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For the third time that morning, I caught wind of it: a sour, slightly sweet odor beneath the dust rising from the piñon and juniper, almost an afterthought. The smell was strong enough to stir recollection, but not strong enough to command attention—a dead smell.
Bull elk get wounded while vying for affection this time of year, both by hunters and each other. I had made a poor shot the morning before. I hit the bull but not lethally, and we quit...