Long, long ago. My father often went fishing to God's Lake in Canada. The Indian guide told how they would wait by waters edge with a .22 rifle. They would shoot a moose thru the lung. It would drown in its own blood and fall in place, never knowing what had happened. The moose would be butchered at the shore and then packed away by canoe. That's the tale anyway.
"...from my cold dead hands" Charlton Heston & NRA
"He which hath no stomach to this fight,/ Let him depart." Henry V