Hawkeye sighed and disarmed his gun. He wasn't going to get this shot off any more than he had been going to get off the one before it. The man didn't like to admit it, but he was growing old, and his sight was worsening. He would have to go into town and see if he could afford glasses if he was going to attempt to continue to live in the same fashion he had all these years.
Somehow, he doubted it. He'd lived off the land and nothing else for so long, he didn't exactly have much in the way of savings. So it was, disappointed in himself, Hawkeye resigned himself to the possibility of death approaching him simply because he could no longer live as he knew how, and he could not afford to live any other way.
Another night, and another quarry he had been unable to see clearly enough to shoot. How far he had fallen, and how hungry he was becoming. Two slow killers were attacking him – old age, and hunger - and he had no defence against them.
Hawkeye moved as well as he was able towards the nearest settlement he could remember, picked out a house, and left his gun, and all his few remaining possessions beside the front door, then wandered back into the world he knew, satisfied that in his death, nothing was going to be wasted.