Matt Whittaker， U.S. Air Force retired， was a mountain- eer， a tall， blond， bearded man. He found the crippled deer late in the morning of his second day on the aban- doned logging road that ran from Morgan， Colorado， up into the Big Saddle and the high mountains of the San Juan Range. The road had become soggy and unpredict- able from the early June thaw， and Whittaker， who drove a green Ford pickup， had had to keep both axles engaged for miles now and winch the truck out of many bogs and soft sand gullies. The deer was lying on its side just off the road in a shadowed place which also held a crusty patch of snow. Tire tracks， half filled with water， swerved violently to- ward the animal， then backed away， going on up the road to the place where it curved out of sight in the still thick forest of second-growth conifers. Even before Whittaker got out of the pickup and studied the tracks he saw that the deer， its rear legs crushed， had been struck deliber- ately and left here to die a long， unnatural death.
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