Romer started, and nodded his
head vehemently.
"Come on now, right behind me," I whispered. "Step where I step and do
what I do. Don't break any twigs."
Cautiously we glided up the creek, listening now and then to get the
direction, until we came to an open place where we could see some
distance up a ridge. The turkey clucks came from across the creek
somewhere up this open aisle of the forest. I crawled ahead several
rods to a more advantageous point, much pleased to note that Romer
kept noiselessly at my heels. Then from behind a stone we peeped out.
Almost at once a turkey flew down from a tree into the open lane.
"Look Dad!" whispered Romer, wildly. I had to hold him down. "That's a
hen turkey," I said. "See, it's small and dull-colored. The gobblers
are big, shiny, and they have red on their heads."
Another hen turkey flew down from a rather low height. Then I made out
grapevines, and I saw several animated dark patches among them. As I
looked three turkeys flopped down to the ground. One was a gobbler of
considerable size, with beautiful white and bronze feathers. Rather
suspiciously he looked down our way. The distance was not more than a
hundred yards. I aimed at him, feeling as I did so how Romer quivered
beside me, but I had no confidence in Copple's rifle. The sights were
wrong for me. The stock did not fit me.
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