A WILD TURKEY HUNT--THE TRIP TO MUD CREEK--THE TURKEY
ROOST--THE SHOOTING BEGINS--COUNTING THE NUMBER
KILLED--JOE SELLS TURKEYS
WHEN Mr. Tucker, Joe, and Rob arrived at Errolstrath, it was just one
o'clock. The family had kept dinner waiting, and everything was ready to
put on the table by the time the horses were fed and the hounds' wounds
rubbed with witch-hazel. Mrs. Thompson used to prepare this remedy
herself, and she considered it the best thing in the world for injuries.
At dinner the boys and the old trapper entertained the family with an
account of the morning's hunt, telling them how splendidly both Bluey
and Brutus had behaved in company with such thoroughbreds as Custer's
hounds, and especially with General Sheridan's famous Cinch, who was
supposed to be the finest animal of his kind in the country.
They all adjourned to the broad veranda after dinner was over,
excepting the girls who had to clear up the things. Mr. Tucker said that
Colonel Keogh had told him that some of the officers' families who had
just come from the East to Fort Harker were very desirous for wild
turkey, which they had not yet tasted.
"He wanted me to ask you, Joe, if you cannot soon get them a few. I know
that this is the very best time to hunt them, so let you, and Rob, and
me go to that roost on Mud Creek this evening. It's full moon to-night,
and we shall never have a better chance."
"All right," promptly spoke up both of the boys. "We'll have to take our
ponies," said Joe, "for it's fully six miles. I was down there the other
afternoon, and I should think that hundreds roost there."
"What time ought we to leave here?" inquired Rob. "You know that my
month to herd and milk the cows is not out yet, and I want to do my work
before I go; not that father would not do it willingly for me in a case
of this kind, but I don't care to bother him; he has enough to do with
the other stock."
"Oh!" said Joe, "we need not get away from here until long after
supper. The birds won't come to their roost until it is nearly dark, and
as we always have supper at six, and can ride down to Mud Creek easily
in an hour, you will have ample time to do your chores, Rob, without
hurrying a bit."
"Tell us something about the wild turkey, Mr. Tucker," said Rob. "You
know all the habits of our beasts and birds."
"Well, Rob," said the old trapper, "the wild turkey is one of the
indigenous birds of America. He once flourished from the most remote
eastern boundary of the United States to every part of the far West.
Now, through the wantonness of man, he is rapidly disappearing, as is
nearly all of our large game. There are still plenty here in Kansas. The
wild turkey makes his haunts in the timber, and being gregarious birds
they keep together in large flocks, and roost in the same place for
years, if not disturbed. All of our domestic turkeys have come from the
wild stock, but the wild ones are still larger than the tame ones in
many instances. I have shot them in nearly every place in the country
where I have hunted. They are stupid in refusing to leave their roosts
at night when shot at. They persistently fly back again to the same
trees, when they could just as easily fly away out of danger. In such
times they are almost as foolish as the sage hen, which in my opinion is
the most stupid bird that flies. You can shoot at them until you hit
them, if it takes a week; they won't move."
Just as the sun sank behind the hills beyond the Oxhide bluffs, Joe,
Rob, and Mr. Tucker left Errolstrath for the turkey roost on Mud Creek.
The old trapper rode Joe's buffalo pony, while Joe mounted the little
roan which had brought his sister so safely from the Indian village; Rob
rode Ginger, which Kate had kindly loaned him for the occasion.
They followed the trail up the creek for about a mile, then turned
abruptly east over the hills toward Fort Sill military road, then over
the open country for another mile, until they arrived at the head of Mud
Creek.
The moon had risen in a cloudless sky, and it shines nowhere so
brilliantly as in our mid-continent region. Every tree and bush cast a
shadow, and the trail over the prairie was lighted up with a golden
sheen, so soft and mellow that you could have seen a pin where the
grass had been shorn away.
When they arrived at the edge of the woods in the centre of which was
the resting-place of the birds, they tied their ponies to saplings, and
then quietly walked on into the timber. As soon as they had come in the
vicinity of the roost, they squatted on the ground behind the friendly
shelter of a large elm, and waited for the coming of events.
They did not have long to wait. Before they had been there a half an
hour, two large flocks came stealthily walking down the deep ravines
leading into the sheltered bottom where great trees stood in thick
clumps, under whose shadow were the unmistakable signs of an immense
roost. At the head of each flock, as it unsuspiciously advanced,
strutted a magnificent male bird in all the pride of his leadership.
Upon his bronze plumage the moon's rays glinted like a calcium light, as
its soft beams sifted through the interstices of the bare limbs of the
winter-garbed forest.
When the leader of the flock had arrived at the spot where his charge
had been accustomed to roost, he suddenly stopped, glanced cautiously
around him for a few seconds, then apparently satisfied that all was
right, he gave the signal--a sharp, quick, shrill whistle. At that
instant, every bird, with one accord and a tremendous fluttering of
wing, raised itself and alighted in the topmost branches of the tallest
trees.
In a few moments more, numerous flocks having settled themselves for a
peaceful slumber, the old trapper said to the boys: "Now is our time;
let's begin!"
Joe had his little Ballard rifle, that had never yet played him false on
his hunts with the chief of the Pawnees; Rob had a shot-gun, and Mr.
Tucker his never-failing old-fashioned piece which he had carried for
twenty-five years.
They fired at first almost simultaneously, but after the first discharge
each fired on his own hook. The turkeys fell like the leaves in October.
The birds not killed at the first fire did not seem to have sense
enough, as Mr. Tucker had said, to escape from their doom. They flew
from tree to tree at every shot, persistently remaining in the immediate
vicinity of the roost, with all the characteristic idiocy of the sage
hen.
When it was time to think of going home, they gathered up their birds,
and found they had killed fourteen--more than an average of four apiece.
It was all they could do to pack the birds on their ponies, and they
were compelled to walk them all the way to the ranche to keep the birds
from falling off.
The next morning Joe took the turkeys to Fort Harker, where he disposed
of them at a fair price, and received many thanks besides, for his
prompt action in response to Colonel Keogh's request to go hunting for
them.