The call came a little before one o'clock. Engineers on the Transcontinental railroad had called in to report "10-12" antelope hit on the tracks, some of which were still alive. I'm technically on leave this week, and the site is technically outside my district.

But dispatch wouldn't have called if there was anyone else available.

Tell them I'm on my way.

It's two miles of heavily snow covered dirt road off the county road to get to the tracks. I have to wait for one of the railroad crews, with their huge dually, to break trail.

It isn't "10-12" antelope hit.

It's 57.

Twenty-eight of them are still alive.

28.

I grab the M14 out of the truck. And the rock hammer.

"Bringing out the heavy equipment, huh?" one of the railroad guys asks, nodding at the assault rifle.

This clip holds 20 rounds. The magazine on the .243 only holds five.

I want the 20.

We've arrived in the middle of the mess. I turn left and start in between the tracks. These pronghorn are almost all struggling, but too injured to escape. I hand the rifle to a railroader and start grabbing horns and swinging the hammer.

When I reach the end of the carnage, I switch to the south shoulder of the tracks and hammer my way back.

My arm is soon tired, and I'm barely half done.

I'm killing the crippled antelope on the east side, now, and missing my target, that flat top of skull between the horns and ears, more often. Not every swing of the hammer brings a resounding crack of breaking bone. One smashed my thumb.

The railroader guys are quiet.

It has got to be a gruesome sight... me, the Angel of Death, walking quietly from victim to victim, crushing their skulls in.

It is easier to do if I think of myself as the Angel of Mercy.

Then we patrol the perimeter of the tracks, looking for animals that managed to drag themselves away.

And we find five. These are the hardest, bleating in fear and pain as they try to crawl away. One, a buck, is not quite able to get up on all fours, and I finally ask for the rifle.

Please, please, please, as I peek through the open sights, hit what I'm aiming at.

And I do.

Nearby we find a fawn, able to stand and walk, but bleeding by his stubby little horn and too dazed to know which way to go. I decide to let him go, to have his chance.

Finally the horror is over. It is a relief to get to the cold, mundane work. The railroaders drag the carcasses off their tracks...

while I check the teeth and write down the age and sex of each animal lost.

Many of the dead have been dragged and torn down the tracks, and I use the same rule I started at my first railroad kill over 25 years ago.

You just count the pairs of ears.