First spotted her at 18:11. About 200 meters south, and maybe 100-150 meters east. We were only a few miles into the evening classification route, and she and her fawn were the sixth group of antelope I had seen.

They were to the south, on the passenger side. So no way to get the spotting scope on them to try to sex the fawn. I swung my attention to the other group of pronghorn (four does and a fawn) to the north, and then was pleased to see the single doe and fawn running north.

Across my path and onto my side of the truck, where the spotting scope is semi-permanently mounted on the window. Them fleeing north meant I might get a chance to determine if the fawn had a tiny cheek patch, meaning it was a male. It also meant I wouldn't have to keep track of where this pair went.

This evening's route is a jagged loop, running east along a pipeline and then back west along a powerline. In places, the two paths are close together. Any antelope that head south I have to keep tabs on, so that I won't classify them again on the return leg.

A pain in the you-know-what.

To make things even better, the doe and fawn stopped a little ways within scope's view, and stood broadside.

No cheek patch. A female fawn.

I quit watching antelope as I recorded my data, and tried to figure the UTM coordinates for each of the groups. By 18:16 I'm ready to roll again.

I notice the fawn dashing north, out of sight over a sandhill. And am grateful that she and her mother had not headed south.

Then I saw it. A white and red object where the doe and fawn had stood.

Don't remember that being there...

Roll to a stop, swing the scope up again, and see immediately the object is the doe. Bedded on her brisket.

Now, that's odd. Most antelope panic and run when something strange shows up. They don't lay down. Especially when their fawn has fled.

Her head is low. Only 150 meters away or so, I can see she's having a hard time breathing.

Craaap.

I grab the camera and head out on foot. Dreading what I'm going to find.

I reach the doe at 18:18. She's already dead.

I'd heard of this, of course. Antelope (and deer) that run a short ways, and then simply drop and die. Mostly from the late 70s and early 80s, when bluetongue ravaged the herds in the northeast part of our state. The disease fills their chest cavities with yellowish fluid, and the sudden exertion causes them to collapse and die. Their lungs too full of fluid to breathe.

But we haven't had bluetongue here, at least not that you'd notice. Blood samples collected from hundreds of antelope during our trapping operations in the early 80s found only a couple that had ever had exposure to that disease.

But EHD, epizootic hemorrhagic disease, they had that last fall just to the south of us. Another gnat-borne disease, with much the same symptoms.

And then, of course, there is the newest arrival on the scene, the West Nile virus. Don't think anybody knows how that is going to look in free-ranging pronghorn.

Either way, this doe needs to be checked out. Or rather, her carcass does. She has left the country already. Fairly peacefully, by the looks of it.

Used the cell phone to call our outfit's veterinarian. Interrupting his surgical reconstruction of an automobile. Expecting him to be thrilled at the chance for a fresh specimen.

But nobody's available tonight, naturally. These things never show up when convenient. I'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to run her to the lab.

Which is why the heelers are so terribly interested in the back of the truck tonight.

And every other dog and cat in town, I imagine.