15 ft! Wow! You could smell his bad breath that close.
How did that come about?
It was December, Washington's Blue Mountains, snowing heavily with 18 inches on the ground and rising. The bull was jumped by my partner several hundred yards below me, and came directly up the mountain through heavy timber toward me. I first heard, then saw the bull coming up fast about 60-80 yards ahead and below me. When he hit my elevation in the dark timber, he wheeled without slowing and commenced to trot right at me on a very clear, though snow-filled game trail. I knelt, cocked, and aimed, waiting for the bull to pull up and stop before running over me. He never stopped. First fascinated, then alarmed, I just kept holding under his chin. Thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards, he never stopped. I was actually aiming up at him when I touched it off at 15 feet. He appeared out of the downhill side of the cloud of smoke, flopped over instantly in the snow. Dead. The round ball shattered his neck. Five point with one bad eye, which might have partially explained his failure to recognize me.