting spot without seeing anything on the road, and I advised the Sheriff we'd have to hump it a few miles. "Which way?" he asked, casually looking around at the rough country surrounding us.

"Thataway," I replied, pointing to a rough set of brush-covered mountains to the west.

Buckling on a belt and holster for his old flattop, the Sheriff looked the mountains over. "That where the deer stand is?" he asked innocently. I gave him a short glance, then led the way. After a bit of climbing, both of us became a little winded, the Sheriff because he wasn't used to the altitude, me because I needed to lose a pound or two.

Admittedly, I was impressed at the end of the day at how well the "soft" Texas Sheriff handled the workout. After seeing nothing, we circled back to the pickup before sundown with the hope that we'd run into something on the road. No such luck.

Next day I figured I'd hear some sniveling from the Sheriff about soreness or some such, but he was able to keep it to himself. "We'll head to the back of the ranch today," I told him after breakfast. "Remote spot back there with a lot of deer."

"We gonna find that stand back in there?" he asked.

When we reached the backside of the ranch, the Sheriff didn't radiate enthusiasm at the prospect of another hike. But not wanting to hear any ribbing, he finished the last sip of his coffee and smiled.

"Which way?" he asked, grinning.

We headed uphill toward a mountaintop that was cut up by several deep arroyos. It took some huffing and puffing for us to get there, and I was worried that the Sheriff might be out of wind, jeopardizing a shot with the revolver.

I was wrong. As we topped out over the first draw, we jumped a fine buck that'd been lying up in the brush at the bottom. The buck jumped and ran uphill, across the draw from us.

All previous questions about the Sheriff's marksmanship were laid to rest at that moment. Contrary to previous allegations that may have been made, I can say that Sheriff Jim Wilson can shoot. As the buck tried to hightail it, the Sheriff drew his Ruger and snap-shot. The big bullet caught the buck just behind the shoulder and rolled him.

We dressed the buck and started dragging him back to the pickup. Stopping on the way for a breather, I noticed Jim looking around curiously.

"Just where is that damned deer stand anyway?"